Page 13 of Monster in the Moonlight

Yes, fevers, among other things.

I get a whiff of his scent again. God, what is he wearing? I’ve never smelled anything like it. A cologne has never caused a physical reaction in my body, but I find my heart racing and I’m suddenly sweating for a different reason other than my raised temperature.

“Dude.” Needing distance, I slowly push his hand away and lean back against the door. “Personal space.”

“You will tell me, in detail, what’s wrong with you.” He doesn’t move away, and his tone suggests he expects an answer. Now.

Bossy. And rude.

I can only give the man so much slack for being unique—and extremely sexy. Limits are important, and I’ve reached mine.

My voice is hard when I say, “Listen, I’ve talked about my sickness enough in the past few weeks. You’ll hear about it tonight if you come to the fundraiser. My mom plans to speak before dinner.” Looking forward, I fold my hands in my lap as my closed-off body language communicatesdiscussion over. Then I add, “So, after you have that meeting with my dad, you should stick around.”

There. Dangle a little carrot to get the guy to stay.

I tell myself I’m not enticing him to the event because he’s attractive.

Even though that’s a little bit true.

The last thing I should be doing is catching feelings for someone. For obvious reasons. One being that I would just be adding another name to the list of people I’m leaving behind.

But mostly because that would make it a hundred times harder for me to accept my fate.

HANNAH

Imight die prematurely. In this car. Because of this guy who can’t drive for shit.

After the GPS repeatedly instructs us to turn around or reroute, I hit the off button.

“You have the address set for somewhere in the city twenty miles away,” I tell him as we jerk forward. “That’s why it’s not working correctly.”

Ellister just grunts, all his concentration centered on trying to accelerate, brake, and steer—all three at the same time.

Seriously, what’s his deal? His European accent could indicate that he’s not used to driving on the other side of the road like we do in the United States, but there is noother sideright now. We’re in the country for crying out loud. The open road is his.

When we get to the entrance to the lane, my dad’s black Ford Ranger is parked behind the big wooden ‘Wildwood Maple Farm’ sign.

And as we slowly veer to the left—nearly colliding with my father’s bumper—I see Dad standing on the tailgate with his shotgun in hand.

Forgetting about Ellister’s terrible driving skills, I scoff loudly and roll down the window far enough to shout, “Oh my God, Dad! You’re so dramatic. Put that thing away.”

He doesn’t even keep his gun loaded. Ever. But Ellister doesn’t know that. Dad’s going to frighten the poor guy away.

When Dad hops down to the ground, thankfully he sets the weapon in the bed of the truck before he approaches the passenger side of the car.

I can tell he’s been working hard all day. His white T-shirt is dirty and there’s a new rip in the knee of his old jeans. His short hair is wet from perspiration, and I have a sudden wave of gratefulness that I have parents who are willing to go to such great lengths to help me. In fact, willing isn’t a strong enough word—they’re desperate.

They’re trying so hard to make tonight a success.

Bending down, my dad looks past me to Ellister, his white eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t have an appointment with anyone this afternoon, and it’s not a good time.”

“You’ll want to meet with me,” Ellister counters cryptically.

“Not today. We’re too busy.”

“It has to be today. Or, tonight, if you prefer.” Reaching over, Ellister swipes one of my flyers. “I’ve been hearing about this fundraiser from Hannah here, and I think I’d like to attend. You and I can have our discussion afterward. What I have to say is very important.”

Funny, Ellister sounds different when he’s talking to my father. He isn’t confused or even bossy. He’s just very matter-of-fact. Confident.

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