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As much as I want to learn more about her, I’m struck by her showing an interest in my passion. Not a lot of people want to hear about cleats, rigging, chestnut paneling, and sail fabric, but Clarissa seems genuinely interested. Unlike my previous standoffish non-answer, I actually delve into the topic this time.
Clarissa follows along as best she can, asking questions along the way, and I realize it’s one of the most stimulating conversations I’ve had in a long time. By the time we finish our lunch, I’m enjoying Clarissa’s company more than ever.
“Let me get this,” she says when the check comes.
“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that,” I say, reaching for the bill.
Clarissa reaches out and blocks my hand with hers, and the sudden warmth of her skin stops me in my tracks.
“I insist,” she tells me. “You’re doing so much to help me. The least I can do is buy you lunch.”
Her hand is still on mine, and my brain suddenly short-circuits. “Absolutely not,” I manage to get out. “I invited you out, remember? Them’s the rules.”
It’s all I can do to pull myself together. I withdraw my hand and grab the check, instantly almost wishing I had an excuse to touch her again.
“Thanks, neighbor,” she finally says.
I give a big grin, trying and failing to force some normalcy into what’s just become a very tense moment. At least for me. “My pleasure.”
At this, I have to excuse myself to the bathroom to splash water on my face before the cute neighbor thinks I’m a fucking weirdo.
13
CLARISSA
The last six days have flown by. And as I stand here gaping up at my fixed roof, almost none of which was any thanks to me, I feel a small twinge of belonging. Maybe even a little gratification. The corners of my mouth start to curl, and it’s all I can do to keep my smile from turning into a full-on grin.
What kind of person spends consecutive days practically glued to a neighbor’s roof? And a vampiric person, too? When I’d asked the good samaritan how he could stand to be in the sun, considering his, well, aversion to all things sunny, his response was amused rather than offended.
“That’s not how it works in real life, just the movies,”he’d explained when I finally mustered the courage to ask how exactly the whole sun thing worked. Wasn’t working in the daytime the antithesis of a vampire’s idea of a good time? He was pale and tended to wear a sunhat when working in his garden, but I kept the question to myself for fear of looking ignorant.
“Then how does it work?”
“Vampires are extremely sensitive to light, and can technically die of overexposure. But enterprising witches with a gift for potion-making capitalized on our…”
The way he’d licked his lips and scanned the horizon, searching for the perfect word as he re-shingled the damaged part of my roof, made me glad I was on the ladder. I think here in the South, they’d call my sudden lack of balance something close to swooning.
“Complexity,”he’d finally finished.“A good sunscreen is only an enchantment away now.”
Even now as I continue cleaning up the bathroom from the last remnants of construction debris, I roll my eyes remembering my reaction.
“That should go on the label!”
“It does.”When he’d thrown me the near-full bottle of lotion, my eyes bulged as I caught the thing in between my chin and shoulder. Smooth.
I catch a look at myself in my bathroom mirror now and notice I’m still smiling — and it barely has anything to do with the finished renovation.
“Just the renovator,” I admit aloud, not at all excited at the prospect of allowing the feeling to flourish.
But what can I do when it comes to these things really? My only hope is that I’ve managed not to make a fool out of myself. Even the thought of Emile noticing me gawking makes me squirm. I have no idea if he’s interested in me or just being friendly, and there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. I’m undercover!
I finish up my chore and wonder if Marcel’s help the last two days was planned or not. Given I couldn’t do much more than grab tools and other necessities, it first seemed innocent enough that the other vampire stopped by. But once I noticed the coy looks Marcel was shooting between Emile and me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d let someone else in on my little secret.
Inadvertently, of course, but still. I head for the kitchen and mull the possibility over as I peruse what’s left of the vampire-related ingredients I had conveniently delivered to my house along with my own food items. The crimson shepherd's pie recipe I found on the internet was a hit with both supernaturals, who ate double servings of the mostly b-negative vampiric version of the household dish for lunch one day.
I’d worried about the quality of the thick innards of the pie, which I learned is what supernatural-centric chefs in the know call fillings. But the random choice in blood type was a smash, especially paired with o-positive-laced carrots, peas, and potato bits glazed with honey and nutmeg.
I scratch the back of my neck and try to remember exactly what Emile had said about my third day of making breakfast for the two of us. Whipping up something to eat both first thing and mid-morning is the least I can do, even if it does take a little longer with my bum hand.
