Thirteen
Edward nearly drove
into the pillar in the underground parking garage (it came out of
nowhere!), so he stomped the brake and tried to calm down.
You can’t meet up with Rachael if you’re found
mangled in the Hilton parking garage with the front of your car
squashed in like an accordion. So get a grip,
shithead!
He tried to calm
down, but wonder of wonders, a space right next to the elevators
had just opened up (it was possible the driver saw him racing into
the garage and narrowly missing a fiery death, and got the hell
out), so he pounced on it. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror,
tried (and failed) to straighten his messy bangs, popped a breath
mint, and then shoved his shoulder against the door so hard it went
immediately numb.
Moron! You have to OPEN the car door to get
out!
Right.
So he
did.
On the elevator
leading to street level, he tortured himself with the most likely
scenarios. 1) Rachael had been a hologram. 2) Rachael got off on
stringing geeks along and had no plans to see him again, ever. 3)
Rachael had been run down like a squirrel in a senseless pedestrian
vs. dirt bike collision. 4) Rachael had been too nice to say no to
his face, so she said yes while having no intention of meeting him.
5) Rachael was a robot.
He had agonized over
what to wear. He had no idea how long he would be spying for Boo,
and he hated shopping even more than packing, so he hadn’t brought
much more than a suitcase full of clothes. Rattled and wearing
nothing but his Homer Simpson boxers, he called
Gregory.
“Whoa, whoa, slow
down. You . . . wait. You have a date?”
“Yeah.”
“You do.”
“Yeah.”
“But you haven’t even
been out there a week.”
“Did I call you for a
timeline? No, Gregory, I didn’t. And if I wanted someone to shatter
my dating self-esteem I would have called Boo’s cell. So, nice
restaurant. Seafood restaurant in downtown
Minneapolis.”
“You’re calling me
while you’re wearing your Simpsons underpants, aren’t
you?”
“Dude, do you really
want me to answer? Because I will. And nobody says underpants anymore. And if you don’t help me, I’ll
take a picture of Homer and me and send it to your phone about
fifty times. A day!”
It wasn’t easy to
threaten or cow a vampire, but Edward thought it had gone nicely.
He was wearing tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt, and his
leather jacket. Loafers, with his lucky Yoda socks.
Thank God I splurged on the extra-strength
deodorant.
He stepped out of the
elevator, took a moment to get his bearings, and then spotted her
chatting with the hostess by the entrance. “Oh thank God, thank
God,” he murmured to himself.
Rachael turned,
almost like she’d heard him (which she couldn’t; too much
background noise), and smiled. She had a great smile. And a
wonderful dentist; he’d never seen teeth so straight and
white.
“Did you think I
wasn’t going to come?” she asked as he galloped to her side.
“Shame, shame.”
“Well, you did seem a
little too good to be true,” he admitted.
“I’d never stand you
up. I know what it’s like and I’d never do it. Not even to someone
I didn’t want to get to know.”
He stared at her.
“What colossal dumb shit bailed on a date with you? And did you suggest they get sterilized so
they don’t muck up the gene pool any worse than it is? Because the
thought of someone that dumb just roaming the earth at will is
terrifying.”
“Eugenics never came
up,” she said dryly. “Besides, it was never going to work. At
times, I’ve got a terrible temper.”
“You?” Had she even
raised her voice yet? “You seem pretty laid back.” No. That wasn’t
quite right. Calm, maybe. And not easily spooked, or excited. “Hard
to imagine you hulking out.”
“It does happen on
occasion.” She tipped him a wink. “Why, I’ve been known to
eat men who stand me up.”
He stared again. And
again. The hostess was talking to him. Why was the hostess bugging
him? Was she taking a restaurant survey? Why wouldn’t she leave
them alone? Was she canvassing for UNICEF? Time and place, lady,
time and place. Jesus!
“Do you have a
reservation, sir?”
Sure. He was
positive. Absolutely they had a reservation. Table for two. Yep.
Now if he could only remember his last name . . .
Eureka! “Batley,
table for two, please.”
“You’ve got to stop
this,” Rachael mock-scolded. “You’re going to turn my head with all
the lovely attention.”
He was very,
very tempted to kiss her for that
statement alone. It seemed amazing but true: Rachael-the-goddess
found flop sweat, the shakes, major horniness, and anxiety
endearing.
She’d turned and
followed the hostess, and he in turn followed Rachael. He tried,
tried—tried—to be a gentleman, but she
was just too slammin’. Nope, slammin’ didn’t do her justice: she
was slammin’ squared. No, cubed!
