The Single Undead Moms(51)

“You tell me first,” he countered.

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“I was hoping for something a little more revealing when you used that phrase for the first time,” he said. When I lifted an eyebrow, he took a small leather notebook out of his pocket and handed me a piece of paper. “OK, we’ll write them down. And then we’ll exchange them.”

“OK.” I dug a few things from my giant mom bag at my feet—toy trucks, lip balm, an extra phone charger, old contact solution—to find a pen.

“Is that purse like the TARDIS, bigger on the inside?” he asked as I dropped the kid debris onto the porch floor.

“Oh, if I was a bigger nerd, that would be so sexy,” I told him, making him do the eyebrow thing again.

“That is a Star Wars LEGO man,” he said, nodding toward the action figure I’d unearthed from my purse.

“Nice try.” I scribbled my Last Supper menu on the scrap of paper. It took me twice as long as his, which I made a grab for. He snatched the paper out of reach and shook his head.

“Same time,” he reminded me, and we slowly exchanged papers. His eyes bugged out as he read down the list. “Roast turkey, dressing, hash brown casserole, green beans amandine, honey-glazed ham, potatoes au gratin, deviled eggs, pot roast, buttered carrots, marshmallow Peeps (purple), pumpkin pie, red velvet cake, an entire sixteen-piece box of Vosges Wink of the Rabbit truffles, and half a bottle of Chardonnay. Good grief, woman!”

“I went off several of my medications just so I would have the appetite to eat all of that,” I said proudly.

“It’s just so much food,” he said.

“I knew I was going to be missing holiday meals for the rest of my life, so I was trying to eat them all at once. I had to special-order the Peeps from a seasonal candy site on the Internet.”

Finn was still staring at me. I shrugged and read from his paper. “A porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, and a slice of chocolate cake? That’s kind of boring.”

“I’m a man of simple tastes. I’m still trying to imagine you eating all that,” he said. “You’re so tiny.”

I laughed, a genuine, tinkling amused note that made him join in. I let that hang in the air between us, because I was about to say something he would not enjoy as much. “Look, I don’t need you to guide me or mentor me or anything like that. I have a support system and, if I want, a support group, Lord help me. I’m doing just fine. Besides, I’m pretty sure the Council told you to stay away. Dick and Jane both have some . . . not nice things to say about you. They probably wouldn’t be very happy with me for talking to you.”

“Do you always do what you’re told?” he asked.

“When it involves being told what to do by scary older vampires, yes.”

“Oh, we’re going to have some fun, you and I,” he told me. He leaned close, and—thinking he was going to kiss me on the mouth—I ducked my head. Unfortunately, he had leaned at the last minute to kiss my cheek, and my feint had put my mouth on a direct path with his. It was just a peck, really, a friendly, soft press of his lips against mine.

Holy hell.

Even though it only lasted the length of the heartbeat I no longer had, I felt it all the way down to my toes. He tasted smooth, like old wine, and seeped slowly into my senses. It was sliding slowly under cool, crisp sheets, soothing every single cell of my body. Just as the spicy flavor of his kiss had settled into my mouth, I pulled away. I pressed my fingers to my lips and fought the urge to giggle hysterically.

“Right,” I said, clearing my throat while I wobbled to my feet. “Not impressive at all.”

But instead of being insulted by my critique, he simply grinned wickedly as I backed toward my door.

“Some fun,” he said again.


It was at times like these—counting out individual adhesive glitter letters in front of a giant display at Copy Shack—that I wondered whether it was a positive thing that I could run errands at any time of the night. The Copy Shack was the only office store in town now, since the Council office stopped masquerading as a Kinko’s and actually put the agency’s real logo on the door. And because of the laws of elementary-school project timing, I was there at ten P.M. considering just how much glitter was too much glitter for a first-grader’s homework.

I’d woken up that evening to my son beating on my cubby door, asking where I’d put his poster board for his special assignment. A special assignment that was, of course, due the next day. He had all of his photos of him fishing and playing with LEGOs, and he’d printed out his three-sentence “essays.” But he needed a poster-board canvas on which to paste his masterpiece. I normally kept a supply of poster board on hand for just such occasions, but lately I’d had other things on my mind.