My eyes went wide. “You’re cooking something for me?”
“I am.”
I didn’t know what to say. “But why?”
He shrugged. “To thank you for helping me. I see what you feed yourself, Cassie. All those snacks and ready-to-grab things you keep in the fridge.” He looked back over his shoulder at me. “It’s important to get adequate nutrition, you know.”
I stood there, heart in my throat, struck dumb at the idea that a centuries-old vampire was lecturing me on the importance of three squares a day.
No one had cooked a real meal for me since I’d left my parents’ house. Not even Sam.
“And so you’re making me—”
“Chicken soup.” He gave me a shy smile. “I might have had an ulterior motive when I asked you for your favorite meals. I also cut up some fresh fruit for you. Pineapple and kiwi. There’s a bowl of it on the counter.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my chest tight. I was an adult and had been taking care of myself for years. But the idea that he wanted to care for me . . .
It did something to me.
Trying to distract myself, I turned and sat at the kitchen table. My laptop was there, and I decided I might as well check my email while waiting for Frederick to finish the soup.
I grabbed a slice of kiwi from the bowl of fresh fruit, popping it into my mouth and enjoying the bright burst of flavor on my tongue. Humming appreciatively, I clicked the mouse button on my laptop.
The screen lit up, and—
HOW TO KISS: TEN FOOLPROOF TIPS TO HAVE YOUR PARTNER CLAMORING FOR MORE!
I stood up from the table so quickly I knocked over my chair. I rubbed my eyes with my fists, thinking maybe I’d just hallucinated the Buzzfeed headline in thirty-six-point font I’d just seen on my laptop.
I checked again, and . . .
Nope.
There was definitely a kissing-tips article pulled up on my laptop.
I was one hundred percent certain I had not Googled anything that would yield a result like this the last time I’d used my computer.
I had, however, given Frederick permission to use my laptop whenever he wanted to.
“Um. Frederick?”
“Hm?”
I bit my lip. Should I admit to what I’d just seen?
If he wanted to read internet how-to articles about kissing, he had every right to do exactly that. My flushed cheeks and racing heart needed to stay out of this situation entirely, as it had nothing to do with me.
My lack of response must have clued Frederick in to what made me jump out of my chair, because two seconds later he inserted himself like a six-foot-tall vampiric shield between me and the kitchen table. His hands shot out, gripping my upper arms like twin iron vises, cool fingertips digging into my warm flesh.
“Laptop.” His voice broke on the word. “Did you—”
No point in denying it now. “Yes.”
“Um,” he said. He licked his lips, and—look, after finding that article on the computer, it wasn’t my fault that my eyes fell reflexively to his mouth. “Listen—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said very quickly. “I said you could use my laptop and . . . it’s none of my business what you use it for. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, his fingertips flexing a little on my arms. “It’s your laptop. You don’t need my permission to use it. I’d meant to put that article away before you came home, but I got caught up in preparing the food, and . . .” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I must have forgotten.”
We stood like that for a long moment, his hands still on my arms. The soup was still bubbling away on the stove, but we both ignored it. It felt like I was supposed to say something—something to defuse the situation, probably—only I wasn’t certain what it should be.
So I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Are you . . . curious about kissing?”
Probably a stupid question, given what I’d found on my laptop. But he looked surprised all the same. His eyes snapped to mine. “What makes you think that?”
I huffed a laugh. “Your browser history.”
I could all but see the wheels in his mind turning as he cast about for how to reply. But after an interminable moment he seemed to regain some of his composure.
He stepped a little closer to me. At the heated look he gave me, all rational thought fled.
“I know about kissing, Cassie.”
He sounded genuinely affronted, and I cringed at what I’d just implied—even as my knees went weak at the implication of what he’d just said. He’d been alive—or, his equivalent of alive—for hundreds of years. He’d probably kissed hundreds of people. Maybe thousands.
In fact—he was probably really good at kissing.
“I’m sure you do,” I said, too flustered to look at his face anymore. My gaze drifted down to his ridiculous apron. This Guy Rubs His Own Meat. I flushed deeper with the awkwardness of this entire situation. How was any of this happening? “It’s just . . . well. That website.” I paused. “You can see why I might think that—”
“Right, right,” he said, impatiently, waving a dismissive hand. “I understand what it must look like. But I swear, my only reason for reading that was . . . that is to say, I just wanted to see if . . .”
He trailed off.
He dropped his grip on my arms and ran an agitated hand through his hair.
I peered at him. “You just wanted to see if . . . ?”
His expression was unreadable. “I just wanted to see if anything . . . significant . . . had changed.”
What? “You wanted to see if . . . anything had changed?”
He nodded. “Yes. It has been a while, since I . . .” He shook his head and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Over the years there have been . . . trends in this area, you see. What is desirable in a kiss in one era may not be pleasurable in another.”
Oh.
Oh.
“And you’re curious about what those trends are right now?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
I had no reason to think his curiosity about modern kissing trends was anything but purely intellectual. He was curious about a lot of things in the twenty-first century—everything ranging from urban sewage systems to Midwestern politics. But something about the way he was now steadfastly looking at everything in the room but me made my heart knock hard against my rib cage—and gave me the courage to admit something very stupid.