My Roommate Is a Vampire(61)

Which just made things that much more awkward when the train jerked unexpectedly, one of the Cubs fans stumbled into me from behind, and I fell directly into Frederick.

“Shit!” My exclamation was muffled by his broad chest. His burgundy sweater was so soft it might as well have been made of angel kisses. I breathed in, deep and reflexively, and then immediately wished I hadn’t because, god, he smelled good.

Beyond good.

I had no idea if it was some sort of expensive cologne, or the soap he used—or if all vampires smelled this amazing if you breathed them in right at the source. All I knew was that the scent of him made me want to crawl inside his soft, fitted shirt and wrap myself up in it. Right there, on the crowded Red Line train, all the other passengers be damned.

“Cassie?” Frederick’s voice rumbled in his chest. “Are . . . are you okay?”

He sounded concerned but made no move to disentangle himself from me. Not that he could have; the wall of the train was at his back and we were packed in there like sardines. However, he could have at least tried to put some space between us.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he slowly slid his hands from where they still rested on my shoulders down to the small of my back, enveloping me in his arms in the process.

He pulled me closer.

“It isn’t safe in here,” he murmured, his breath fanning cool and sweet across the top of my head. “I will hold on to you. For your own protection, I mean. Just until we reach our destination.”

What he was saying was just an excuse to keep holding me. I knew that. But I didn’t care. I shivered, tucking myself closer to him before I could remind myself that cuddling in public with one’s vampire roommate was probably not a smart idea. But his body just felt so delicious against mine. Despite the chill he radiated, I felt nothing but heat suffusing me, excitement racing down my spine as he pulled me closer and rested his cheek against the top of my head.

The rest of the train ride simultaneously took far too long, and by passed in an instant.





FIFTEEN




    Letter from Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam to Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated November 11

My dearest Frederick,

I will not beat around the bush with you.

I have it from the Jamesons directly that you have continued to ignore my entreaties and are still returning Miss Jameson’s gifts to you unopened.

This will not stand.

I have booked passage on a direct flight from London, where I am currently on holiday, to Chicago next Tuesday evening. Given that the mail is not a speedy business, I suppose there is a chance that I will arrive in Chicago before this letter does. If that happens, so be it. Perhaps it would be better if you have no forewarning before I arrive. That way I will be able to see for myself the mess you have made of your life.

Despite all, I do love you, Frederick. In time I hope you come to understand I have only ever had your best interests at heart.

With kind regards,

Your mother,

Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam




After Frederick and I got off the train we walked towards Sam’s apartment in lockstep. Even though we sprang apart the instant the train stopped moving I could feel his touch as acutely as if we were still embracing.

Frederick drummed the fingers of his right hand rapidly against his leg—what I’d come to recognize as his most obvious nervous tell. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not sparing me so much as a sideways glance.

“I have made a list of several topics of conversation for this party,” he said, repeating himself from earlier in the evening. He slid his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and extracted a small, folded piece of paper. His hand was trembling. He must have been affected by what happened between us on the train, too—because his hands rarely shook, and he never repeated himself.

The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“You already told me that,” I said.

A car drove by us, its windows rolled down. Hip-hop music I didn’t recognize blasted on its radio.

“I already told you that?”

“You did.”

“Oh.”

Fortunately, it wasn’t far to Sam’s building. When we got there I pushed the buzzer on the front door panel to let Sam and Scott know we’d arrived. The door lock clicked a moment later, and I grabbed the door’s handle to pull it open.

Frederick put his hand on my upper arm, stopping me. The urgency of his touch cut through my thick winter coat like a knife.

“Remember? I need explicit permission from them before I can enter their home.”

I blinked, trying to understand what he was saying. “What?”

He looked away, sheepish. “Remember, when we watched Buffy, how I told you that some vampire legends are rubbish while others are legitimate? This one is legitimate.”

Then it clicked. That evening with him on the couch, when we’d discussed Buffy—shortly before I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder.

“Oh,” I said abruptly, warming at the memory. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I forgot about that.” I pointed at the button I’d just pushed. “But they unlocked it for us. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.” His eyes were on his shoes. He was embarrassed, I realized. My heart clenched. “It . . . must be a direct, explicit invitation. Could you possibly text Sam or Scott and ask them to invite me in?”