“Can I get you something, Natalie?”
Natalie looked up as Darren, the bartender, approached her with a smile. She smiled back. “I’d love a Chardonnay, please.”
Darren winked. “Coming right up.” He turned away to ready the drink and Terry, the flamboyant ghost who refused to leave his job, folded his arms.
“Oh, so you’ll give him your order, but not me, huh? What am I, chopped liver?”
Natalie rolled her eyes at the apparition’s insulted expression and peered at him over her glasses. “Terry, for the last time, you’re a ghost. Deal with it,” she whispered as she again tucked her chin into her palm.
“Give me something, sweetheart,” Terry whined, his hand moving in a flapping gesture as he leaned his hip against the bar. “I’m here all by myself and you’re the only one who will give me the time of day.” He eyed his fingernails. “Which is a crime, as far as I’m concerned, letting all this go to waste.” He gestured to his form. Terry, fit and toned when he was alive, wore dark shoes, black trousers and a black bow tie, and that was it.
“I still can’t believe that used to be the uniform here,” Natalie said softly, eyeing his outfit—or lack of one.
Terry’s smile was more of a grimace. “Well, this place used to have a very different clientele. Now they’ve snootied it all up.” He sighed. “Friday nights used to be the best. The drag queens used to perform in that corner.” He waved casually to a corner near the window. He arched an eyebrow as he returned his gaze to hers. “Now we get—what? Prissy chicks reading—” He tilted his head so he could see the cover of her book and winced in horror. “Oh, my lord. Poetry. This place is going to the dogs.”
She smiled as the very corporeal Darren placed her glass on a coaster in front of her and then walked back to serve another patron.
“And you’re still here,” she murmured, sighing as Terry’s bottom lip protruded in a very good imitation of a sulk. She leaned back in her seat. “Fine. Give me some nuts,” she whispered and waited patiently as Terry moved and unsuccessfully tried to lift the nut bowl further down the bar. Out of habit, she toyed with the silver chain lariat around her neck, her fingers sliding along the links as she watched her “friend” do his thing.
After a few more attempts, the ghostly bartender got impatient and swiped at the bowl. The bowl flipped off the bar and nuts spilled across the floor. The bartender and other patrons startled then froze, staring at the mess on the floor that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Terry placed his hands on his hips as he walked toward her, frustration etching his forever-young features.
“You did that on purpose.”
She shrugged, a tiny movement that was almost undetectable. Terry tried to serve her every time she came in to McKinley’s Bistro, and refused to accept the limitations his phantom form put on him. But she did so enjoy watching him try. She dropped her chain and returned to reading her book.
“Did you see that?” an older woman sitting at the bar muttered. She gazed dubiously at the glass of amber-colored liquid in her hand before placing it gingerly back on the bar.
“Uh, must have been a breeze,” Darren suggested quickly before ducking into the back room and returning with a broom and dustpan.
“I’m outta here,” another man said, reaching for his laptop bag as he climbed hastily off his bar stool.
“Come on, Nat. So I can’t serve you a drink. So what? I can still listen,” Terry suggested as he placed his folded arms on the bar. “Tell Uncle Terry what’s bothering you.”
Natalie held the book of poems determinedly in front of her face. “Nothing’s bothering me,” she said, trying not to move her mouth.
“Oh, right. So you’re here, all by yourself, every Friday night, and nothing’s wrong?”
Natalie frowned. “I happen to like my own company.”
“Honey, nobody likes their own company—not if they keep winding up in a bar,” Terry said sagely. “Especially not wearing that.” He gestured in a figure eight that both encompassed her outfit yet still managed to convey disdain.
Natalie’s frown deepened as she glanced down at her collared shirt and jeans. Her outfit was presentable and comfortable. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Uh, nothing...”
Darren looked over at her in surprise as he emptied the contents of the dustpan in the trash can under the bar, and color flooded her cheeks as she realized she’d spoken too loudly.
“Thanks, Darren,” she said then focused intently on the works of John Keats she held in her hands.
“Do you mean that outfit is intentional?” Terry gasped, his hand rising dramatically to his chest. He shook his head. “And do you think that simple necklace is going to dress this up? It’s worse than I—Oh, hello.” Terry’s attention whipped to the door of the bistro.
Natalie glanced over her shoulder and froze. Blinked. Whirled back around to bury her nose in her book. Her heart fluttered in her chest then took off in a thumping race.
Oh. My. God. Him. Here. It couldn’t be. Her guardian angel.
No, not her guardian angel, she corrected herself. More like a devil in disguise. She knew exactly what he was and she wanted to run for the hills.
Natalie willed herself not to run, not to stare, not to flinch. Of all the bistros, in all the teeny, tiny college towns, in all of Argon, why did he have to walk into hers? His kind weren’t common here. That was why she’d chosen to establish herself here. No shadow breeds, just humans.
The newcomer walked up to the bar and Natalie twisted away in her seat, trying to make it look like a nonchalant move as she closed the book she’d ceased to read. Maybe she could get out before he noticed her, recognized her. She slid the book into her bag, her fingers brushing, lightly grasping, then relinquishing the handle of the blade she always carried. It matched the one strapped to her ankle.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Professor Segova. I was told I’d likely find her here...”
Good grief. That voice. Like smooth chocolate, all rich and dark and hinting of nights and mischief. He hadn’t changed a bit.
Well, duh. He’s a vampire. He’s bloody immortal.
They didn’t tend to age. Or change. Or die, damn it.
And he was looking for her. She didn’t want to see him. She never wanted to see him. Never again. She sure as hell hadn’t expected him to walk into her bistro, looking for her.
“Oh, wow, Mr. Hottie wants you,” Terry whispered unnecessarily.
Mr. Hottie was an understatement. The man was undeniably handsome, in an intent, coolly detached way. He wore a black suit, a dark, collared shirt and no tie. With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes he looked every inch a potential dark angel. Shoulders broad, chin set at a challenging angle, he effortlessly commanded attention.
But not hers. Nope. Not anymore. She was too wise to his ways to let herself be entranced by a searing pair of stunning blue eyes and lips that suggested all sorts of steamy seduction. No, sirree.
She slid off the bar stool and turned away slightly, praying that Darren would get the message her body language was screaming, and send this particular patron on his way. She dug for her wallet and pulled out some notes to pay for her meal and drinks.
“Professor Segova? Yeah, she’s right there.”
Darren hadn’t gotten the message. Well, there went his tip for the night. She put the money on the bar and busied herself with her coat. She lifted her bag to her shoulder.