“But you said you weren’t sure about it,” he protested.
I took the shot glass out of his hand and pressed it to his lips.
“That’s not bad,” he said.
“No nausea?”
“Can I have another?”
“Try this one,” I said. “It’s like barbecue sauce. Honey, liquid smoke, pork stock, and other by-products you may not want to know about.”
“There’s pig’s blood in here?” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“How is it different from drinking human blood?” I asked. “Besides, if you ate bacon in life, it’s a little hypocritical to turn your nose up at pig’s blood now.”
“Oh,” he said, sighing, after knocking back the shot. “Now I just really miss ribs.”
“My blender cannot handle rib bones,” I told him.
“This,” he informed me, lifting the barbecue sauce, “is awesome. If you could bottle this, you would kick the crap out of Paul Newman and his salad dressings.”
“Paul Newman’s dead,” I reminded him, narrowing my eyes. “Unless there’s something you and the vampire community have to explain to me.”
“That’s not nice,” he said. “You could be the first celebrity chef for vampires, like Rachael Ray or, if Mr. Gamling keeps giving you those dumplin’s, that Paula Deen chick.”
“Thank you for reminding me why being nice to you is never a good idea, you ass.”
He leaned in close, his brown eyes twinkling. “Oh, come on, Tess, I’m sorry. You can be as nice to me and my ass as you want.”
“I’m not touching that one.”
He smirked. “You know you want to.”
“Do you want to go back to cricket warfare again? Because I’m feeling a trip to the bait shop coming on.”
He shuddered, giving me the vampire puppy-dog eyes, which was just disturbing. “Please, ma’am, don’t unleash your biblical plagues of bitchery upon my household.”
I laughed, shoving at his shoulder. He was so close, and my arm was pulled flush against his chest. I closed my eyes, enjoying the vibrations from his laughter traveling from his chest through my fingertips, all the way up my arm to my heart. It was like feeling the pulse he no longer had. I felt my lips part in a smile so wide my cheeks ached. This wouldn’t do. I couldn’t let him see that smile and know what a big part he played in it. I dipped my head, glancing down at the feet so closely arranged we could have been dancing. My forehead brushed against his shoulder. He tucked his fingertips under my chin and tilted my head toward his. His eyes were hooded and dark and stared right through me. His lips looked so soft, even turned into that slightly mocking grin he was giving me. I could stand up on my tippy-toes, or maybe on a chair, and kiss him so easily.
But I didn’t.
Smiling awkwardly, I stepped away and took a deep breath. He wasn’t ready. And no matter how loudly my raging hormones screamed, You moron, do you realize how long it’s been since anyone has gone near your forbidden zones? I couldn’t be the one to decide that he was over his ex-wife.
He was going to have to make the first move. And considering the fact that I was standing immediately lip-adjacent and he didn’t give me a 20 percent lean-in, I didn’t think he was going to be doing that anytime soon.
“So, the barbecue sauce, huh?”
He nodded, taking a step back. “That’s your winner.”
—
The nights went by faster than I imagined they could. We focused our efforts on perfecting the barbecue sauce. We experimented with cooking times, temperatures, spices, sauce bases, until Sam pronounced it almost as good as eating real food when he was human. Sam and I visited the restaurant and discussed the changes he would make, including improvements to the apartment upstairs. My calendar filled up with closings with the Realtor, appointments with the bank, and drinks with the girls. Before I knew it, we were bumping down the country road toward town in Sam’s truck, with our contest entry carefully balanced on my lap.
“Don’t be nervous,” Sam told me.
“Can’t help it,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat rest. “There’s a reason I hide in a kitchen all day. I’m not good with crowds.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Liar.” I sighed.
Sam’s truck smelled nice, like Murphy’s Oil Soap and piña colada air freshener. This was a very different vampire from the one I’d been pranking. He was relaxed, if not quite happy, as he hummed along to George Strait. He actually smiled at me when he emerged from the basement earlier and complimented me on the little red sweater I’d paired with jeans. It felt natural driving along with him like this, almost like a date, if one’s first date involved hauling several servings of synthetic blood around in a warmer.
