Page 12 of Hot Vampire Next Door: Season Three

A dark flame at the center of me grows a little brighter.

This is fun. I like it more than I should.

“Come, Mouse,” Bran says and smiles smugly at me. He slips his hand into mine and pulls me away. Once we're in the hall and moving for the exit, he bends down and says beneath his breath, "My ruthless little mouse."

"I wasn't being ruthless."

He holds the door for me and I slip out ahead of him.

The sun has dipped low enough that I can no longer see it over the rooflines of the surrounding buildings and the descending light has painted the sky in soft pastel shades of pink and lavender and orange.

The air smells of summer and possibilities.

"I like you pulling rank," he tells me. "It's fucking sexy."

Heat rises to my cheeks. "Stop it. You're being ridiculous."

He slips his arm around my waist and spins me around, pressing me against the railing on the stairs. "Don't tell me what to do."

"As if I could ever boss you around."

He plants a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth. "You were getting pretty bossy in that waiting room. 'Fill me up,'" he says, mimicking me and now I'm really and truly blushing.

I decide to roll with it. "Yeah, and you listened to me. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe I can get what I want from you if I'm clever about it."

"Naughty little mouse." He tightens his hold on me, sending butterflies zinging across my chest. I like his hands on me. I like being so close to him that I can see the gold flecks in his irises, the throb of his pupils.

Being close to him means he trusts me, and somehow having his trust is almost as good as having his heart.

"You made your mouse a promise. Do you remember?"

He kisses me again. I'm aware that we have an audience with a few onlookers across the street. And it finally dawns on me that Bran has never engaged in PDA with me. Not on this level.

"Mmmm," he says against my mouth. "Who makes the best grilled cheese in Midnight?"

"Stanley." I don't have to think about it.

"And where does this virtuoso of the grilled cheese wield his spatula?"

I laugh again. Bran brings his hand up, threading his fingers through my hair. "At The Greasy Spoon."

A rumble starts at the base of his throat. "I always thought that was an atrocious name for a diner."

"Nevertheless..."

"To the Greasy Spoon we go then," he says.

The diner is close enough to the courthouse that we walk and Bran keeps my hand in his the entire way.

Every time we pass someone on the sidewalk and their gaze strays to our hands, my stomach fills with more butterflies.

The Greasy Spoon is one of those little 1950’s diners crammed into the leftover space between a nail salon and a real estate office. It's only big enough for the kitchen, a counter, and narrow booths along the wall.

A neon sign buzzes in the window while rockabilly music plays through the sound system. The floor is black and white checkered, the walls painted pale blue and pink, the counter covered in chrome, and the booths trimmed to match.

I love it here.

"Where were you in the fifties?" I ask Bran as we slide into one of the booths near the front window.

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