Until, that is, he came to a picture Sam had taken the last day of our vacation: me, on the one day that entire week that could have been accurately described as hot, wearing the only bikini I owned. It was bright pink, the bottoms covered in white daisies.
It wasn’t anything special.
As far as bikinis went it wasn’t even all that revealing.
Frederick paused his scrolling. His eyes widened, his free hand clenching into a tight fist at his side.
He looked like he was about to have an embolism. Or whatever the vampire equivalent of an embolism was.
He pointed a shaking finger at the picture.
“What are you wearing?” His jaw was clenched, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp relief.
“A bathing suit.”
He shook his head. Closed his eyes. The whirring of the refrigerator clicked on, filling the room with white noise.
“That,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp, “is not a bathing suit.”
I was about to ask what he was talking about—because yes, clearly it was a bathing suit. And then I realized he was likely used to women’s bathing suits that covered you from head to toe.
But why would he care what I wore on a beach vacation years ago?
“It is a bathing suit, Frederick.” I glanced at the image of myself, smiling at the camera. “I know it’s different from the bathing suits you’re used to, but . . .”
The rest of my words died in my throat as I took in his expression. The glint in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw . . .
I’d been wrong. He didn’t look angry.
He looked murderous.
I licked my lips, casting about for something to say, trying to make sense of his bizarre reaction. “You don’t like the picture?”
His scowl deepened. Clearly this was the understatement of the century. “No.”
A hard little knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I knew I hardly had a supermodel’s body. My curvy hips and long torso made wearing a bikini a bold choice. But did he have to be so mean about it?
“You . . . don’t think I look good in it?” As soon as I asked the question, I felt silly for caring. What did it matter if he thought I looked good or not? It didn’t matter.
Except for some reason . . . it did.
“That is not what I said,” Frederick muttered.
I frowned at him, puzzled by how he was acting. “I don’t understand.”
Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.
When Frederick opened his eyes again they were full of a fiery possessiveness that stunned me. He pushed back from his chair with so much force he nearly knocked it to the floor.
“What I said, Cassie, was that I did not like the picture.” He was facing the window that looked out over Lake Michigan now, his back to me. Which was just as well. If the look on his face was even half as heated as the tone of his voice, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Probably something Sam would lecture me for later. Possibly I’d burst into flames.
His hands were still clenched at his sides, his whole body taut as a bowstring.
“Perhaps young, beautiful women do routinely dress in next to nothing at all when they go to the beach. Perhaps my reaction to seeing you dressed this way is incredibly old-fashioned.” He paused and turned to face me. His eyes were full of torment—and something else I didn’t have words for, but which my body somehow recognized all the same. My heart sped up at the way he was looking at me now, my breathing coming short and too quick.
“I’m allowed to dress how I like, you know.”
“You are,” he conceded. “I have no right to dictate how you dress or live your life. My opinion does not—and should not—matter. But the idea of other people being able to see so much of your body . . .” He looked away again, then sighed. “Perhaps I have lived too long.”
By the time I managed to gather my wits about me enough to respond, he’d turned and stalked out of the room, leaving palpable, unbearable tension in his wake.
ELEVEN
Diary entry of Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated November 4
Cassie went to bed two hours ago.
Every time I close my eyes I can still see her—beaming up at the camera in that flimsy excuse for clothing, her hair a golden halo around her head, her body backlit and glorious.
I am filled with rage.
At the photographer for taking that picture.
At Cassie for allowing so many others to see her practically naked.
At all seven billion people on this planet who have the theoretical ability to see that picture of her with a few simple clicks of a button.
At myself.
As I sit hunched over my desk I try desperately to ignore the urgent, now-familiar ache in my loins. As Cassie sleeps innocently, unknowingly in the next room, I clutch at what remains of my sanity and of my self-control.
Because God’s thumbs—when I saw that picture of her all I could think was how badly I want Cassie to wear that “bathing suit” of hers for me.
If I had been there when it was taken, it would have been all I could do to keep myself from easing those delicate little straps of fabric off her shoulders and baring the rest of her beautiful body to my eyes.
I am a reprehensible creature.
Cassie is a young, vibrant, human woman who does not deserve to be the object of my lustful imaginings. Tomorrow, she is taking me shopping to help me pick out what she insists will be more suitable casual clothing than my current wardrobe. I expect this will involve her evaluating my body and the way it looks in various outfits. What if she needs to touch me as part of this process? I am harder than a rock just imagining it.
If I were not already damned for all eternity I certainly would be now.
I am, as Reginald might say, in way over my head.
FJF
“So. Your roommate needs a makeover, huh?” Sam fought to keep the amusement out of his voice but wasn’t managing it well. He was biting the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting a smile. “Must be urgent if you called for my help.”
The mall was crowded, full of noisy suburban teenagers and frazzled parents with kids in tow. I proposed Frederick meet me there on a Tuesday evening because I’d assumed the mall would be relatively quiet and empty midweek. But ten minutes earlier I was nearly run over by a woman pushing a stroller, and I realized a person like me who rarely went to malls had no basis for making assumptions.