Page 22 of An Acquired Taste

After I’m done wallowing over that, another thought occurs to me. I type in the search bar:Sebastian de Celeste.

Nothing. Of course there’s nothing; Sebastian doesn’t even own a cell phone. After a guilty, hesitant moment, I type again:Alexander de Solomon.

A profile pops up, one with a checkmark to verify his identity and a shocking amount of followers. My eyes widen as I scroll through his pictures and videos. The suave blonde vampire is just as handsome as I remember, and his feed evidences a life of extravagance. A yacht ride under the moonlight, a charming smirk over the rim of a bloody cocktail, the recognizable neon sign of a famous vampire club…

It looks decadent. Exciting. Fun. All of the things my life could’ve been if he had decided to become my patron. This estate is lovely, but it’s also isolated and spooky and not at all what I imagined after reading all of those gossip magazines.

I feel terrible thinking that way, but I can’t help it. I sigh and bring the phone to my face, bonking it against my forehead a few times to clear my terrible, selfish thoughts. Only when I glance at the screen again do I realize I accidentally liked one of Alexander’s photos. A shirtless one revealing chiseled abs and a delicious V of muscle where his pants dip low.

Shit. I unlike it, realize it’ll still be visible to him, and like it again. Then I like a different one so I won’tjustbe liking the thirst trap. And I follow him so it doesn’t look like I’m creeping. By the time I’m done, I feel like an idiot, and my face is hot. Idon’t know what I’m thinking. It’s not like he’ll notice, he has about a million drooling fans on here.

Eager to scrub my embarrassment off, I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the day, or night. Whatever.

The bathroom is as awe-inspiring as I imagined it would be, albeit a bit old-fashioned. There’s only a claw-foot tub instead of a shower. But it’s hard to complain, especially since it’s set next to a gigantic window that overlooks the grounds I’m so enamored with. They look even more magical under the moonlight.

I find luxury bubble bath product under the sink, and soon the bath is filled with foamy, steaming-hot, honey-and-coconut-scented water. I toss my clothes aside and sink in with a happy sigh, back arching as the heat floods my body and caresses muscles sore from sleeping in the car earlier. With my head leaning back against the edge of the tub and my eyes drifting out to my view of the grounds, I easily pass a full hour in the bath.

For the first time in years, I feel the desire to write stirring. My fingers itch to describe the fog-shrouded trees and the moonlit hills, the perfect crescent of the moon hanging in the sky. I drag myself out of the tub, dry off, and wrap myself in a gloriously fluffy robe waiting for me. Since I didn’t bring any materials to write by hand, I flop onto my stomach in bed and open my old, clunky, much-abused laptop. My fingers hover over the keys and…

…And nothing. The words are gone as soon as I have a moment to write them down. I stare at the blank document, anxiety crawling up the back of my throat the longer my paralysis stretches out. I love writing… or at least, I used to. It’s been so long since I had the time for anything more than a few stolen sentences scribbled on whatever paper I could find. Is it possible I’ve forgotten how to write? Has my creativitybeen eroded by the years of waitressing and cleaning and having barely a single second to think about anything else?

I’m not sure how long I sit there, but I’m not able to produce a single word. When I finally give up and shut my laptop, I realize that dinnertime is approaching. As I stand and look around the room, still dressed in only a robe, it occurs to me that I should’ve asked Ellen if dinner has a dress code.

AndthenI realize I have nothing more than a few grungy old T-shirts and ill-fitting jeans to wear. Just when I’m starting to panic, I remember the new outfits I bought with Lissa and breathe a sigh of relief.

When I open my suitcase, my jaw drops open. This iswaymore than the small handful of outfits I agreed to purchase. Lissa must have gone back without me to buy more. She also included the Valentine’s Ball dress and the heels I wore.

One by one, I unzip each bag and hang the outfits in my enormous new closet. Velvet and silk, corset tops and voluminous skirts… the kinds of things I only ever dreamed of owning. The kinds of things a valentine would wear.

Ihaveto dress up for dinner now. It would be a shame to let all of this go to waste. Ultimately, I’d rather be overdressed than underdressed,especiallysince I’m finally going to see Sebastian. I mean, surely he’ll come to greet me now, right? Despite my lingering hesitance over this arrangement, I feel a surge of excitement at the thought.

I let my robe drop to the floor and reach for the first thing that catches my eye.

Chapter Twelve

All eyes are on me from the moment I enter the dining room. I expect it’s partially because I’m late—I had to wander around the hallways, trying to find my way here—but I’d like to think it’s also because of how I’m dressed.

The attention is intoxicating and embarrassing all at once. I hold my head high, keeping in my mind the image I saw of myself in the mirror. Cat’s eye liner, red lips, an elegant burgundy gown that dips low between my breasts and shows off every curve. I’m not as magical with makeup and hair as Lissa, but I’m doing my best to coax out a shade of that bold and beautiful woman she transformed me into the night of the Valentine’s Day Ball. I did all of this because Iwantedthem to look. Wantedhimto look, specifically.

But when I raise my eyes to scan the room, I see Ellen, a couple of familiar faces, a couple of unfamiliar ones, Barnabas smiling and wagging his tail from the rug, and… that’s it. No Sebastian.

Disappointment is a knife to my chest. I’m surprised by how much it hurts. Just when my feelings toward Sebastian had started to soften, resentment curdles in my stomach once again. Maybe heisjust an asshole who invited me here to ignore me. But why the hell offer patronage, then? It couldn’t have just been for my gross blood. I doubt he’s even drinking the vial Ellenextracted from me this morning. Then is all of this out of pity? The thought is awful. Humiliating.

But for now, I plaster on a smile and find a seat. There are plenty of open ones; the long mahogany table is built to seat around a dozen, and there are only five staff members present besides me. But before I can sit, a young man lurches to his feet. He’s curly-haired and covered in freckles and can’t be any older than twenty.

“Oh, please, ma’am, allow me,” he says, flustered, and pulls out a chair at the end of the table.

I smile at him—he blushes furiously in response—and take the offered chair. I’m a few seats away from the nearest dinner companion, but I have to assume that this is meant to be a seat of honor, rather than some kind of exile. Though it’s hard to ignore that everyone else is dressed casually. I am indeed overdressed. It’s also impossible not to notice how quiet the room has become since I entered, as though all of the conversation stopped. The grandfather clock in one corner ticks audibly in the silence. Were they talking about me?

I swallow back self-consciousness and seek out Ellen among the strangers. “Will Lord Sebastian be joining us for dinner?” I ask, unable to give up my hope completely.

Ellen shakes her head, looking apologetic. “I’m afraid Lord Sebastian prefers to take his meals alone, in his study,” she says. “I’m sorry, I should’ve mentioned it. But we’re so happy to have you here! And you lookstunning.”

Of course he wouldn’t make an exception for me on my first day here, even knowing I’d be surrounded by strangers and he has yet to even greet me since my arrival. I suppress a sigh and try to smile instead. “Well, I’m glad for an opportunity to get to know everyone.”

Ellen takes my cue and begins a round of introductions around the table. The boy who pulled out my chair forme is Trent, the groundskeeper’s grandson and assistant. The groundskeeper himself is a gnarled old man named Tobias who greets me with a scowl, but since that seems to be his default expression, I try not to take it personally. I recognize Vincent, the driver who brought me here, and give him a small smile; he sweeps off his hat and nods back. The last is the chef, a stout, friendly woman named Bridget who gives off an energy younger than her streaks of gray hair suggest.

“And I already know this lovely lad,” I coo, reaching under the table to scratch Barnabas under the chin. He whines, tail smacking against a chair.

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