Page 20 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“He’s a tourist. Just like the others you’ll see around here.” I switch our cups with a sigh then bend down so I can pick up the books still spilled across the floor. “Nothing special.”
I almost choke on the lie. Everything about Greyson Finch is special. He shines brighter than the stars on the darkest night.
I am so screwed.
* * *
Greyson is an anomaly.
A dark, broody stain in a sea of vibrancy. Black jeans, faded black shirt, dark sunglasses, and black Converse, the white branding and laces shifting like spilled paint among the designer khaki shorts and tropical-hued polos. Lilly Pulitzer-clad teens stare until their eyes practically pop as this shadowy, foreign being stalks our sunshine bright world.
He seems immune to the blistering heat. As if he is too cool to sweat like the rest of us mortals.
A few brave souls trot on his heels, girls with colorful flip flops attached to the ends of stork-thin brown legs, the expensive bits of rubber slapping the white-hot sidewalk. Occasionally, he stops, glances over one shoulder, and those girls scramble like shorebirds. Running into one another, hiding metal-filled giggles behind sweaty palms, they pretend interest in various shop windows.
When this strange god resumes walking, they still gawk, lingering farther behind him. I can’t hear their whispered words, but I’ve no problem reading lips. Even at this distance from Sea Tales’ picture-perfect front windows where I’m tweaking the display books, I know what they’re saying.Omg! He’s soooo cute!!!
Well, at least one rumor can be laid to rest. Lullaby Tides’ new owner is not a vampire. Otherwise, he’d burst into flames on this cloudless day. And he’s got a lusciously golden tan, an impossible achievement if he were a creature of the night.
After living holed up in that beachside mansion for two months he’s apparently made it his mission to parade up and down the sidewalk in front of my bookstore.
I’ve no idea what he is up to, but he’s wasting his time.
But, I kinda wish he was a vampire. It might explain my fascination. I’d tell anyone who asked that yes, he put a hex on me. There must be tiny, invisible fang pricks somewhere on my body. Just because my neck is smooth doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Somewhere. Surely, vampires evolved over the centuries, able to get their fix from any vein.
I’m cursed. Because, although I hate him, I’d sacrifice my soul to relive the night we spent together.
Greyson Carter Finch. Rockstar. Drug Addict. Heartbreaker. Jerk. So achingly gorgeous. And a nightmare from my past.
He spends much of that Friday alternating between sitting on the benches in front of our store, drinking lemonade of all things, and visiting various shops up and down the sidewalks around the Green. I see him across the open space through our windows. Even with the hoard of tourists and locals swarming our little village, I see him.
He carries a small notepad and a Sharpie in his back pocket. Every so often, he pulls them out, scribbles furiously, ponders, crosses out words, scribbles some more, smiles, and returns the notepad to his pocket.
Around four o’ clock, he disappears and I don’t see him for the rest of the day.
