having a bad day. He’d made that quite clear.
Bath and Sara entered the office chatting, cups of coffee in hand. Sara looked concerned as she plopped her oversized purse in her chair. “You okay, Marie? You look like you’re not feeling well.”
“Just tired,” I said automatically and forced a smile to my face. “Glad to see the day shift, though.”
She paused in front of my desk as Bath continued on to her office. Her nostrils flared, and she studied me for a moment “You . . . sure you’re okay? Your eyes are a little glassy.”
I blinked rapidly. “Just tired and ready for a nap. That’s all.”
She nodded and seemed to sniff the air, then moved back to her desk again. “Get some sleep.”
“Oh, I will,” I said, hauling my tired body to my feet.
“Hey, Ryder, can I talk to you?” Bath said as I left.
“Sure,” Ryder said, glancing meaningfully back at me.
I stuck my pinky out, indicating that she should keep her mouth shut. I hadn’t come this far to be undone by my best friend’s concerns.
• • •
It was the longest car drive home ever. I took the back roads, terrified to get on the highway, lest I pass out. Luckily, I made it into my apartment. I collapsed on the couch and slept for a few hours, though it wasn’t very restful. I knew it was due to the loss of blood, not to any recovery.
The worst part was knowing that if my plan was going to work, I’d have to do this again. Repeatedly. I shuddered. I needed to scrub the skin under those cheery Band-Aids and wipe myself clean of his touch.
This was a nightmare.
I sat up and rubbed my face, composing myself, and forced myself to look at things rationally. I might only have to put up with Andre for a short period of time. It didn’t sound like he was averse to the thought of turning me. I could use him until I got what I wanted, and then terminate the relationship. Surely vampires broke up every now and then, didn’t they?
So why did it feel so very awful and mercenary? Andre wanted to use me, too—last night was proof of that.
My phone rang. I picked it up and stared at Josh’s number, then let it go to voice mail.
If I talked to him right now, I might give in to self-pity. I might be ashamed of my choice and regret it. And I couldn’t afford that.
• • •
I showered and had just changed into a T-shirt and yoga pants when the doorbell rang. I frowned and moved to the door, looking through the peephole. It was Josh, a brown grocery bag in hand.
“I heard that groan, Marie-Pierre,” he said cheerfully. “You keep forgetting that shifters have great hearing.”
I felt a nervous, excited little flutter in my belly at the sight of him. Pure hormones, I told myself. I shouldn’t have been excited to see Josh. Not after we’d parted in such an ugly fashion.
I’d done my best to drive him away, yet here he was, back again. He was determined not to let me shut him out.
He wasn’t going to let me be alone in this.
Tears flooded my eyes and I blinked them away quickly, then opened the door. “Hi,” I said warily.
Josh looked mouthwatering. He’d exchanged his black security T-shirt for a dark blazer over a V-neck shirt, with jeans and a pair of sunglasses. He looked like a male model, so strikingly masculine that he took my breath away. His baseball cap was gone, his thick brown hair neatly combed.
I felt the oddest urge to drag my fingers through it and mess up that hair. It was too tidy and unruffled to be my Josh.
“Can I come in?” he asked, holding up the bag of groceries.
I nodded and moved aside. To my surprise, he leaned in and gave me a light kiss on the mouth, then continued on to the kitchen.
I shut the door behind him thoughtfully. “Where are you going, all dressed up?”
“Hot date,” he announced, moving into the kitchen.
My heart clenched.
“Yeah,” he said casually, clanging about in my kitchen. “I know this chick who digs French stuff.”
Out of curiosity, I followed to see what he was doing. And stared as he set up a small FryDaddy on my counter.
“Well, French-Canadian cuisine,” he amended, and grinned at me.
All my anxiety went out the door, and I felt like laughing. I went forward, peering over his shoulder as he pulled a bottle of oil out of the grocery bag. “What are you doing?”
“I am making you
I laughed and smacked him on the arm. “It’s not disgusting. It’s delicious.”
“Says the woman named Marie-Pierre.”
I chuckled as he prepared the fryer. “This is a lot of work, just to make me some
“I know it is. I had to go to four damn stores to find cheese curds. It’s ridiculous.” As he plugged in the fryer, he stepped away from it and toward me. “The good news is that I get to give you a proper greeting while that’s heating up.”
He reached for me, his fingers brushing over my tangled hair. He leaned in, that slight, roguish smile tugging at his mouth, then paused at the sight of the two Band-Aids on my neck. Some emotion flickered over his face, as if he was warring with himself. Then he leaned in a bit further and kissed me, ever so lightly, on the nose.
That was . . . disappointing.
I frowned as he stepped away. Did he not want to kiss me anymore? Just when I’d had my toes all curled in preparation?
He moved back to the grocery bag and paused, resting his fists on the counter. His clenched fists, I noticed. Oh. He was furious and trying not to show it. Furious at me, then?
I bit my lip, suddenly feeling anxious tears spring to my eyes. I didn’t want things to go like this between us. “I’m sorry I was so awful to you yesterday.”
“You’re scared,” he said to the bag of groceries, not looking in my direction, his shoulders and fists still tense and clenched. “Your natural reaction is to try and push me away. I wanted to show you that you can’t push me out of your life. I want to be here for you.”
They were good words. Just what I needed to hear. And yet . . . “Then why won’t you look at me?” The words came out soft, aching.
“I’m . . . struggling with this,” he said, the words rough. “Because I see that bite on your neck and I know it’s exactly what you want, but it makes me an asshole because it makes me furious. I want to put my fist through a wall, and I know I should be congratulating you.”
Strangely enough, his fury made me feel better. I could safely tell him about the unhappiness and vague discomfort I had about my chosen path. I moved toward him, smoothing my hands over the shoulders of his jacket, admiring the way it hugged his large frame. He’d dressed up for me? A flush of desire crept over me. “You don’t have to congratulate me,” I told him softly. “I didn’t enjoy it.”
He turned and gave me an agonized look, and the breath sucked out of my throat. His dark eyes were tortured, his face drawn into harsh lines. The circles under his eyes told me that he wasn’t sleeping well, either. “What am I supposed to do, Marie? I want to rip his head off for touching you.” His eyes gleamed, catlike. “Instead, all I can do is sit here and try and support you, because I can’t stop you. If it’s what you need, I want you to get it. I just need to know where that puts me.”
I reached over and unplugged the fryer. My hand stole under his jacket, slipping around his waist. “It puts you in my arms. That’s exactly where I need you to be. Here. With me. Kissing me. Touching me.”
His jaw remained clenched. I felt the urge to kiss it and gave in to it, wrapping my other hand around his neck and drawing his face down so I could brush my lips over his unshaven cheek. He was stiff in my embrace, but not pulling away.
