Stakes & Stilettos - Michelle Rowen [92]
The doorbell rang again.
“Uh… delivery here for a Sarah Dearly?”
I approached the window, which I suddenly realized was blocked by heavy blinds and curtains. I braved a quick, very quick, peek outside, which very nearly melted my eyeball. A FedEx truck sat idling at the curb outside George’s house.
Delivery. For me.
Staying behind the door, I opened it a crack. “Okay.”
The delivery guy hesitated, and then I saw the edge of his tracking machine enter past the edge of the door. “Um… you’re going to have to sign for it.”
I grabbed the tracker, hastily scrawled my signature, and handed it back to him.
“Everything okay?” he asked tentatively.
“Just a really bad hangover,” I explained. Yeah. From the fiery depths of hell.
“Been there,” he said with a knowing chuckle. “Okay, here you go.”
A small bubble envelope appeared then. I grabbed it.
“Have a great day!” he said.
“Yeah, you, too.” I shut the door and stood there with my back against it for a good two minutes. Then I finally allowed myself to relax and walked over to the sofa, where I promptly collapsed.
The door opened again and a death sunbeam hit me dead on.
“Close the door!” I yelled, and then added a few choice expletives to hammer home my point.
“Sorry!” I heard George say from a sea of white-hot pain, and suddenly the room was blissfully dark again. I blinked and watched the swimming spots of color in front of my eyes begin to fade away.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“On an important assignment.” He held up two coffees in familiar Starbucks cups. “Happy Valentine’s Day. My new espresso machine broke so I had to go for reinforcements. You take yours black, right?”
“You brought me coffee?” I managed a smile at that. “You are the best.”
I added a few packets of sweetener to the dark liquid that smelled good enough to bathe in. I loved my coffee. Even though my new vampire body had a hard time handling the cream I used to like, and the caffeine didn’t actually do anything to help wake me up, I refused to give it up. Some habits die hard.
“Even after how mortifyingly awful last night went,” I said, “this coffee helps a bit this morning. Thanks, George.”
He picked up my discarded sweetener packets and stir stick. “It’s not the morning. It’s four o’clock.”
I frowned. “It’s four o’clock? In the afternoon?”
He nodded. “Thierry was here earlier. He stayed for a few hours but you didn’t wake up. I watched to make sure he didn’t try any funny business; after all, you do look fetching in that nightshirt. He decided to go to the club early. He says he’ll see you there.”
Valentine’s Day was not off to a great start. My skin was still smoking a bit from the sun exposure.
“He’s probably sick of me. I’m too much trouble.”
“And your point?” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee. “Maybe you’re worth a little extra effort.”
I looked at him. “You are really super sweet this week.”
His shoulders slumped. “I think I need to get out more. I’ve lost my edge. I’m going all soft and cushiony.” He appeared to shake it off. “How are you feeling today? Okay?”
I shrugged. “Okay is a relative term. It still hasn’t entirely sunk in that I’m going to have to avoid sunshine for the rest of my life.” My throat tightened at the thought.
I told him about my dream. He looked concerned at first, and then laughed at the end of it. “As if Thierry would ever stake you.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Of course not.”
I sighed. “It felt so real. Especially after I found out that Thierry’s responsible for the fact that there are no nightwalkers around anymore. And it’s not because he gave them five hundred dollars and a ticket to Hawaii.”
“I hadn’t heard that. Well, maybe he will stake you then.”
My eyes widened.
He grinned. “I’m kidding. Maybe I haven’t lost my edge after all.” He nodded at the coffee table where I’d thrown the envelope.