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Really?Because his anger didn’t sound like boredom. It sounded like a man haunted by his past. He had her deepest sympathy.
MF stared at this beautiful man, looking like a dream in his new suit as they strolled. She wanted to ease his torment. Mostly because she’d been alone during her darkest moments and wished it on no one.
“I get the feeling you’re not telling the entire truth,” MF said. “Totally your prerogative. But if you want to talk to someone, I promise I won’t judge. I’msonot about that.” She might dress tough—leather, spikes, torn jeans, tits out half the time—but that was only to shield the gooey center.
“Doyoutell everything to perfect strangers?” he asked.
“No, but I’d tell you. Anything you want.”
He stopped walking, and so did she.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I like you. And before you claim I just want you to—” she looked over her shoulder at a group of teens nearby, lowering her voice “—to turn me, that’s not it at all.”
“You like me?” He chuckled snidely.
“Insult my integrity if you want, but as far as I’m concerned, you have no reason to doubt me. I haven’t said or done anything to make you believe I’m not one hundred percent transparent. I am as good-hearted as they come.”
“Yet you want to change into a violent, bloodthirsty creature.”
She pointed to her heart. “Won’t change this. Nothing ever has.”
Maxton stared for a long moment, his green eyes smoldering. “Show me this nirvana of gentlemen’s wear you speak of.”
She smiled. “My pleasure.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MF couldn’t believe how different Maxton was acting suddenly, as if the whole ritual of wearing gentlemen’s clothing relaxed him. Maybe because it was something familiar and comforting, like sewing. For her, sewing wasn’t “women’s work” or “antiquated,” as some of the younger, more “progressive” generation claimed. Sewing was an art where imagination met engineering. The engineering of fabrics.
She wasn’t just talking about fashion designers. She was talking about the everyday seamstress, the tailor, the home sewer, the quilter and embroiderer. One might even argue that crocheting was engineering.
One could have all the ideas in the world—skirts that flowed like waterfalls, dresses that shimmered and moved with the light, dress shirts that gave a man an air of sophistication, or even a simple pillowcase for Aunt Fanny—but that idea meant nothing without execution. Perfect angles. Perfect cuts on the bias. Perfect fabric selection and stitching. Precision. That was what she loved about the art.
She was partial to complicated vampires, too.
MF, Maxton, and the two napping demons in the doggy stroller exited the men’s clothing store with over ten thousand dollars’ worth of suits for Maxton, and he looked happier than a clam in wet sand.
The funny part was when he went to pay, Maxton simply waved his hand and said: “IOU. The gold will be in the post by week’s end. I must return home first.”
The salesperson just nodded and wrapped it all up.
“So, what do you say we head to the amusement park next?” MF asked. “I think we have about two hours before they close.”
They stepped out into the cool summer air. He inhaled and exhaled with a cough. “This air smells funny.”
“Yeah. LA. Whatcha gonna do?”
“I would like to see this coaster of rolls. Take me there,” he said.
MF smiled. It was such a glorious thing to see this man shedding that big chip on his shoulder.
Suddenly, he turned, staring down at her. “But I am hungry.”
“So soon?” MF blinked.
“My diet has been very limited these past years, and we have been very active today—all that helicoptering and aeroplaning.”
