Page 14 of Blood and Buttercups

The house is on a couple-acre lot, amid other custom homes built in the nineties. At almost three thousand square feet, it’s too big for me, but I love it. The spruces and pines that dot the property are huge and old, and the bushes are mature. I fill the front flower beds and barrels with brightly blooming annuals every spring, just like Grandma did.

Someday, when a bank will actually look at a mortgage application from me, I hope to buy it. (According to the stuffy,balding man I spoke with when I last applied, twenty-eight-year-old, self-employed flower farmers aren’t a reliable investment. Go figure.) But for now, this is enough.

My ancient blue Chevy sits in front, ready to be loaded with this afternoon’s delivery. I don’t necessarily like old trucks, and sometimes it’s a pain in the rear, but it fits that farmhouse vibe and looks good in photo shoots for my social media. That, and I got a good price on the rusted, dented piece of scrap metal when I found it. Max restored it for me in exchange for chocolate chip cookies and homemade meals a few times a week.

I change out of my dress, tossing my broken heels into the trash, and pull on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a black tank top, and my beat-up sneakers I only use for gardening. Then, just in case a neighbor should come wandering over, I tie a lightweight scarf around my neck. It’ll drive me crazy while I work, but it’s better than flashing the evidence of the worst date of my life to any neighbors who decide to drop by.

I step outside, clippers in hand, breathing in the smells of early summer.

I’ve only deadheaded half a front flower bed when I become lightheaded. I sway when I stand, trying to catch my balance.

I must have stood up too quickly. As I wait for the vertigo to pass, a wave of intense heat passes over me. I drop the clippers onto the ground and then hurry toward the house, feeling like I’m going to throw up.

I only make it as far as the trash cans around the corner.

Once my stomach is empty, I stumble to the side door, sitting in the cool shade of the western wall on the concrete walk. Sweat rolls down my face, and I clutch my stomach, not daring to stand yet.

What’s wrong with me?

My hand rises to my neck. The twin puncture wounds have scabbed over, but they’re still tender. Could Ethan have given me some type of freaky infection?

How does a person bite like that, anyway? Shouldn’t all his front teeth have made a mark?

I shiver, my mind wandering down paths from which it should stay far, far away. Vampires are things of movies and books—they’re not real.

“It was probably the salmon,” I mutter, irritated that such a fussy restaurant would cook something off. They probably had it a few days too long but served it anyway.

Forcing myself up, I push through the door that leads into the mudroom, tossing my gloves on the counter when I pass it. As soon as I walk into the downstairs bathroom, I come to a dead stop and gape at myself in the mirror, my lips parting with shock.

My reflection stares back at me, as red as a lobster.

I press my hands to my cheeks, noting the extreme heat radiating from my skin. It’s a sunburn—the worst I’ve had in my life. But I was outside for less than twenty minutes.

I take several steps back, shaking my head.

It’s impossible.

On the days I’ve forgotten to lather on sunscreen, I turn a little pink if I’m out for several hours. The burn usually morphs into a tan the next day. Something tells me that’s not going to happen this time.

I’m just about to call Olivia and tell her about all the freaky stuff that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours when I remember I left my phone in Ethan’s car.

As I’m trying to decide if I can drive to her house without throwing up again, the doorbell rings.

Irrationally terrified it’s Ethan, I creep through the hall, avoiding all the open windows, and peer through the texturedprivacy glass in the door. I’m just in time to see a distorted delivery truck roll down the street.

I let out a held breath, chastising myself for being so ridiculous, and open the door. I’m expecting an order of coffee beans from a local roaster in Snowmass Village. They’re expensive, but it’s my one indulgence. Plus, it keeps me out of coffee shops, so I don’t let myself feel too bad about it.

I open the box, waiting for the smell of roasted heaven to waft to me like a warm hug.

But instead of coffee, my cell phone sits in a nest of bubble wrap. There’s a note at the top that reads:

Dearest Piper,

You forgot this in my car last night. I’ve added my contact information, as I imagine you’ll want to speak with me soon. I’ll give you space until then.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Most Devotedly Yours,

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