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“I think you’ll be willing to renegotiate,” I said, arching my eyebrows into a supervillain expression. “Or I will lace every bottle of blood in that gift basket with ghost chili oil.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You are the most twisted, evil little thing.”
“Why does that sound all sexy when he says it?” Zeb asked his wife.
Shaking her head, Jolene raised her cup of beer in a toast. “Here’s to your first Burley Days.”
“So far, it hasn’t sucked,” I added, clinking my cup against hers. I caught Sam’s eye before repeating the gesture against his blood bottle. “To ceasefires.”
Sam’s lips quirked into a grin. “To ceasefires.”
—
A few beers later, Sam decided it was time to leave. I kept lingering, discussing plans for the restaurant with Jolene, until Sam and Zeb shared a determined “manly men together” look and dragged us away from the table.
“You know, if you make too much of a show of this, some very ugly rumors about vampire brutality on tourists will start spreading around town,” I told Sam, snickering as he slung me under his arm like a football and carried me down the darkened sidewalk to his truck.
“Yeah, because I have such a great reputation.” He grunted as he hauled me toward the truck. “My God, woman, how much funnel cake did you eat?”
“Nice.” I barked out a laugh while he opened the truck door for me. He grinned down at me, giving me a boost as I climbed into the passenger seat. His hands were resting on my hips, and I had the strangest urge to map that little constellation of freckles on his cheekbone with my tongue. His lips parted, and I leaned forward just in time to hear—
“Sammy?”
Breaking a Few Eggs
9
The spell broke as we turned to find Sam’s ex-wife standing on the sidewalk, gaping at us.
“Sammy, what are you doing here?” Lindy demanded, shrugging off the insistent arm of a blond, tan man in jeans and pink polo shirt. The guy was in his midthirties and had intentionally popped his collar.
An unfiltered expression of pain flashed across Sam’s face, particularly when he saw Mr. Popped Collar’s arm around Lindy’s shoulders.
“You know it’s not a good idea for you to be out in public.” Lindy sighed, as if she were scolding a small child. “You know how you are. What if you hurt someone?”
“I’m fine.” Sam growled, ever so subtly stepping away from me. I looked to Popped Collar, to gauge how he felt about interloping in the Clemsons’ bizarre marital drama. He appeared to be playing Angry Birds on his phone.
“Still, maybe I should take you home,” Lindy fussed. “You know how you get around humans. This has to be pushing your control to the limit. Let’s just get you home before you hurt someone.”
“Don’t you worry about me!” Sam barked. “You owe Tess here an apology for dragging her into our mess. How could you rent the house without even talkin’ to me? That’s out-there, even for you, Lindy.”
“Sammy, I didn’t want to rent out the house, but I needed the money,” she said, her voice rising to a wheedling, babyish tone that grated on my nerves. “You know how expensive it is to start up with a new apartment. I just need a little extra to put down the security deposit.”
I huffed. “Oh, come on!”>“Got it,” I said, clearing my throat and straightening to my full (though not impressive) height. “Thanks.”
I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath. I noticed that Sam’s hand remained on the back of my neck, his thumb occasionally sweeping over my vertebrae. I shivered a bit, but Sam kept his hand there.
“Now, before I announce the award winners, which will be included in the first-ever Faux Type O cookbook, Blue Ribbons with Bite, I’d like to announce the honorable mentions. First, we have Rita Scott with her Chum Cherry Slushie, a delightfully pulverized mix of blood blended with cherry syrup and ice.”
A plump, pretty blond woman in a bright pink church dress squealed joyfully and went to the stage to accept her yellow ribbon and certificate. Jane turned slightly green around the gills. I gave her a sympathetic look but then started to giggle. She made a very rude gesture behind the thin shield of her left hand. When Ophelia announced the second honorable mention as Ginger Lavelle with her Bloody Mary Margarita, the haggard chain-smoker I’d seen earlier launched herself at Ophelia and snatched her victory ribbon, waving it like a war banner. Ophelia stepped out of range, an unimpressed grimace twisting her young features.
“Lavelle?” I looked to Jolene. “Any relation?”
Jolene huffed out an irritated sigh. “That would be my mother-in-law.”
We watched as Ginger Lavelle did a victory shimmy that looked like something from a burlesque performance. “Wow,” I marveled.
“Well, she stuck with her area of expertise,” Jolene grumbled. “Booze.”
