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“Hipsters?” he said and looked at me quizzically.
“Hip,” I said. “It’s a term from the hippie era in the 60s and is used to refer to someone who goes against the fashion trends or, in this case, create a trend. Most men are more conservative and have a basic short haircut and a clean-shaven face. Only the hipsters and lumberjacks have beards or scruff.”
“Scruff?” he said and rubbed his jaw. “You mean unshaven?”
I nodded. “It’s definitely a sign of being a hipster. Or lazy.”
He laughed out loud at that. “In my youth, most men had longer hair and beards. I haven’t had a chance to shave since I was no longer a dried piece of meat. I’ll have to find a barber once I get back to the City. If the style is for short hair and a clean shave, I don’t want to diverge.”
“Women like scruff,” I said, thinking of him without the dark grizzle on his chin and jaw. He was very attractive and I kicked myself mentally for thinking it once again. “And hair that is a bit longer. Women today like rebels. Outlaws, bikers, gangsters.”
“They do?” he said and smiled. “In my day, women liked rich handsome men. Are they out of fashion?”
“Women like rich and handsome, too.” I blushed furiously, thinking of all the romance novels I read on my tablet.
“What about you, Calla? What do you like?” he asked and moved closer. “If you met me and didn’t know I was a vampire, would you find me attractive?”
I glanced away, my cheeks hot. As much as I didn’t want to answer, I had to tell the truth.
“You’re very handsome.”
“Look at me,” he said and turned my face towards his, his expression serious, his brow furrowed. “Tell me the truth. Would you consider me as a suitor if we met under different circumstances and you had no idea what I was?”
“Yes,” I said and swallowed hard, hating to admit it, but unable to resist.
He held my gaze for a moment before nodding.
“Send my brother a message if you can,” he said and turned back to the computer. “There is a place for messages there,” he said and pointed to a comment box on the visitor’s page. “Tell him Kier is safe and ask him to send you a message back.”
I shook my head for the message would be public. It was a guest book rather than a contact form. “I don’t know if the visitor’s page is the safest way to communicate with him,” I said. “Anyone in the public or who works for the firm would see it. You need to send him a private message. You need his personal email.”
I took back the computer and did some more searching, looking on Facebook and doing a phonebook search for Montreal.
“I might be able to get his phone number.”
I searched the Montreal listings but there was no E. MacLaughlan or any with a name in Kier’s immediate family. Finally, I found a reference to MacLaughlan Tyerman Investments and a phone number for the Montreal branch.
“We could call the business and leave a voice message.”
He nodded. “Whatever you think is safe.”
We discussed the message he would leave and then I took in a deep breath and dialed the number using the landline in the guesthouse. I got an automated message in both English and French and selected 1 for English. Then I had to dig down in the system to leave a voice mail.
I handed the phone to Kier, who took it awkwardly and held it to his mouth like a microphone.
“Hello, this is Kier MacLaughlan calling for Evan MacLaughlan. I’m safe and want to speak with Evan to arrange a meeting. He can call this number.”
Kier repeated the landline number for the guesthouse, which I had written down on a piece of paper. When he was done, he handed the phone receiver back to me. I hung up and looked at him expectantly.
“I guess now we wait.”
He nodded, but was focused on the website for his family’s company, scrolling down to see what it said.
While he was busy, I checked the messages on my cell and saw that there was a text from my mother, who had arrived safely in Berlin. I smiled as I read her description of the flight and the taxi ride to their hotel.
“Is that a message from your parents?” Kier asked.
“Yes. They’re in Berlin for a concert.”
