“Funny,” I muttered.
“Also, just so you know, since you’re still able to eat solid foods, you’d run the coffee bar.”
Once again, I had to wonder whether Jane had overheard my thoughts and latte lust. I nodded, pointing to an area of the shop currently housing an off-putting collection of anatomically correct fertility idols. I could visualize a big, beautiful dark wood bar with a shiny brass espresso machine and comfy stools. But given Jane’s tendency to break nonbook valuables, I’d have to throw myself between her and the delicate machinery and demitasse cups. Frequently.
“A coffee bar is a good idea. You have to have a coffee bar if you’re going to have an independent bookshop. People need a reason besides books to come here.”
Jane frowned. “That makes no sense, but I’m going to trust your judgment.”
7
Try to think of your first postrelationship date as an adventure, within reason. A key rule of thumb: Fun, sexy adventures generally don’t result in emergency room visits.
—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human’s Guide to Healing
Zeb and Jolene’s wedding was exactly the sort of spectacle you’d expect from nuptials involving a giant Styrofoam iceberg and a fourteen-table buffet. And, of course, this followed a rehearsal that had been interrupted by a penis cake, brainwashing, and threats to and from the mother of the groom involving Precious Moments figurines.
According to Jane, this was actually pretty standard for Hollow weddings, with the exception of the werewolves and vampires.
The ceremony itself was held on the McClain pack compound, in the special pasture with the cow pond and the gently sloping hill. It was prettier than it sounded. And in fact, it’d taken quite a bit of fancy talking to get passage onto the compound for the human guests. And for the vampires, it had taken a signed “no-bite agreement” from both sides.
I wished the happy couple all of the luck in the world, but I was just happy to have survived their rehearsal. And I was grateful that the fistfighting and chaos prevented any first-date jitters I might’ve had. Dick was a perfect—if distracted—gentleman all night, between his wedding party duties and the fact that he’d had to drop me off early so he could assist Jane in a deprogramming rescue of the groom.
It still wasn’t the weirdest or worst first date I’d ever been on.
But now that Zeb was “un-whammied” and ready to get hitched, Dick was a devoted and attentive escort. He’d even brought me a white rose corsage to pin to my favorite floaty coral chiffon sundress, which warmed my pale skin and brought out the red tones in my hair. The dress also allowed me to wear a shawl that covered up the bite wounds and bruises on my neck, which were turning a lovely shade of purple-green. So far, Jane hadn’t questioned my above-average use of scarves and high-collared shirts in summer. But I feared that once she was no longer distracted by Zeb’s premarital woes and Mr. Wainwright’s bequest, she would notice my out-of-season accessorizing. I’d have to invest in some neck makeup, the kind strippers use to cover unsightly scars and tattoos.
I was truly a classy lady.
I was a little overdressed for the wedding—compared with some of Jolene’s relatives who were wearing flip-flops and cut-off jean shorts—and my gold-toned, high-heeled sandals kept sticking in the mud. But it was worth it to see the pleased expression on Dick’s face when he showed up at my door. He was actually wearing a vintage tuxedo printed on a T-shirt. Between that and the corsage, it was like I was being taken to prom in 1976.
There was something to be said for old-fashioned manners. When Dick opened the passenger door of his El Camino for me, he handed me in like he was helping me board a horse-drawn carriage. When I was negotiating the pasture in my heels, he held my elbow to help me keep my balance. And though his duties as groomsman kept him up front with the rest of the wedding party, he scanned the groom’s side every few minutes to check on me, to make sure I was OK. And though I knew I was perfectly capable of opening doors and paying my own bills, having someone show that sort of consideration for me made me feel safe—cherished even.
But I’d never admit this to Jane, as she and her feminist sensibilities would mock me forever.
The ceremony was lovely. Jolene was, of course, breathtakingly beautiful, because her genes aligned in a way that was completely unfair to all of the other two-legged creatures on the planet. And the bridesmaids’ dresses that Jane and her cousins were forced to wear—the “Ruffles and Dreams”—defied description . . . because describing them would be mean, so very mean.