If Frederick noticed I was on the verge of dissolving into giggles he showed no sign of it. “It’s a bit silly,” he said, thoughtfully. “Though I enjoyed what I saw.”
“How accurate would you say it is?” I was probably crossing a line, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d been wondering this ever since learning he was a vampire.
He hesitated, pondering the question. “The show’s writers got a few things wrong about my kind. For example, I have no penchant for leather jackets, and I don’t burn to ash when exposed to sunlight. Additionally, my face doesn’t change in a cartoonish way before I feed. But they also managed to get a number of details correct.” He paused, then added, “Which is surprising. As far as I know no one on the writing team was a vampire.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t expected this much honesty when I’d asked the question. Was this my chance to finally get more information about him?
“What did they get right?” I prompted, unable to hide my eagerness.
“I, like Angel, do enjoy a good brooding stare.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“I’d imagine it would be hard to miss,” he conceded, his eyes twinkling.
“Anything else?”
He considered that. “I require express permission before entering someone’s home. Some vampire legends are nonsense and others are legitimate, and I have to say the show handles that detail quite well. Also, I cannot sweat, I never blush, and my heart hasn’t beat since I turned.” He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You likely noticed I had no heartbeat when we . . . when you touched my shirt at the department store.”
He might not be able to blush anymore, but at the reminder of that moment we shared outside the dressing room I was blushing more than enough for both of us.
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Yes. I . . . I noticed.”
He nodded, his eyes inscrutable as he held my gaze. “If you ever find yourself lacking in diversion you could do worse than Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Especially if you wanted to know more about me.” A pause. “Not that you would necessarily want to know more about me, of course. I am . . . merely stating a hypothetical.”
“I will,” I said, the room feeling suddenly a bit too warm. “I mean . . . I do want to know more about you.”
On screen, Buffy’s mom was lecturing her about staying out all night again, but I wasn’t paying attention to the show anymore.
* * *
I didn’t remember falling asleep on the couch beside him.
One minute Spike and the other monsters from Sunnydale were getting up to their usual antics. I’d been laughing; Frederick had been staring intently at the screen, as if he were watching an important university lecture and didn’t want to miss a word.
The next minute I was blinking up at the side of Frederick’s face from where my head rested on his shoulder.
Instinct told me to move away. Frederick would be horrified when he realized what had happened. But as consciousness slowly returned, I realized he had to be fully aware of the situation. He might be a vampire, but as far as I knew he had nerve endings in his shoulder. Surely he could feel it when a heavy object like my head was resting there.
I looked down. The careful inches he’d left between our bodies when he joined me on the couch had evaporated as I slept. Our thighs were pressed together now, knee to hip.
My hand rested lightly on his upper thigh, just above his knee. His leg was muscular and solid, his body unnaturally cool beneath my palm.
My mind raced through all options available to me. Jumping away from him and apologizing was appealing. But so was staying right where I was, admiring the sharp angle of his jaw, and the way his shirt smelled enticingly like laundry soap and cool, male skin. It felt good, being close to him like this. Exciting, yet comfortable. Our bodies fit together so perfectly.
Just as I’d decided to stay right where I was, Frederick spoke, his voice a low rumble against the top of my head I could feel more than hear.
“Your art is remarkable, Cassie.”
That was unexpected enough to make me forget about this awkward situation. I shifted away from him—and noticed the soft, resigned sigh that escaped his lips when I did.
Maybe he’d enjoyed my falling asleep on him as much as I had.
The idea thrilled me. But unpacking that would have to wait. I had too many questions about what he’d just said.
“My art?”
“Yes.” He pointed to the glass-topped coffee table beside the couch. My notebook was spread open to a page of doodles I’d made early in the planning stages for Manor House on a Lake. “Your art.”