Just when she’d thought they were gearing up to have a squishy moment, Nina had a big pin at the ready to pop her bubble. “Oh, please. I’m sure you have a laundry list of reasons. Give them allll to me. Every last one.”
“Because if you’d told me, I might not have been able to ease your mind about what could go down if we don’t find some way to help you and Sam, but I could have at least lifted one burden off your designer shoulders.”
Phoebe glanced at her pink nail polish, affecting a bored look. “My designer shoulders await.”
“You don’t have fucking Alzheimer’s anymore, dingbat. You got a lot of other shit going on, but losing your brain matter ain’t one of ’em. When you become a vampire, any illness, disease, what-the-fuck-ever, is cured. You can have unprotected sex until your vajajay shrivels up, because no disease can kill you, but you can’t ever have kids. You age at the rate of ketchup dripping, so you’re gonna be thirty-three for a really long time, and just like you don’t have a beating heart or working kidneys, vampirism means whatever was eating your brain has stopped cold. But that’s just the tip of the vampire iceberg. And that’s why you should have told me.” With that, Nina turned on her heel and stormed out of the bedroom, kicking Sam’s jogging shoes on the way.
Oh. Sure. Put it all on her. Like it was her fault she had no clue she’d been cured of not just a long, agonizing, eventual death, but of, say, her period.
Phoebe’s head shot up.
Hold up.
No more tampon shopping + getting her deposit back on the cremation she’d purchased + no more expensive neurological tests + the spared expense of anti-aging creams = jackpot, bitch! And maybe a quick vacay somewhere dark and sunless.
Score!
This was epic. Everything had changed in just a matter of seconds. With just one fang. God, the tears she’d silently wept each night since her diagnosis for the things she was destined to never experience.
Like Paris during fashion week. Venice in a gondola on a warm Italian evening. Buying her own home. A vegetable garden with fat, ripe tomatoes she’d make toasted cheese sandwiches with. Learning to sew. True love. Marriage. Wrinkles. Rocking chairs on a big front porch. Sitting in the buttery sunshine when she was seventy.
That was all gone now. Just gone—well, most of it anyway. Because of Nina. In essence, Nina had saved her from a death so callous and cruel, she couldn’t fathom finding the right words to thank her.
“Phoebe?”
She turned to find Sam, strong, tall, and so breathtakingly handsome, in the doorway; if air still escaped her lungs, it would have done so on a wistful sigh.
Call it impulse or the rush of life that swelled through her literally undead body, or just call it plain old lust, Phoebe threw herself at him and planted a kiss on the lips that, when she hadn’t been fearing for their lives, she couldn’t stop thinking about since she’d found out they were straight.
And they were worthy of every sinful moment she’d dedicated to them. Soft but firm, lush and cool. Nom-nom.
Yet, the kiss that was supposed to be a simple peck, turned to something else altogether when Sam’s tongue scoured the inside of her mouth, forcing her own tongue to taste his until she thought she’d faint from the delicious silky slide. The shiver he evoked from her body from the mere press of his lips was hot and hard, making her shudder against him, melt into him, arch her back with an almost feline growl. Her fingers clenched in surprise just as her legs turned to jelly.
And there it was.
The kind of kiss she’d sought for thirty-three years of her life, and until these last moments, thought she’d never have the chance to experience.
The kind of kiss that had Whitney Houston singing while Boyz II Men and 98 Degrees did the backup vocals in her head. The brand of kiss that left burning mental images of freshly fallen snow and windswept fields of wildflowers floating around in her brain.
There were clouds, too, white and puffy, drifting beneath their bottoms like cushiony chairs. Angels waved and smiled their fond approval at them as they floated by, still attached by their needy lips.
Harps played and rainbows appeared like a long stretch of colorful hills just waiting for her to skip to the end of them on winged feet.
The only thing missing was a unicorn.
