“Yeah, it’s obvious,” Harris said, resettling in his chair. “It’s hard to believe you actually like this guy. And that you’re going to Disneyland. On purpose.”
I shrugged.
“It’s a strange world, I guess,” he remarked.
“The strangest,” I agreed.
* * *
“What’s your idea of a perfect day off?”
It was hours later, and we had already done most of the rides Eli wanted to do. He held a giant cotton candy in one hand and a stuffed animal the size of his torso in the other. I had to admit, the park was charming—especially an hour before closing on a weekday. Still busy, but not that busy. It was almost as though we had the place to ourselves.
“Cooking dinner and watching a movie. Cuddling up on the couch with a good book. Listening to the sound of the rain. Maybe with a cat or something.”
Interesting. Eli was something of a homebody, then—more prone to quiet moments than to dazzling lights, adventure, and excitement. Odd, given his career choice. Or perhaps not so odd; maybe he craved safety and calm because of his job.
“You don’t own a cat,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “I don’t usually get the chance to cook dinner, either. Cooking for one is depressing.”
“You live with your sister.”
His expression darkened slightly. “She usually goes to bed early.”
The subtext there was impossible to miss, and it would take a slower vampire than myself to fail to put two and two together. He meant she usually passed out early.
“What sorts of food do you enjoy?” I asked.
“Italian and Mexican, mainly. I’ve tried a couple of fancy French recipes, but they haven’t really turned out. I’m not the best in the kitchen.”
“Nonsense,” I said, smiling. France was the country I was born in. Granted, I had grown up in a noble household and then had promptly become a vampire, so I hadn’t ever actually cooked anything. But it couldn’t really be so hard, could it? I added, “Add plenty of butter and cream and it’s hard to go wrong, I’d imagine. And, of course, pair the meal with a good loaf of bread and a bit of wine.”
Eli hesitated. “Do you eat?”
I frowned. What an odd question. And the good doctor’s pulse quickened the moment he asked it. But his expression was deceptively casual.
“I do.”
While I didn’t need human food, I could still consume it and find it enjoyable. My body was still more or less human, including my taste buds. But I no longer craved it—not the way I craved blood. Or killing.
“What sorts of food do you enjoy?” Eli asked, a challenge entering his voice, like he didn’t quite believe me.
“I’m rather fond of Mexican food. Thai food. And, of course, I enjoy French cuisine as well.”
“Why ‘of course’?” Eli asked.
“Pardon?”
“You said, ‘of course, you enjoy French cuisine.’ Why?”
It was my turn to hesitate. “I’m from France. Originally.”
Eli stopped dead, his eyes widening in obvious alarm. “But there’s no trace of a French accent in your voice.”
“Why is that unusual?”
“How would I have known to associate you with France?” he muttered, almost to himself. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
