“Shut up, you imbecile,” Frederick muttered. And then, in a rush, he added, “Oh, Cassie—I apologize. That . . . wasn’t directed at you.”
I stifled a laugh in my palm. “Who’s with you right now? Reginald?”
“Who else?” He sighed. He sounded exhausted. “Regrettably.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“I do hate him.” More mumbled words from Reginald that I couldn’t quite make out, followed by his raucous laughter and a loud ow! Did Frederick hit him? The idea was so ridiculous I almost laughed again.
“I see,” I said.
“Yes,” he sighed. “Alas, my options for companionship are limited.”
I toed at the floor under my feet as a wave of irrational guilt rose up in me. The bell over the donut shop’s door chimed as a loud group of customers came inside. Their laughter filled the small space as I worked up the courage to say what was on my mind.
“So. About our situation.”
A pause. “Yes?”
I took a deep breath. “The other night, after you . . . before I ran out, you said you could give me an explanation.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still want to give it to me?” My heart was pounding. Was I really doing this?
His voice was quiet, guarded, when he next spoke. “I do.” And then, after another long moment, he added, “But only if you want to hear what I have to say. I will not force myself, or my story, on you.”
I took another deep breath. “I’d like to hear it.”
“Wonderful. But, may I ask what made you change your mind?”
My breath caught at the hopeful note I heard in his voice. How should I answer that? Should I tell him the truth? That I’d been thinking about him more than was probably wise since I’d moved out—enough to start doing my own research into vampires? That the letter he sent was one of the sweetest letters I’d ever received?
No. I wasn’t ready for that.
So I gave him part of the truth. “I feel bad about running out on you without giving you a chance to explain, when it was so obvious you had more to say. And I believe you, now, when you say you won’t hurt me.”
“I will never hurt you,” he said emphatically. “Never.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat, unsure what to do with the emotion I heard in his voice.
“I believe you,” I said. “But I have a lot of questions.”
“Of course. I understand this is a lot for any human to absorb. I will be at home all evening. Would you care to come by and talk then?”
“No.” We needed a neutral meeting place. I still wasn’t completely sure what my next move would be, and I didn’t want the awesomeness of the apartment or my undeniable attraction to Frederick to sway my decision-making. Besides—if I was totally wrong about him and Frederick was playing a long game with respect to eating me, I wanted to do this in a public place. “How about Gossamer’s?”
“Gossamer’s?”
“It’s the coffee shop where I work. I’ll text you the address.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “When?”
I swallowed. No turning back now. “Tonight at eight?”
“Perfect.” A pause. “I am very much looking forward to seeing you again, Cassie.”
His voice was soft and sincere. I tried to ignore the way that made my stomach flip, but didn’t really succeed.
“Me, too,” I said, meaning it.
EIGHT
Letter from Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam to Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 29
My dearest Frederick,
I am in receipt of your most recent letter. Reading it has done nothing to assuage my concerns. Your decision to remain in Chicago and to put your safety in the hands of a wastrel like Reginald and a young human woman is unwise at best—and DANGEROUS at worst. This poor decision-making is MOST UNLIKE the Frederick I once knew!
I fear it is but further evidence that your mental state is compromised from your century of slumber.
I would be remiss in my duties as the eldest remaining member of our family—and as someone who cares for you, DESPITE our history—if I allowed you to cancel our family’s arrangement with the Jamesons. If Miss Jameson is sending you gifts I daresay that is a GOOD thing! It is a sign of her continued affection for you despite your continual rebuffs. You MUST open her gifts, and should send her some gifts IN RETURN as a sign of the long-standing goodwill between our two families.
Do not continue to vex me like this, Frederick.
Yours,
Mother
Hey Freddy
Whats with the packages
They are from Esmeralda Jameson.
I do not want them.
Shes still sending you stuff?
Yes.
I have asked her to stop, to no avail.
Mother refuses to intervene.
She thinks it’s a GOOD thing.
So you’re giving them to me?
The ones I think you’ll enjoy, yes.
One of us might as well get use out of them.
What am I going to do with a cross-stitch that says “Home Sweet Home” made from what looks smells and tastes like human entrails, Freddy
Why did you think I’d want this
I thought it matched your decor, Reginald.
Okay, that’s fair
Frederick was already at a table in the back when I arrived at Gossamer’s, taking in his surroundings with the dazed, wide-eyed wonder one might expect from a tourist visiting an exotic location halfway around the world.
He always looked good, but even by his own standards he looked like an absolute snack. A single dark lock of his hair fell beautifully over his forehead like he’d sprung fully formed from the pages of one of his Regency novels. Seeing him sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, wearing a three-piece suit that fit like he’d had it tailor-made, I began to doubt the wisdom of us meeting in public after all. Because other people were also noticing how good he looked. Two women wearing Northwestern University sweatshirts and drinking coffee at the table beside his kept stealing surreptitious glances in his direction.
A strange, unfamiliar possessiveness I neither recognized in myself nor liked swept through me.