CHAPTER
9
Oh. But wait. There it was. The unicorn. Just past the rainbow hills and windswept fields of multicolored flowers, his long, lovely mane lifting in the warm breeze, his majestic posture proud and regal.
“Phoebe?” Sam said against her lips, putting his hands on her forearms, forearms that had suspiciously crept up around his neck.
“Don’t speak,” she ordered in a dreamy state, letting her eyes slide closed again to recapture the bliss of the unicorn and harps. Her fingers twisted in his hair, the silken strands soft against her skin. She pulled his lips back toward hers, desperate for him to consume her, relishing the idea of his tongue in her mouth again.
It was in that desperate achy need that she made a decision.
Just this once, she was going to live in the moment—celebrate the joy of simply being alive.
Or undead alive. Whatever. Her thoughts were reckless and impulsive and headed to a place she didn’t usually go without some cautionary thinking. Yet, this gift was to be celebrated—and celebrate she would. If Sam would just break out the party hats and horns with her …
But Sam lifted one corner of his mouth from hers, making her release a forbidden moan. Clearly, he wanted to shroud that moment in stupid morality and gentlemanly behavior. “If I don’t speak, you won’t be able to hear my misgivings.”
She tamped down her inward groan, wanting to appreciate his integrity but hoping she could persuade him to join her in Inner Slutville where, if he’d just dip his toe in, the water was just fine. “Then that’s a perfect reason not to speak.”
“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t voice those to you, Phoebe?”
What kind of whore would she be if she just steamrolled his mouth shut with her lips and had her way with him?
And hey. Hang on there. Weren’t his lax morals the reason he was a vampire to begin with? “Who said you have to be a gentleman?” she teased, pressing her hips to his and fighting the hot moan of need she experienced when she realized he was as aroused as she was. The fierce ridge of his cock drove against her, then pulled away, making her fight a squirm of anticipation.
“I said.” Yet, Sam’s palms continued to caress circles over her spine, making her arch against the hard shelter of his chest while she reveled in the magnified sensation of tingles he was creating.
His touch burned her, though his fingers were cool. His lips set hers on fire, though they were as chilled as the rest of him, and even though her senses were technically dead, the slightest graze of his flesh against hers felt like a million fingers touching her. It was the most intense brush of skin on skin she’d ever encountered. Her breasts swelled against his chest, unbearably achy. “What do you know?”
Sam’s hands slid down her back, grazing her ass before returning to rest at her waist and tighten into a fist of restraint. “I know that you’re experiencing an adrenaline rush. Your adrenal gland is releasing epinephrine—it’s a fight-or-flight reaction to finding out you no longer have Alzheimer’s.”
She let her lips move away from his for a moment and cocked her eyebrow upward. “Thank God you explained the science of that. I don’t know that I would have ever vampire slept again if you didn’t tell me why and how my adrenal glands were in overdrive. It completely adds to the atmosphere, too.”
“Phoebe,” Sam’s silken tones chastised. “I think you know what I’m trying to say here. The relief mixed with joy over what was technically a cure for your Alzheimer’s is overruling your common sense and clouding your judgment.”
“Who said kissing you means I have no common sense?” Or good judgment? What woman who was sane, straight, and possessed even half a hormone w
ouldn’t want to kiss Sam McLean? That was good womanly judgment, if you asked her hormones.
Sam’s chuckle was deep and rumbly. “Oh, no. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Kissing me is totally common sense–filled. I’m a hot nerd. What I’m saying is I get the impression you’re not normally the kind of woman who throws caution to the wind.”
Caution was for whiners. Only the truly brave threw it to the wind. “And you deduced this how?”
Sam tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “You’ve got a calendar the size of one full wall in your bedroom, filled with what I’m going to assume is your client appointments. Oh, and booyah for nailing a gig with Master Z. He’s pretty big in the rap world.” He held his knuckle up for her to knock with hers.
