Page 7 of Vampire Savage

She rolls her eyes. “This whole place smells like beer. And fried cheese.” She looks over her shoulder again, and I can’t help but look too. He’s not looking at us, so maybe I escaped the embarrassment of having him see me making an utter fool of myself.

“He’s alone,” she muses and looks back at me. “You should go thank him in person for the drinks.”

My stomach goes queasy. It’s definitely the greasy burger and not butterflies at the idea of talking to such an attractive man. I’m surrounded by attractive men in my life, I can handle them.

Some deep part of me, the primal woman’s sense of survival or something, tells me that this man is not one to be handled.

Despite my father’s preaching and his current assumption, I haven’t exactly stayed chaste. I’m not a virgin, though I haven’t jumped as eagerly into beds as Niamh. Not that I’m judging her. Far from it. I wish it was easy for me to find partners, but because of my family name and my position at Benoit Tech, I learned early on that most men see me as a stepping stone–access to my father and the prestige he offers.

I can count on one hand how many men I’ve slept with and they never lasted long and I never let it go beyond physical.

It’s why they always end up leaving. I know the joke is that men, especially in their early twenties, can be commitment-phobes.

While I know it’s fucked up, I can’t stand the idea of keeping a relationship secret from my dad. And I know he will be furious if I’m in one.

I bite back a groan, wanting to rage against the control I’ve let my father still have over me. I’ll be thirty soon, for fuck’s sake, and I don’t have the courage to be like, “Hey, dad, this is my boyfriend.”

Especially now that he’s started talking about Miles, and I have the sinking feeling that if he has his way, I’ll be married to Miles before my thirtieth birthday whether I love the man or not.

I don’t even count Miles as a friend.

“Come on.” Niamh nudges my foot with her own under the table. Her face is softer, understanding in her eyes. “What harm is there in talking to him? Let yourself flirt with a hot guy, Wren. You’re in your twenties! Let yourself act like it once in a while.”

I drum my fingers against the pint glass, watching the tiny bubbles rise to the pale amber surface before popping. The ambiance of the pub is relaxed and easy, the music blending with the noise of conversation and clinking of glasses. It’s cozy, despite being a packed pub, and warm. Completely the opposite of the Palmer Hotel I’d fled earlier.

“But I came to hang out with you.” It’s a weak argument and Niamh stares at me, telling me exactly what she thinks of that. Catching my lower lip between my teeth, my whole body sighs as I relent. The moment I do, she beams at me.

“Go get him, tiger. Flirt your heart out before you have to go be Ms. Foster again tomorrow.”

I groan and then take a hearty swallow of my beer for courage. It’s almost halfway gone. With the single champagne flute at the performance, this is my third drink for the night. Out here where no one knows me–except this attractive stranger apparently–I don’t have such a hard limit, but standing, I decide four is the most I’ll have tonight. If this guy does circulate in the same circles as me, I can’t afford to lose my head.

“Yes, I’ll keep an eye out for the save-me look,” Niamh says while moving chairs, before I can even ask. “Go! I’m just going to be here reading fanfiction on my phone and ordering another round of cheesy tots on your tab.”

I snort but swipe up my beer and start walking before I can chicken out. There are only two tables between mine and his booth, no more than fifteen feet away, yet it stretches on forever. Except before I know it, I find myself at his table.

He’s still looking down at his phone, though I can’t see what’s on it.

“Hi,” I squeak out and flush, my ears burning. His head snaps up and my eyes go wide.

It’s not the slow, sinfully attractive grin that steals my breath. It’s his eyes.

Vampire gold.

“Ms. Foster,” he greets, his voice warm honey and whisky smooth. He gestures to the booth seat across from him. “Please, join me.”

I swallow hard, another flush washing over me. My head is everywhere, my body throwing out so many contradicting signals that my poor brain can’t decide what to do.

So I accept his offer, sitting and setting my beer between us like it is some sort of barrier.

He turns his phone off, pocketing it immediately, while watching me with his smile still in place.

“How do you know me?”

Well, that isn’t what I meant to say. Why, oh, why, am I suddenly this awkward bundle of nerves? I’ve stared down and gone toe to toe in boardrooms with men forty years older than me and come out victorious.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem offended.

“I’m a fan of classical music. Tonight was not the first night I’ve seen you perform.”

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