She looked startled, and smiled. “Of course.”
“Well, speaking of roots and community…I feel like I’m getting to know now-you pretty well. But I don’t know much about past-you, and…I’d like to.” An unexpected sting of shyness ran through Zane, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.
“Oh.” Another expression of surprise crossed Vicki’s face. “Oh, yeah, sure. I kind of do the rolling stone gathers no moss thing, I guess, maybe even in talking about where I used to live and stuff. I’m actually from Los Angeles.”
“What!” Zane’s voice rose and cracked, then turned to laughter. “Are you serious?”
“Completely! What, you think all this blonde hair came from a bottle and not the natural West Coast sunshine? Yeah, I was born in Pasadena, but my parents got divorced when I was really little, and my mom married my stepdad, who’s British, when I was eight. We moved to the UK, and—” She dropped into a suddenly posh British accent— “I went to school there, but honestly I never got used to the rain, so I came back to the States for college.”
“In California?” Zane asked, fascinated. “Don’t tell me we were going to school alongside each other and I just missed you for five years.”
“Three,” Vicki said cheerfully, and back in her American accent. “I finished my undergrad degree in three years out of some misguided sense of urgency. If I had it to do over again, I’d relax a lot more. But then I started taking teaching jobs wherever one cropped up, so I could see the States and decide where I wanted to settle. So far I’ve worked in Montana, Washington, Alabama, Oregon, Alaska?—”
“No way.”
“Yeah. It was beautiful, but the darkness got to me. I was living in North Pole, and it’s dark like twenty hours a day in the winter up there. Too much dark. On the other hand, it’s lightallsummer long, which is incredible. Just not worth the dark, for me. Um, then I went to Georgia, and…you get the idea. All over. I’m going to have to make a decision soon, though, or I’ll never be anywhere long enough to get a decent retirement.” She tilted her head as they reached the town square. “Should we get dinner somewhere? The Italian Place, or there’s a little noodle shop that opened up recently…”
“Noodles sound good.”
They turned that direction, while Vicki continued talking about her adult life of living all over the place, and her next job, which was down in Boston. “Although, I don’t know, now that I know about Virtue’s secrets I’m a little more tempted to stay. It’s a little like a fairy tale, isn’t it? And there must be kids who need teachers who know the truth. Not that I know who else knows, so how would I go to the administration and say ‘Hey, you know that secret Virtue is keeping? Well, I know it, so I can help out.’ If I talked to the wrong person, they’d think I was nuts!”
“Sarah will have some idea of who knows and who doesn’t. And Mabs Brannigan might, too.”
Vicki’s eyebrows lifted. “Mabs? Noah’s mom? She’s a shifter?”
“No, but her husband Jake is. I knew him when I was a kid. I suppose that might mean their son is, too.”
“No, Noah is Mabs’s son, not Jake’s. So…it, er, breeds true? Being a shifter?”
“Usually. More often with fated mates, I think, but usually.” They went into the warm, delicious-smelling noodle house, and without discussing it, changed the subject. By the time they were finished eating, Vicki’s eyelids were drooping, and Zane couldn’t help smiling.
“Let me call you a taxi home,” he offered. “You’ve got an early morning, and if I come over to your apartment, you won’t get to sleep until very, very late.”
She said, “Mmm,” happily. “Promises, promises. But no, you’re right. So I’ll see you tomorrow for more, ah, measurements?”
Zane grinned. “As many as you could possibly need.”
CHAPTER 17
Zane had a celebrity in his studio the next day when Vicki arrived after school. She could tell because of the gigantic limousine stretched in front of his store front, and the two very large burly guys who were obviously somebody’s protective detail standing on the front stoop. They both had that kind of bored-but-alert look she’d seen of bodyguards in paparazzi, and despite her curiosity about who had come to see Zane, Vicki took a minute to look around Virtue’s town square.
There were a bunch of inquisitive kids, obviously. Some of them were clearly playing Bodyguard themselves, standing around looking super serious and swole until the giggles got them and they had to run around laughing. Most of the adults, though, were passing by with curious glances, some judgy looks, and no further interest. Maybe living in a town full of shifters had taught them to mind their own business.
Actually, since that had been exactly what Vicki was complaining about to Zane—the odd lack of community—she thought that might really be true. It was good for the famous,though. People sometimes needed to be treated more or less like everybody else, or they’d lose their minds.
Which was why Vicki hesitated on the sidewalk. She was invited to Zane’s studio (although they clearly wouldn’t be doing any ‘measuring’ right now), but it wouldn’t be appropriate to just walk in on him and his client. She should probably go get some coffee.
Instead, one of the very large men, who had been observing her hesitancy, said, “Can I help you, Miss?”
“Um, yeah, no, I’m Zane’s…”Girlfriend, Vicki thought, but didn’t say. They hadn’t discussed anything as formal as girlfriend or boyfriend titles, and bang-buddy was beneath her willingness to say. After a brief pause, she started over with, “Mr. Bellamy is designing a dress for me.”
The other extremely large man, without changing expression, lifted his wrist to his mouth and spoke into it in such a low rumble Vicki wasn’t sure she evencouldunderstand what he was saying. She hadn’t known people could speak in subsonic tones. He waited a moment, head tilted slightly to one side, and then in a voice that lifted hairs on Vicki’s nape, said, “If you could wait a few more minutes, our client would appreciate it.”
“Yeah, of course! I’ll go grab a cup of coffee.” Vicki’s eyebrows crinkled. “Can I get you guys something? Are you allowed?”
Mr. Deep Rumble cracked the tiniest bit of a smile. “We’re not Beefeaters. We’re allowed. A small single shot caramel latte, please.”
“I’m a Beefeater at heart,” the other guy said, now in a passable British accent. “Tea for me.”
