The Single Undead Moms(27)

“Oh, I’m so—you!” I growled, my eyes narrowing at the tattooed arm in front of me. Grumpy Janitor was no less attractive in Walmart’s harsh fluorescent lighting. He smelled of iron and citrus, the earthy scents of the garage clinging to his clothes. Those two things should not have smelled good together, but God help me, they did. His dark gold hair was slicked back, revealing those devastating blue eyes. The less shaggy appearance made his face open up . . . and his face was openly hostile.

He was wearing worn jeans and black work boots with a T-shirt that read “HMH Custom Cycle Parts.” And a sneer. “You.”

And, of course, he appeared to be holding the last Avengers backpack in the store.

“So, what, now you’re runnin’ people down in the grocery store?” he demanded, throwing the backpack into his cart. “Seems like you’re always standin’ in my way somehow. What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I exclaimed. “You ran into me. Just like you ran into me at school the other night. Do you have any manners at all?”

“I’ve got plenty of manners for people that deserve ’em. What the hell are you even doin’ here?” he demanded. “Who waits till two days before school starts to buy their kid’s school supplies? I thought your type updated your school-supplies shoppin’ list progress on Pinterest and shit.”

“You’re shopping for school supplies two days before school starts!” I cried, looking pointedly at his ill-gotten backpack. His cheeks flushed pink, and I tried really hard not to find that adorable. I had to actively command my nerve endings in naughty places not to tingle. Also, why didn’t I know what to do with my hands?

And he wasn’t even my type. While Rob hadn’t been all that considerate, he’d at least put on a show of politeness every once in a while. He didn’t actively disdain people to their faces.

“Also, I deleted my Pinterest account months ago.”

“And I’m here because I bought the wrong backpack. I guess it’s against some sort of kid law to carry a Minion backpack after kindergarten,” he grumbled, pointing to a bright yellow backpack featuring one of the small yellow underlings from Despicable Me. I grimaced. Danny had been rabid about Gru and the Minions when he was in kindergarten but declared the cartoon was for “babies” just after his fifth birthday. There was no greater insult. But I would not commiserate with the Hot Cranky Janitor, no matter how acutely I felt his pain.

I wondered how old his kids were and how old they would be when they got their first tattoos. Also, I wondered how his rough hands would feel against my skin. And where was the kids’ mom that he ended up shopping for a replacement backpack at nine o’clock on a Tuesday? Was he a single parent like me?

I glanced down at his hands. He wore silver rings on several fingers. One depicting a motorcycle running along the band, another showing an elaborately carved sugar skull, another made to look like heavy chain link. But none of the pieces screamed, My baby’s mama put a ring on it.

While I was staring at his manual accessories, his eyes flicked down to my cart and suddenly went wide. I followed his line of sight to the fang-whitening kits.

He smirked at me. “Ohhh, so you’re that mom.”

“That mom?” I asked, cocking my fist on my hip.

“The woman who went nuts and got herself turned into a vampire because she was tryin’ to avoid gray hair and crow’s-feet,” he said, smirking. “Just so ya know, hair dye is cheaper.”

My jaw dropped. That’s what the other moms at school were saying about me? Had they not seen me struggle through the last year with their own eyes? And they thought it was OK to tell one another that my reasons for being turned were cosmetic? I suddenly felt no guilt at all for skipping the room-mom meeting the night before. Let some living mom without a reputation for insane vanity take care of the class parties this year.

And this guy—it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his lack of preconceived notions.

The Hollow’s gossip circuits ran in concentric socioeconomic circles that never touched. The beauty-parlor circuit ran on a totally different level from the trailer-park-kitchen circuit and even further from the country-club circuit. (Yes, Half-Moon Hollow had a country club. It doubled as a catfish farm, but we had a country club.) Without a sensationalist story in the local paper about a murder trial or some county commissioner getting caught with his pants down, the stories rarely reached all levels. It was sort of refreshing meeting someone who didn’t feel sorry for me. He wasn’t afraid of me. He was annoyed with me based on personal experience alone. And I had to respect that. But still, screw him and his comments about crow’s-feet.