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I approached the house the internet said was hers and found the porch light on, the rhythmic sound of soft, squeaking metal accompanying the sight of a swaying porch swing.
Who the fuck was on her porch? I reached for my Sig.
“It’s just me,” she said. “Though I’m sure my neighbors wouldn’t appreciate you shouting about my imaginary company.”
My eyebrows shot up, and I left my weapon holstered. Shit, had I fired off at the mouth again without realizing it? That was becoming a bad habit around her. “I wasn’t shouting,” I said in my defense, walking up the wooden steps of her porch.
“May as well have been,” she said with a smile from where she lay on the porch swing, gently pushing off the floor with the one leg she let dangle.
Her freesia and peonies scent hit me, and I threw my focus into keeping my fangs where they belonged—put away. Fuck, the stab of hunger in my gut was unexpected. Maybe I reallyshouldhave taken the time to feed. I threw down every shield I had as if mentally protecting myself would keep her safe from me.
She was dressed for bed in a pair of drawstring plaid pants and a sweater—no, ahoodie—with the local university’s logo on the front. In my century, she would have been in a shift, but then again, in my century, a woman this stunning never would have been left alone on a porch. I shook my head and reminded myself thatthiswas now my century.
“Are you just going to stand there staring at me?” she asked with a smile, crinkling her nose as if we’d planned this.
“You aren’t going to ask how I knew you lived here?” I leaned back on the sturdy post of her porch and tucked my hands into the pockets of my leathers to keep them from reaching for her.
“No.” She shrugged and closed her book, leaving it on her stomach as she continued to rock. “The Grim Reaper knows where everyone lives, doesn’t he?”
I cracked a smile. “I’m not here to take your life, Grace.”
“Even if, I’m not sure it would be a bad way to go.” She sat up and folded her legs beneath her. “But as far as figments of my imagination go, you’re definitely the hottest hallucination I’ve ever had.”
“Not a hallucination.” I watched, utterly rapt, as she tugged a circle of fabric off her wrist and then tied her hair into some kind of knot and secured it.
“Right. So you insist on saying.” She rolled her eyes. “I have to say you’re definitely a benefit of this tumor.”
My smile fell, and I took a deep breath. Right. She had a tumor. She was dying. How could I be enchanted with her passion for what little time she had left and despise her illness at the same time? “What are you doing out here this late?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.
“I should be asking you the same thing.”
“I wanted to be near you.” The truthfulness of the statement puckered my brow. “And to check that you were safely tucked in.”
“See, normal guys use the phone number the girl gives them,” she teased.
“Not a normal guy.” I shrugged. “And by the time I finished work tonight, I figure you’d already be asleep, considering you need your rest.”
“There will be plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.” She glanced past me out into the night. “I don’t want to miss a single second.”
My stomach twisted. “But you might have more seconds if you rested so you could fight your illness.”
“My mother fought. It didn’t do her much good,” she said softly, glancing down at her book and fidgeting with the pages. “What would you rather have? A shorter time lived to the fullest, or a longer time that’s not quite as sweet because you’re sick from treatment?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Time is a relative concept for me. The longer I live, the less it seems to mean.”
“Good problem to have.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit down. Staring up at you is putting a crick in my neck.”
I walked toward her slowly, making sure I didn’t accidentally slip into supernatural speed and scare the shit out of her, and then I gently tugged the chains holding the swing in place.
“You won’t break it,” she promised, patting again.
I sat carefully.
She laughed, the sound smacking me right behind my ribs. “Relax, Grim. You’re all stiff, like you’ve never sat on a swing.”
“I haven’t.” I leaned back, testing the wood with my weight. It creaked but didn’t give.
“I’m over here thinking of all the extraordinary things I’d like to do with the short amount of time I have left, and you’ve never sat on a swing?” She nudged me with her shoulder.