Sam pulled the truck to a stop in front of an old bank building, near Howlin’ Hank’s. While I stared, bewildered by the sheer number of cars parked in front of the darkened buildings, he pulled me out of the truck and helped me with our parcels.
While parents hauled sunburned, exhausted children to their cars, the “night shift” for Burley Days was arriving in droves. The town square was bustling with laughing humans and vampires toting an odd assortment of cheap stuffed animals. Red, white, and blue twinkle lights hung from every stationary object, giving the square a festive glow. Gleeful screams echoed over the insistent country and western music pumped over the PA system.
We carried our sauce samples in a foam chest lined with warming gel packs. As we walked, I noticed several people watching Sam, flashes of recognition flitting across their faces before they averted their eyes. They were human, I could tell by their tans, and they refused to make eye contact. They didn’t exactly turn their backs, but they definitely weren’t giving him manly fist bumps. Were these people Sam’s friends and clients before he was turned? What had Lindy said to them that would make them retreat this way? My irritation with Sam’s ex ratcheted up to “bitch-slap on sight” levels.
When Sam took my hand to lead me through the crowd gathered in front of the dunking booth, I gave his a little squeeze. He dropped it as if I’d burned him, but I tried not to take it personally. Earlier head patting aside, it must have been strange to have me touching him after I’d done everything in my power to injure him.
We spotted the garish black and red Faux Type O booth near the center of the square. Two tall black columns flanked a long red-swathed table. A black banner proclaimed Half-Moon Hollow’s historic participation in the first-ever Bloody Bake-Off. A handful of people, human and vampire alike, were lined up at the registration point, holding various containers. One woman, with heavy circles under her eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips, seemed to be holding a pitcher of bloodred margaritas. She actually had me worried. But we registered our entry, which we were calling “Blood Creek Barbecue Sauce,” with little incident. A registration number kept our entry anonymous and prevented bias from the judges. That made me feel a bit guilty, considering that Jane had helped me taste-test. But she’d never tasted the final sauce. Heck, the fact that she’d tasted my lesser efforts would probably keep her from guessing which one was mine.
We were given a goodie bag courtesy of the local Council office, just for participating. The contents included a sample of Solar Shield SPF 500 Sunblock, iron supplements, a six-pack of Faux Type O, and a to-go-sized container of Razor Wire Fang Floss.
“I’m just going to let you hold on to that,” I said, handing the tote to Sam.
“Probably for the best,” he said, peering into the bag. “They make mouthwash just for vampires?”
“You have so much to learn about your own culture,” I said.
“A bag full of blood and dental supplies is culture?”
“It’s some culture. Speaking of which, what do we do now?” I asked. “We’ve got an hour before the results are announced.”
“Now we explore the magic and mystery of Burley Days.”
Sam led me through the rows of food vendors and rigged games and a particularly bewildering antiques mall. We stopped in front of a table where a dozen grown men were participating in a Frito-Pie-eating contest. I watched in horror as they dove face-first into a combination of corn chips, chili, and cheese, lapping it up like ravenous dogs.
He chuckled, dragging me away from the carnage. “This must be hell for you.”
“No, but it will be when the first ‘loser’ sicks up his efforts,” I said, shuddering. “Haven’t you people ever heard of fruit pies?”
“No,” he said, laughing harder. “I meant there are no fancy food emporiums, no Apple Stores, only one Starbucks within a fifty-mile radius. Growin’ up around that sort of thing, you probably take it for granted until you end up in a place like this.”
“I didn’t grow up around it.” I scoffed. “I grew up in Hader’s Knob, Missouri. Population five thousand thirty-four.”
He frowned as he seemed to mentally review all of the conversations we’d had over the last few nights. “I just assumed.”
“You never asked,” I said, smirking. “It wasn’t the greatest place to call home. The liquor stores and the pawn shops were the only businesses that did well.”
“Do you ever go home to visit?”
I shrugged. “No reason to. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was in college. Chef Gamling was the one who drove me home from school to help me arrange my parents’ funeral. He was the one who helped me figure out how to handle their mess of an estate. And he’s right here in the Hollow, so where else would I go?”
“So you’re a small-town girl,” he said, eyeing me speculatively. “Bein’ a small-town boy myself—Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, thank you very much—I can appreciate that. How’d you end up in Chicago?”