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“Of course, she wasn’t,” I lied smoothly, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my no-good, deceitful mouth. “She understands that the unexpected can happen. I have some cash, and I’m going to use a company credit card for our expenses.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” he deadpanned as my turkey sandwich and spicy fries were delivered to the table. “I would hate for you to go without a feast like that.”
“Have you ever had spicy peanut-oil fries?”
“They were a bit outside of my time frame.”
I dragged one of the beautiful golden fries through a pool of ketchup with a flourish and popped it into my mouth. “Well, don’t knock them until you’ve tried them.”
He eyed my plate. “I have mentioned the vomiting issue, yes?”
“Yes, which is an awfully nice image while I’m eating, so thank you,” I muttered, chewing carefully to avoid talking with my mouth full. “So tell me about yourself. When exactly is your ‘time frame’?”
“Have you known many vampires, Miss Puckett?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.
“No.”
“Then I will excuse you, because you clearly don’t know how rude it is to ask a vampire how old he is.”
“You brought it up. I’m just trying to make conversation,” I said, shrugging. “Is it OK if I guess?”
He gave me a withering glare.
“Do you have any fun?” I asked, tilting my head and frowning at him. “Ever?”
“I’m sorry, but am I to understand that I’m serving as your entertainment?” He sniffed, those blue eyes narrowing at me.
“Not at the moment,” I said, grinning. “Come on, humor me. You’ve still got the hint of a British accent, so I’m guessing you were born there. You have very formal manners. Your clothes are well made and old-fashioned. So … either you’re used to wealth or you’re trying to make up for something you were missing in life. I haven’t seen your car, so I don’t know if that’s an insecurity that’s universally applied,” I admitted. “Your house is orderly, nearly compulsively so. You have a bit of contempt for, well, everyone around you. I’m guessing … Revolutionary War. You fought for the British, which explains so much about your personality. You’re still a little bitter about it.”
His jaw dropped, and for a beautiful moment, he actually looked discomposed. “You couldn’t possibly have guessed that. Did Miss Scanlon give you a dossier on me?”
I let him hang. I enjoyed this moment of him seeing me as mysterious and knowledgeable, something more than just the person who drove him crazy with fast-food litter. But then I caved.
I giggled. “You have your military insignia displayed on your mantel. That, combined with the accent and the cleanliness, let me make an educated guess.”
“I have to say, I am impressed.”
“I’m a people watcher.” I shrugged. “It’s just situational awareness, which is the one area in which I scored in the top percentiles in those personality tests. My high-school career-aptitude results recommended that I go into personal security or rodeo clowning, which my brother had a field day with, by the way. I got floppy red shoes as a graduation gift.”
“Please demonstrate.”
“I didn’t bring the shoes with me.” I twisted my face into a fake frown.
Mr. Sutherland huffed, exasperated. “Your parlor trick, Miss Puckett. Please demonstrate your technique.”
I chuckled, biting into my sandwich. This used to be my dad’s favorite game. When we were waiting at a restaurant or running errands, he’d pick somebody and ask me to tell him their story. Where they were from, what they were doing at the grocery store, who they had to go home to. The stories entertained Daddy, but watching people helped me pick up the right cues, the little things that made for great photos. It was a game that helped me wriggle out of some of the disastrous scenarios I found myself in, long after Daddy lost interest in playing.
I scanned the dining room and jerked my chin toward a man sitting at the counter. “Fine. You see the guy over there? He’s on his way home to his wife after a week of doing incredibly irresponsible stuff with his buddies. Fishing, boating, something like that. He knows she’s going to be mad at him about something, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to drive the rest of the way home.”>“Good morning to you, too, sir,” I retorted with a little curtsey.
He gracefully slid out of the vehicle, straightening his cuffs, and stood over me. He scanned me from head to toe, that same frustrated expression clouding his eyes. His mouth bowed south. “You do realize that you’re supposed to drink the coffee, not bathe in it, yes?”
I glanced down. How did he know I’d dumped half a cup of coffee into my cleavage? I’d changed my stained blouse hours before on one of my scheduled bathroom stops. I sniffed my shirt and only detected the slightest scent of coffee, which was coming from … my bra. He was smelling my bra. Well, that was gross.
“Caffeine tightens the pores,” I retorted, rounding the car. “Are you planning to ride shotgun, or—” I watched as Mr. Sutherland slid into the backseat. “OK, then.”
He opened his atlas and checked our progress against the map. He frowned. Without looking up, he asked, “Did you submit the police report this morning?”
“Yes. That was a creepily accurate forgery of my handwriting, by the way.”
