“Yes.” Frederick removed his hand from mine. I tried to tamp down an irrational wave of disappointment at the loss of contact. “I want to see your Instagram account. You are trying to distract me with cats.”
I took a deep, steadying breath, and chanced a glance at his face. His eyes sparkled with amusement.
“It’s not working?” I managed.
“No. I like cats well enough. But I have seen cats before. I have never seen your page.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he added: “Please show it to me.”
Did vampires have magical powers that made humans want to do their bidding or something? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was one moment I was about to tell him that while he may have seen cats before, there was no way he’d seen one snowboard—and the next I was loading up my Instagram, just like he’d asked me to.
Maybe it wasn’t magical power at all. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of how it had felt, having his hand on mine.
I blinked up at the monitor, and at the goofy selfie from five years ago that served as my profile picture.
I cleared my throat. “Here it is.”
He hummed in appreciation. “How do I look through the pictures?”
“Like this,” I said, showing him how to scroll through. “I mostly post things I’ve made, but it isn’t a true art account because there are also selfies and pictures of friends mixed in.”
“Selfies?”
“Oh.” Of course he wouldn’t know that word. “Selfies are pictures you take of yourself.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Self-ies.”
He figured out how to maneuver through the photos on my Instagram quickly enough. He looked at the pictures I’d taken in Saugatuck of me, Sam, and Scott, our arms around each other as we smiled up at the camera. He took in pictures of the beach trash I’d collected to make the canvases in my bedroom—and the pictures of me, grinning like a proud fool in pigtails and flip-flops, standing in front of it.
Frederick went through the pictures, looking at each one with mild interest.
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.