Page 124 of Road Trip with a Vampire
In our storage unit just outside the studio, though, I did manage to find an extra-large gray men’s sweatshirt that saidBend, Breathe, Believe.Peter would probably hate that slogan, even though the sweatshirt itself was soft and looked comfortable.
I could already picture his scowl when I presented it to him and grinned at the mental image.
Footsteps sounded above my head. That was Peter, in my bathroom. It would take me roughly thirty more minutes to scour the rest of the studio for some sweatpants that might fit him. Thirty more minutes of reprieve before I had to go home and face the situation I’d created.
Before I could get started, my phone buzzed.
Peter:I’ve finished showering.
Peter:No rush to come back.
Peter:But do you have a robe or something I can put on while I wait for my clothes to dry?
I did have a robe. A silky one I’d picked up in Singapore years ago that stopped just above my knee. It was a sexy little thing when I wore it; on Peter it would fit like a crop top. Skimpier than a crop top, actually: There was no way he’d be able to get it to close.
My cheeks burned at the image my mind supplied of him trying it on.
Zelda:My robe won’t fit you
To put it mildly.
Zelda:I’ll be up in a minute with a sweatshirt that probably will, though. Maybe wrap a towel around your waist until your jeans finish drying?
Unhelpfully, my mind supplied an image of that, too. Peter, shirtless, with one of my floral bath towels wrapped around his waist. Mine were larger than the towels we kept in the studio, but only just. It wouldn’t cover much. And would leave even less to the imagination.
Peter:Oh yes. I see the towels right here.
Peter:Just put the sweatshirt outside your bedroom door when you come back.
I almost asked him why before I realized it was because it wouldn’t be appropriate anymore for me to see him shirtless, wearing only a towel. I pushed my fist into my mouth and let out a mental scream.
Zelda:I can do that!
Zelda:See you soon.
I made a cup ofherbal tea and forced myself to drink it slowly while we waited for Peter’s clothes to finish drying. His eyes were on me as I moved about the kitchen, his gaze so heated I could feel it on me as acutely as any physical touch.
When I turned to face him, mug in hand, he was still watching me. He arranged his features into careful neutrality, crossing his legs at the ankle as modestly as my too-short towel would allow.
“So,” I began, tracing the lip of my mug with a fingertip. “What have you been doing since we left Indiana?” I made myself focus on the steam rising from my mug, on the sting of the almost-too-hot-to-touch ceramic, rather than the way Peter still looked at me. It was an awkward question for an awkward situation, with him sitting on my couch in the sweatshirt he’d only reluctantly accepted and one of my overly floral towels.
Still, though. I wanted to know.
He cleared his throat. “I went back to Boston for a while.”
“Boston?” I asked. “Is that where you lived before?”
He hesitated before answering. “The apartment I had stayed in most recently is there,” he said. The somewhat stilted way he said it suggested he didn’t think of that as being the same aslivingthere. “I had to check on some things I’d left behind.”
“Like what?” It was bold, prying into his life like this. But sitting here with him was starting to make me feel a little unhinged, and the question just slipped out.
His shrug implied he didn’t mind either way. “My plants.”
“Your plants?” I asked, surprised. “You’d been gone awhile. Were they even still alive?”
His eyes shuttered. He shook his head. “I had to throw them away.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Or to the sorrowful look on his face as he said it.