She was wearing one
of those dresses that looked like a big long shirt, in greenish
blue, no stockings. Her rich brown hair hung at shoulder length,
with a kind of ripple through it, not quite a curl. Some kind of
black shoes. What did women call shoes that weren’t high heels?
Anyway, she was wearing black shoes that weren’t high
heels.
Then they were being
seated and examining the menu. “Hmmmm. This is not bad at all. What
are you thinking?”
“That it’s so great
to see you,” he replied fervently.
She smiled. “What are
you thinking of ordering?”
“Oh.” He immediately
felt like a horse’s ass, but Rachael didn’t seem to mind (again!).
“Uh . . .” He was so keyed up, he figured everything would taste
like wet napkins no matter what he ordered, so he just asked for a
bowl of clam chowder.
“Cheap date,” she
teased.
“Yeah, but it’s my
date. I asked you out.” After a little
prompting, he reminded himself. “It’s my treat, Rachael,
honest. Please order whatever you want.”
“Priiicey. Though I
think that’s a wonderful touch.” She
pointed and he turned. Dozens of FedEx shipping labels were taped
over the oyster bar, proving the seafood in question hadn’t been on
the premises longer than forty-eight hours.
“It is, huh? Guess
that’s why they gouge us. Ten bucks for asparagus, nine bucks for
mushrooms . . .”
“What?”
“Okay, I might have
seen a flash of the temper you were talking about earlier because
you said that really, really loudly.”
“Nine bucks? The
lobster I understand. The clam chowder I—Jesus! Forty bucks for
halibut? Do we get to adopt it and take it home and raise it and
send it to an Ivy League college?” She glared as the waitress
bounced up to the table, all smiles and sleek hair and neatly
pressed pants and apron. “We’re from Boston. Boston! And you’re way
overcharging us.” She turned back to him. “Edward, you don’t have
to pay, truly. Please let me treat you.”
“No way. I’m loaded,
baby. I’m a rich retiree. Can’t you tell?”
“The Yoda socks gave
it away,” she replied, rolling her eyes. He was astounded. Rachael
had, among her many, many, many attributes, a fine eye for
detail.
“Did you have any
questions about our menu, miss?”
“Sooooo many
questions. How does your boss sleep at night, that would be
question number one. And can I get the scallops without the
tortilla chips? That would be question number two.” Then she
coughed, and he could swear she seemed ashamed, or embarrassed.
“And I’m sorry about greeting you like I did. I’m homesick and I’m
being quite the bitch about it.”
“Rachael!
Nuh-uh!”
“Don’t listen to
him,” she told the bemused waitress. “He’s madly in lust. But I do
apologize. Although I have to warn you, all the food you bring us
had better be spectacular.”
“Don’t make her
angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.”
“You
shush.”
They ordered, the
waitress left, and when Rachael gave him the full force of her dark
gaze, he knew that if he never saw her again after that night, he
would always, always think of her.
“A retired man of
leisure . . . how nice for you. What are you, really?”
Good question. Sidekick? Besotted date? IT guy? Tourist?
Vamp stalker? All of the above? None of the
above?
“I took a leave of
absence from Grate and Tate—”
“Not the Boston
firm!”
“Uh, yeah.” He
mentally braced himself for, Oh. You’re an
accountant? Um. How exciting. No, really. Um, I think the
diarrhea’s coming back so let’s just hang it up for tonight,
okay?
“I’m an accountant,
too!
He instantly rewrote
the dialogue in his head: I think accountants
are the hottest thing on the planet! I continually fantasize about
being spanked by an accountant! I wish you would spank me while
filing my tax return! Mmmm . . . Mama likey . .
.
“Are you all right?”
she asked.
Go away, boner! No one hit your buzzer. “Oh, fine.
I’m fine.”
“You’re between
jobs?” she asked with genuine interest (he was pretty
sure).
“No, but I’ve been
working since I was sixteen, Grate and Tate pay well and have super
bennies, and I have no life, so I’ve got five figures in savings. I
was able to take a leave of absence.”
“Hard to
believe.”
“I’m frugal,
baby.”
“I meant about having
no life. You seem quite lively to me,”
she teased.
He could feel the
blood rush to his face. “Thanks.” Then he cleared his throat to try
to cover for his hot face and said, “So what are you gonna
get?”
“Laid, I hope,” she
said, and that was when he spilled his water all over
himself.