She complied. “If you had any idea how hard he was to please, you’d know it was the coup of the millennium. All he does is complain about how he won’t wear this color or that. The women in his videos can’t be anything less than a C cup because he claims he has a good eye for hooters and he’ll know if I’ve conned him with a double B. He’s impossible, but he knows a lot of people in the industry. I’m not at the point in my career where people are knocking down my door to do video shoots or red-carpet events. Not yet.”
Sam’s head bobbed, and his finger lifted her chin in a gesture so tender she melted all over again. “I noted the importance of Master Z by the key you made along the side of the calendar. I’m guessing the red asterisks are the upper echelon of your clientele? And I also noted you have stacks of sticky notes lined up by color to within an inch of their lives on your desk, and your pens are assembled in that holder of yours by height. The pillows on your bed are so perfectly centered, I’d bet if I measured them, they’d have equal distance between them. And don’t get me started on your closet. Those are all signs of someone who likes to plan and/or have a plan. Someone who likes to know where everything is at any given time—always. Not someone who acts on impulse and sleeps with a man she just met—even if he is a hot nerd.” He grinned down at her, though his arms remained around her waist.
He made it sound so tawdry, as though he’d never considered tawdry. Hello. Decomposed one-night stand. Phoebe planted her hands on her hips and eyeballed him. “So, Mr. Observant, are you some kind of shrink, too? Wait, I know, maybe you’re a profiler on the side, huh, bug dude?” she teased, barely noticing the stiffening of Sam’s muscles.
His eyes shuttered. “Bug dudes are very observant because we observe bug behavior.”
“What were you doing in my bedroom?”
“Mark offered to let me use your eye-makeup remover.”
It was true. She did like to know where she was at. She had to know where she was at in order to keep her business running smoothly. Unhappy clients could be unhappy monsters. She’d learned that much as she began to deal with C-list celebrities. She also liked order and cleanliness and soap operas and the color pink.
So what?
That didn’t mean she couldn’t let loose every once in a while. And Sam had just become her let-loose pet project. “I don’t get the hesitation? I don’t want to bring up a bad memory, but wasn’t it you who was well on his way to a one-night stand when this all happened?”
He rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek; a small tic pulsed in his jaw. “And look how that turned out. I’m now a vampire, and I turned you into a vampire, too. And our lives are decidedly at risk because of it. One-night stands aren’t exactly my strong suit. Who knows the kind of damage I could create if I actually go through with it? Besides, who said if anything happens between us it’ll just be a one-night stand? I’d be offended if I had a leg and some past performances to stand on.”
Phoebe smiled up at him, knowing if her heart still could, it would skip. Even though her next words were going to have an extra put-out tone to them, she was secretly pleased he hadn’t taken her up on her offer now that she’d had time to cool off. And he’d made a point. A good one. “So you’re saying you won’t sleep with me?”
“Not tonight and not with a houseful of people who have bionic hearing. What I am saying is, I like you. I’m attracted to you. I thought, even as I was on the floor like some pathetic broken toy at OOPS, that you were very attractive—”
“But the first thing you laid eyes on was what was under my skirt.”
“No. That was the second,” he reminded with a husky chuckle.
“Technicalities.”
“Either way, once I was past the Stephen King–like properties of the evening’s events, I found you very physically appealing. There’s nothing hotter than a woman who has the balls to tell someone as scary as Nina off—not to mention, you can teleport. That makes you ridiculously hot.”
She latched on to the front of his black turtleneck sweater, opting to give him one last test. “Ditto. So let’s do this.”
“Uh, no.” He dropped his hands from her waist and took a step back.
Phoebe rolled her eyes, planting her hands on her hips. “Do women throw themselves at you like this every day, Sam? Is this old hat for hot nerds? Are entomologists all the rage? What’s your hang-up?”
“No. Women don’t throw themselves at me every day. Only once a week or so. Sometimes twice, but that’s the exception, not the rule.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose in displeasure, pressing her hands to the edge of her sweater and smoothing it. “See. Me. Laugh.”
