The Multitude, стр. 19
“What do you sell?”
“Handmade dolls mostly, and teddy bears, eggshell ornaments, herbs.”
That had about as much appeal as a chick flick. “I like creative people,” he offered.
Carla slumped. Surely she’d pegged his comment as a patronizing come-on, which it had been, mostly.
He needed to elevate his game. This woman was interesting and likeable. Yes, somewhat sensitive, too—probably understandable given whatever circumstances had driven her here—but mysterious and appealing in a must know her better sort of way. Not someone to hit on as if they were beginning a mating ritual beneath the strobe lights of some club.
Unfortunately, they’d strayed into his danger zone. He’d never been good at the basic human intercourse known as small talk. He often pushed too hard and turned clumsy, saying something misconstrued, rushing things along, or not moving quick enough. The main crisis still loomed ahead when they’d run out of things to say.
He tried to rally. “I do some writing.”
That got her attention. She clasped her hands together. “Tell me more.”
“Do you like modern-day fairy tales?”
“You’re a romantic?” Carla’s obvious delight curved her lips into the perfect shape.
“I guess so.” He’d brought a smile to her face, and the entire universe brightened in response. This was how the world was supposed to turn. The cosmos demanded he make the woman happy. She was not an object of possible conquest.
“Are you published?” she asked.
“No, but honestly, that doesn’t matter to me as much as it should.”
“Why?”
“I look at writing as an escape from the here and now.”
“I suppose that beats midnight walks in the rain.”
“Wait here.” With the pounding heart of a schoolboy—because he’d never shared his writing dream with a stranger? Because she bedazzled him? Because her eyes revealed the hint of attraction? Because she cast an aura that could only be described as two parts saint and one part sinner?—he left a table spilling over with questions and rummaged through the drawer of a small counter by the stove. His rubber-banded packet of business cards peeked out from beneath a tangle of pens, paper clips, and forgotten notes scribbled on crinkled Post-its. A more important but hitherto unshared message had been printed on the cards: Brewster DeLay, writer. Words escape me.
He brought the offering to his goddess of the night. “I had these made a few weeks ago when I got a new phone number, but the poor things have to live alone in a drawer until I get published.”
She took the pack and cradled it in cupped hands as if protecting a delicate flower. “Try pulling them out and talking to them every day so they don’t feel lonely.”
“I don’t have any experience at parenting.”
“No problem. I can adopt one and take better care of it.” Carla slid a card out and slipped it into her pocket.
Oh, to join it in there.
She sipped her tea and regarded him in silence for a few moments before perking up again and sweeping her arm. “This is a nice place for a starving writer.”
“I’ve got a day job.”
“Doing what?”
“Lending money that never comes back. Every month we’re still in business is a gift from the usury gods.”
She laughed but turned somber a moment later, staring down at her tea. “I’ve been struggling with my business, too.”
“Times are tough.”
“But we’re not starving.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They settled into comfortable silence. Brewster tried to talk himself into another sip of liquefied carrots, tomatoes, frog eyes, and whatever other secret ingredients lurked inside his juice glass. He glanced at Carla for reassurance.
For the briefest moment, the fridge showed through her, as if she’d faded as translucent as a ghost.
He blinked.
She returned to normal.
“Wow,” he said.
“What?”
“I guess I’m not awake all the way yet.”
She set her cup aside. “I’m boring you.”
“Impossible.” He blinked again.
“How would the opening chapters of a Brewster DeLay novel go?”
He tried to snap out of the fog before it dissolved the mood completely. He needed to say the right thing. Yet words truly did escape him, and he could only stare into her bottomless eyes.
“Would things move quickly between your hero and heroine at the start of the story?” She settled a hand on his forearm.
The timing of this exquisite physical contact suggested a double meaning in her words. “Huh?” Great response. He was on a roll.
She removed her hand. “Or do you prefer dragging things out for the reader to savor?”
“And the writer.” Those vibrant lips, so kissable.
“I should leave then.” She pushed her chair back.
“Wait, I—”
Carla was already halfway out of the kitchen.
He raced after her and almost bowled the woman over when she stopped within an arm’s reach of the front door.
“Thanks for the shelter, and the company,” she said.
“At least let me drive you home.”
“No. That slope would be slipperier than the one we just traveled.”
She opened the door and stepped outside. The rain had stopped and a hint of moon peeked out between fast-moving streaks of clouds. “Let’s trust fate to bring us together for a second date, Brewster. I look forward to the next chapter.”
“Can we settle on something more concrete?”
“I’m afraid not. My dreams take me where they will. You were quite the pleasant surprise tonight.”
Now the street showed through her. What the hell was happening with his eyes? He groped for her arm but came up empty.
Carla had disappeared altogether.
Brewster lost his balance. He slapped a hand on the doorframe, gripping the molded wood for dear life until the world stopped swaying.
He waited. Endlessly. Fruitlessly. The universe failed to right itself and bring Carla back.
He reached into his shirt pocket where he’d slipped her placeholder, the only proof he hadn’t gone insane and imagined the entire encounter. The only lifeline to a midnight vampire who’d nibbled a bite of his heart.
Rag Thyme.
CHAPTER 9
Syracuse, New York, The morning after dreaming she met a man named Brewster
“Let the drama begin.” Carla marched into Dr. Elaine Larsson’s office but steered clear of a fiendish recliner guilty of lulling her