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As long as I can stop staring at his body under that shirt…
I liked it better when he was bare chested, but goddamn, can this man fill out clothes. He’s wearing charcoal slacks a few shades darker than his hair and a crisp white dress shirt. Or at least, it used to be crisp— now blood blooms shockingly bright on the body and sleeves, with a bonus streak down the leg of his trousers.
I set my sandwich down, feeling guilty all over again.
“Now I owe you for some clothes, too.”
Dane glances down at himself. “Why—because of this? You think I don’t know how to get bloodstains out of clothing?”
“A person could take that the wrong way.”
He gives me a sharp look.
Is it better to say it or not to say it?
Hey, did you ever have a wife?
And if so, did you happen to kill her?
Nope, can’t do it. I’m too fuckin’ chicken.
Instead, after an awkward pause, I ask, “Are you working tonight?”
“In a couple of hours.”
“Do you always work the night shift?”
“I pretty much have to.”
I let that hang until he adds, sullenly, “I have a condition that makes me sensitive to the sun.”
“Oh.” I’m trying not to examine him under the lens of this new information. “Like a vampire?”
Too late, I realize how often he must have heard that stupid joke.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Not as bad as that.” Dane lets it pass. “But I get a hell of a sunburn if I go out at midday.”
“Kind of a waste, living in a beach town.”
“I don’t live in Grimstone.” His face darkens, like the idea is offensive. “I live right here.”
He’s deep in the woods in this house painted the shade of a night sky, dark film on all the windows. The trees grow even closer around his house than mine, creating a den of perpetual shadow. Only the orchard receives full sun.
This is all making sense now, in a sad kind of way—I’m leaning more to the interpretation that Dane is a misunderstood outsider, and superstitious old biddies like to talk shit.
“Have you always lived here?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “I was born in this house. My father delivered me—he was a doctor, too.”
“Does your house have a name?” I love houses with names. I’m planning to build a signpost for Blackleaf.
“Someone called it the Midnight Manor and it stuck,” Dane says with a strange, unhappy smile.
I couldn’t think of a more perfect moniker. His house is sleek and dark, the walls and ceilings painted glossy indigo, the woodwork a deep mahogany. His furniture is more modern than mine, but he’s kept the old glass doorknobs and the brass chandeliers.
What I’m really looking for is any hint of a woman’s touch. How long ago did his wife die? Is he dating anyone now?