Sam jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze serious. “Here’s the hang-up. I really want to get to know you, Phoebe. I don’t want to take advantage of you because we’re in a life-or-death situation or because you’re very vulnerable right now.”
“You mean, even though we might die, and I could be the very last jar of goodies you get to raid, you still want to be a gentleman?”
“I do.”
Big, girlie sigh. “Fine,” she said with enough petulance to make Sam laugh.
He wiggled an eyebrow in the direction of the bench sitting under his bedroom window. “So, let’s do it.”
“Now?”
“You have anything better to do?”
“All right. What do you want to know about Phoebe Reynolds? Because I gotta tell you, I’m so boring, I’m like watching paint dry.”
Sam took her hand and led her to a bench sitting just under his bedroom window. He patted a forest green pillow and smiled that delicious smile to encourage her to settle in. “Sit. We have a couple of hours before vampire sleep turns us into comatose vegetables. Let’s talk. Life. Music. How old you were when you first shaved your legs.”
Phoebe’s stomach jolted when she sat on the pillow and pulled her legs up under her chin. “Fourteen, and it was like begging the Catholic Church for an exorcism. My mom was a tough nut to crack. She wasn’t thrilled about me growing up.”
“But you appear to have a healthy respect for her.”
Phoebe cocked her head at him when she pulled the rubber band from her hair to let it flow loose to the tops of her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it and gave it a shake. “How would you know?”
“The pictures on your nightstand of the two of you. The birthday card from her that you framed. You looked happy in those pictures. You didn’t look like your inner teenager was still grudging.”
Phoebe’s smile was of genuine love, making her forget how powerful Sam’s observations were. “I’m not. My mom was so much great. I miss her every single day.”
“How did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She was going to die of exactly what I was doomed for, but she had a heart attack first.” Phoebe’s eyes shifted to the floor at the memory.
“You’ve had a pretty shitty lot lately, haven’t you, Phoebe Reynolds?” Sam reached down and trailed a finger over her cheekbone, and she found herself allowing him to comfort her.
He plunked down next to her, taking her hand in his once more and smiling that infectious grin. “So, one of the most important things in life. Chocolate, vanilla, or stra
wberry?”
His question drew a quirk of a smile to her lips. “Ice cream?”
“Yep.”
“What difference does it make? We can’t eat it anymore anyway.”
“I’m a firm believer in the ice cream theory.”
“The ice cream theory …”
“The flavor you choose can be very telling. It will show me all your hidden agendas,” he said, a somber tone to his voice, though his face hid a grin in the shadows of the lights peeking in from his window.
“Well, hell. Now I’m afraid if I pick strawberry, it means I’m some kind of nymphomaniac.”
“It does.”
Phoebe giggled, enjoying the firm caress of his fingers entwined with hers. “Then it’s chocolate. Though, you wouldn’t have known that by the way I steamrolled you like you were a Jimmy Choo vendor.”
Sam frowned. “Damn.”
“What?”
“Chocolate means you’re a repressed serial killer.”
Her head fell back on her shoulders in a snort of more laughter. “Then I guess Nina better watch herself.”
“I’m a vanilla fan, personally.”
“That’s why we’re here on this bench instead of in your bed, Sam McLean,” she joked, not at all embarrassed that he’d turned down her invitation to rock his sheets. In fact, the more she adjusted to his rejection, the better it felt. And while his chivalry could all be an act, he’d prevented her from doing something out of character, and for that, she was grateful.
He tipped her chin up and smiled. “Broccoli or green beans?”
“There’s a vegetable theory, too?”
“Oh, yeah. And it’s even more important than the ice cream theory.”
“If I choose broccoli, does that mean I was bullied in high school?”
“No. It means you’re hotter than I thought you were.”
Accidentally Dead, Again Page 15
