Six
Five days later . . .
It was fate that led
her to the Woodbury Barnes and Noble that night. Fate, and an
urgent need for both a lemon scone and Newsweek. Later, Rachael was unable to remember
when exactly she’d spotted Edward in the store, because she hadn’t
started to pay attention until the felony assault. But she always
remembered the first thing he had said to her, right there in front
of the Sweet Valley Vampires display:
“The undead really, really dislike being this
popular.”
That was odd enough
to catch her attention . . . and he was cute enough to keep
it.
Like any werewolf,
she had started sorting scents the moment she came through the
door, categorizing and filing them away. She did it as
automatically as people checked the rearview mirror when they
backed up. And when she focused on Edward, it was the way people
didn’t pay attention to the color of a necktie until they were
right in front of it.
So it was with
Edward’s scent, a pleasing combo of clean cotton and oranges, with
a sprinkling of underarm deodorant; she liked it right away. She
also liked the way his light brown hair was a bit shaggy, in need
of a trim, and she liked the way the ends of his hair kept trying
to curl under. Best of all, she liked his shirt: “Your Favorite
Band Sucks.”
“I suppose they
would.”
He was staring at
her. She wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t a werewolf. She knew this as
people know who was into the Cheetos because of their orange
fingertips.
She repeated herself,
louder: “I suppose they would.”
“Who
would?”
What was he staring
at? “Would what?”
“Who would . . .
Wait. What?”
“Let’s start over.”
Actually, she should just walk away . . . Why draw out this
encounter? But she didn’t want to, and she didn’t know
why.
Then she did know. He
was an attractive, intelligent male and he was in his sexual prime.
The beast in her thought the chances with him weren’t just
outstanding, they were almost a necessity. She was a creature of
instinct and senses, as different from this man as the great apes
he’d evolved from were different from the wolves in her old, old
family tree. I suppose that means while my
instinct is to bring down prey, his is to make
tools!
Her civilized side
thought it might be fun to go get a Frappuccino with this guy. Her
beast wanted to lure him to her lair and have sex all
afternoon.
“I’m so sorry, I
honestly wasn’t paying attention . . . I have no idea what I
actually said. I was kind of in my own head.” He paused, then added
with the air of someone sharing a great, shameful-yet-exciting
secret, “I’m in there a lot, actually.”
“I know exactly what
you mean.” She extended her hand and almost gasped when he seized
it and wrung it, as if he was afraid she’d change her mind about
introducing herself. “I’m Rachael Velvela.”
“Vell-vay-luh? That’s
neat.” Neat? He thought it was neat? No one had ever said that.
People just immediately started mocking it. She’d been Rachael
Velveeta from kindergarten on up. “Edward Batley. It’s really nice
to meet you.” His pleasure and attraction were apparent, and
increased hers. “I come here a lot, but I don’t remember seeing you
before.”
“I just moved here
from Massachusetts.” She never said Cape Cod. She was startled by
how many people had no idea where that was. Most of them knew where
Massachusetts was. “I thought I’d come in and pick up a few local
guidebooks to sort of look around.”
She would never tell
this cute, great-smelling stranger the shameful truth: she thought
Summit Avenue was one of the most beautiful streets she had ever
seen. The mansions were breathtaking and each one was more
beautiful than the last.
She had thought the
rows of mansions were lovely the day it rained. Then the sun came
out, the late summer light slanting down and illuminating the
gorgeous detail of those great, great homes from the past.
Mrs. Cain, how right you
were.
“So I was in the
travel section, and then this man told me the undead don’t like all
the attention they’re getting.”
“Yeah, uh, sorry.
Can’t believe that was out loud. Of course it’s all bull—it’s not
true. I mean, it might be true, it
would be true, if there were vampires
in real life. Which there aren’t. At all. Because if there were—and
there aren’t—I’d never be so careless as to wander around random
bookstores telling strangers the likes and dislikes of the
blood-drinking dependant.”
“The
what?”
“Or the
breathing-impaired . . . whichever you think is, you know, not
offensive.”
“I can’t tell if this
is the silliest conversation I’ve had all week, or the most
interesting.”
“You want to get a
blueberry scone, maybe sit down with an iced tea or something, try
and decide?”
She smiled at him.
“Well . . . yeah. I would, actually. Except that the taste of
blueberries makes me vomit, so I will take a lemon
scone.”
“Usually when I talk
to a girl,” he confided, “she doesn’t use the word vomit until we’re trying to pick out which movie we
want to see.”
She laughed so hard
she nearly walked into the endcap. Guidebooks to St. Paul, handsome
strangers using odd pickup lines, and baked goods produced by the
Starbucks Corporation . . . could there be a sillier, funnier
day?