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My knees went a little weak over having a tall, mesmerizing guy like Bastian kind of giving me an order. “Right this way,” I said, voice hoarse, gesturing back down the hall.

We started toward the stairs, then Bastian cringed and said, “Sorry, that was too blunt. I need to do a better job of regulating the way I say things.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I said, smiling over my shoulder at him as we headed down the stairs. “I made the food for you, after all. I mean, you’re the guest here. I invited you in. Isn’t there some sort of lore about inviting vampires into your house?”

I was kidding, but Bastian paused halfway down the stairs with a strange, unreadable expression. “I’m not a vampire,” he said.

“No! No, of course you’re not,” I rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry if that was offensive. I was just teasing. Sometimes I say things without thinking. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

Bastian followed me the rest of the way down the stairs. “I do the same thing,” he said with a curious look.

I laughed. “Then you know what it’s like, going through life worried what the next thing out of your mouth is going to be.”

“Actually, I do,” Bastian said, his voice tipping back into that easy tone he had that I loved.

“That’s why I love feeding people,” I went on as we headed to the kitchen, Polo following us. “It’s so much easier when things are going into people’s mouths.” A second too late, I realized that, given the circumstances, that comment could be taken a whole lot of ways. “I didn’t mean that sexually!” I raced to defend myself.

Bastian stopped just inside the kitchen. “I didn’t take it that way,” he said, eyes darkening a little as he watched me race to the table. “Until now,” I heard him mumble.

I nearly tripped. Thank god I hadn’t made sausages for supper. Eating those would have been impossible after my slip. Although there were some breadsticks that I’d liberated from the latest shipment to Provisions.

“How about some pasta?” I asked, my voice an octave too high and squeaky.

“Pasta,” Bastian repeated, joining me at the table with stiff, jerky movements.

I was making a mess of this whole thing. Bastian was only at my house to look for ghosts. It wasn’t a date, and it definitely wasn’t a hook-up.

Although I wouldn’t mind if⁠—

No! Don’t go there! You need friends, not conquests.

“The chicken is an old family recipe,” I said, focusing on the food in an attempt to forget the moment of awkwardness. “Mamma brought it over from Nonna in the old country.”

“You’re Scandinavian, right?” Bastian said with deadly seriousness as he set his backpack aside, took off his hat, brushed his fingers through his hair, and sat in the chair across the corner of the table from me.

I paused as soon as I picked up the knife to carve the chicken. Neither my pause nor the way I held the knife was suave at all.

Then I blinked and burst into laughter. “Funny,” I said, slicing into the chicken. “I think we both know I’m Italian.”

“I had my suspicions,” Bastian said, the corner of his mouth quirking. It was such a sexy thing that I nearly messed up carving the chicken.

“I’m pretty sure everything about me screams Italian. I was born in a little village near Milan, actually. My parents are from different parts of Italy and met at university in Rome. Mamma is an author and Papà works in finance. They moved here when I was five and Papà got a job with a big, international company. They liked New York so much that they ended up getting citizenship and settling here.”

By the time I finished my little bio, I’d piled a plate full of food and set it in front of Bastian.

“This looks wonderful,” he said, setting his phone on the table and picking up his knife and fork. “My ancestors are from Great Britain.”

“You’re Irish, right?” I teased, grinning at him as I filled my own plate. “I can tell by the red hair.”

Bastian huffed a self-effacing laugh and lowered his head slightly. I couldn’t breathe for a second. “In case you hadn’t guessed, this isn’t my natural hair color.”

“No!” I pretended shock.

Bastian smiled. Damn, he was beautiful when he smiled. I had the feeling he didn’t smile nearly enough.

“My hair is what people politely call dishwater blond,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound very polite to me,” I said, finishing with my plate and taking a seat. I might have subtly moved my chair closer to the corner of the table as I did. Our knees might have bumped a little, too.