Claire didn’t mean to arrive at the café ten minutes early, but her whole body hummed with eagerness to hear about Tai’s meeting with Peter. She ordered an Americano and a chocolate croissant, then claimed one of the soundproofed booths. Tai would, of course, order sweeter items both from the coffee counter and the case of baked goods. She smiled as she thought of it, of him, and tugged at one end of the croissant for a buttery bite.
She didn’t close the partition, which was similar to those in the booths at her bar. This café wasn’t designed specifically for vampires, so the music was a little loud, the air conditioning a little too enthusiastic. But the proprietors recognized that they had customers both human and vampire, and they’d opted to provide privacy for anyone who wanted it.
The bell above the door tinkled, and she looked up out of habit. Tai was early too, looking—what had Ember called him? Yes,unnaturally gorgeous—in straight-leg blue jeans, a watermelon-red Henley shirt, and charcoal-gray slip-on shoesthat looked casually expensive. Several heads turned as he crossed the café to Claire’s booth.
Ignoring the rest of the room, he slid into her side of the booth, took her hands in both of his, and kissed her. The kiss was light, brief, but it held more than a simple greeting. He squeezed her hands before he let go.
“Thank you,” he said.
“It went well?” She’d hardly dared to hope, could only imagine the difficulty of discussing something so private with a stranger, even one who struggled the same way.
“I have a lot to tell you.”
“Want to order first?” She tipped her head toward the front counter.
“Not really, but yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Be right back.”
She watched him while he ordered. She watched him tilt his head at something the barista said, offer her a smile that made her beam in return. He pointed to something in the baked-goods case, paid with his card, and shoved his wallet into his back pocket again. The red Henley fit him just right, hinting at the toned muscle of his shoulders and back, his narrow waist. Claire wasn’t the only one to notice. Two women in line behind him shamelessly ogled as he brought his purchases to Claire’s booth.
This time he sat across from her. She slid the clear partition across their space, though at the moment they were the only vampires in the building.
“What is that?” Claire pointed at his iced latte.
“One of my favorites, and not a flavor you can find everywhere.” Tai grinned. “Butterscotch.”
She made a gagging noise, and he laughed.
“And this is, of course, an orange zest scone.”
“Much more reasonable.” Then she glanced again at his plastic latte cup, which bore in marker the nameTy. “Oh my gosh, I just realized your name is probably misspelled everywhere you go.”
He shrugged. “Pretty much. In professional settings, for a nametag or whatever, I make sure it’s correct. I don’t bother baristas about it, though.”
She tried not to make a face.
And clearly failed. Tai cocked his head. “What? I’m used to it, Claire. I got used to it in grade school.”
“You’re justsonot a T-Y.”
He laughed. “Definitely not.”
“But you’re clearly not scarred by it, so we can move on. Tell me everything. Or, you know, everything you want to tell me.”
“All of it. I want you to know all of it.” He took a sip of his latte and gave a satisfied hum. “Peter taught me more about our condition in a few hours than I’ve taught myself in twenty years. Did you know my metabolism’s faster than yours? Measurably, significantly faster.”
He’d saidour conditionwithout the usual tripping on his words. He sounded almost excited to share his new knowledge. This was what Peter’s support had done in the course of one afternoon.
Instead of bursting into song, Claire kept chill, held space for him to keep talking, said only, “I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve kept rigid control for so many years, exactly twenty-four hours between slaking. Usually twenty-four hours and one minute.”
“One extra minute? To prove your control to yourself?”
“Right, and apparently it’s the worst thing a bloodfiend can do, like trying to treat a broken leg by running a marathon.”
His approach wasn’t only flawed; it also felt kind of extreme, a form of punishment. His revulsion for his condition ran deeper than she’d realized. She hid her grimace behind a sip of espresso.
She said, “What should you be doing instead?”
