Part 12 (2/2)
”Phoebe,” Sam's silken tones chastised. ”I think you know what I'm trying to say here. The relief mixed with joy over what was technically a cure for your Alzheimer's is overruling your common sense and clouding your judgment.”
”Who said kissing you means I have no common sense?” Or good judgment? What woman who was sane, straight, and possessed even half a hormone wouldn't want to kiss Sam McLean? That was good womanly judgment, if you asked her hormones.
Sam's chuckle was deep and rumbly. ”Oh, no. That's not what I'm saying at all. Kissing me is totally common senseafilled. I'm a hot nerd. What I'm saying is I get the impression you're not normally the kind of woman who throws caution to the wind.”
Caution was for whiners. Only the truly brave threw it to the wind. ”And you deduced this how?”
Sam tipped her chin up with his forefinger. ”You've got a calendar the size of one full wall in your bedroom, filled with what I'm going to a.s.sume is your client appointments. Oh, and booyah for nailing a gig with Master Z. He's pretty big in the rap world.” He held his knuckle up for her to knock with hers.
She complied. ”If you had any idea how hard he was to please, you'd know it was the coup of the millennium. All he does is complain about how he won't wear this color or that. The women in his videos can't be anything less than a C cup because he claims he has a good eye for hooters and he'll know if I've conned him with a double B. He's impossible, but he knows a lot of people in the industry. I'm not at the point in my career where people are knocking down my door to do video shoots or red-carpet events. Not yet.”
Sam's head bobbed, and his finger lifted her chin in a gesture so tender she melted all over again. ”I noted the importance of Master Z by the key you made along the side of the calendar. I'm guessing the red asterisks are the upper echelon of your clientele? And I also noted you have stacks of sticky notes lined up by color to within an inch of their lives on your desk, and your pens are a.s.sembled in that holder of yours by height. The pillows on your bed are so perfectly centered, I'd bet if I measured them, they'd have equal distance between them. And don't get me started on your closet. Those are all signs of someone who likes to plan and/or have a plan. Someone who likes to know where everything is at any given time-always. Not someone who acts on impulse and sleeps with a man she just met-even if he is a hot nerd.” He grinned down at her, though his arms remained around her waist.
He made it sound so tawdry, as though he'd never considered tawdry. h.e.l.lo. Decomposed one-night stand. Phoebe planted her hands on her hips and eyeballed him. ”So, Mr. Observant, are you some kind of shrink, too? Wait, I know, maybe you're a profiler on the side, huh, bug dude?” she teased, barely noticing the stiffening of Sam's muscles.
His eyes shuttered. ”Bug dudes are very observant because we observe bug behavior.”
”What were you doing in my bedroom?”
”Mark offered to let me use your eye-makeup remover.”
It was true. She did like to know where she was at. She had to know where she was at in order to keep her business running smoothly. Unhappy clients could be unhappy monsters. She'd learned that much as she began to deal with C-list celebrities. She also liked order and cleanliness and soap operas and the color pink.
So what?
That didn't mean she couldn't let loose every once in a while. And Sam had just become her let-loose pet project. ”I don't get the hesitation? I don't want to bring up a bad memory, but wasn't it you who was well on his way to a one-night stand when this all happened?”
He rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek; a small tic pulsed in his jaw. ”And look how that turned out. I'm now a vampire, and I turned you into a vampire, too. And our lives are decidedly at risk because of it. One-night stands aren't exactly my strong suit. Who knows the kind of damage I could create if I actually go through with it? Besides, who said if anything happens between us it'll just be a one-night stand? I'd be offended if I had a leg and some past performances to stand on.”
Phoebe smiled up at him, knowing if her heart still could, it would skip. Even though her next words were going to have an extra put-out tone to them, she was secretly pleased he hadn't taken her up on her offer now that she'd had time to cool off. And he'd made a point. A good one. ”So you're saying you won't sleep with me?”
”Not tonight and not with a houseful of people who have bionic hearing. What I am saying is, I like you. I'm attracted to you. I thought, even as I was on the floor like some pathetic broken toy at OOPS, that you were very attractive-”
”But the first thing you laid eyes on was what was under my skirt.”
”No. That was the second,” he reminded with a husky chuckle.
”Technicalities.”
”Either way, once I was past the Stephen Kingalike properties of the evening's events, I found you very physically appealing. There's nothing hotter than a woman who has the b.a.l.l.s to tell someone as scary as Nina off-not to mention, you can teleport. That makes you ridiculously hot.”
She latched on to the front of his black turtleneck sweater, opting to give him one last test. ”Ditto. So let's do this.”
”Uh, no.” He dropped his hands from her waist and took a step back.
Phoebe rolled her eyes, planting her hands on her hips. ”Do women throw themselves at you like this every day, Sam? Is this old hat for hot nerds? Are entomologists all the rage? What's your hang-up?”
”No. Women don't throw themselves at me every day. Only once a week or so. Sometimes twice, but that's the exception, not the rule.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose in displeasure, pressing her hands to the edge of her sweater and smoothing it. ”See. Me. Laugh.”
Sam jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze serious. ”Here's the hang-up. I really want to get to know you, Phoebe. I don't want to take advantage of you because we're in a life-or-death situation or because you're very vulnerable right now.”
”You mean, even though we might die, and I could be the very last jar of goodies you get to raid, you still want to be a gentleman?”
”I do.”
Big, girlie sigh. ”Fine,” she said with enough petulance to make Sam laugh.
He wiggled an eyebrow in the direction of the bench sitting under his bedroom window. ”So, let's do it.”
”Now?”
”You have anything better to do?”
”All right. What do you want to know about Phoebe Reynolds? Because I gotta tell you, I'm so boring, I'm like watching paint dry.”
Sam took her hand and led her to a bench sitting just under his bedroom window. He patted a forest green pillow and smiled that delicious smile to encourage her to settle in. ”Sit. We have a couple of hours before vampire sleep turns us into comatose vegetables. Let's talk. Life. Music. How old you were when you first shaved your legs.”
Phoebe's stomach jolted when she sat on the pillow and pulled her legs up under her chin. ”Fourteen, and it was like begging the Catholic Church for an exorcism. My mom was a tough nut to crack. She wasn't thrilled about me growing up.”
”But you appear to have a healthy respect for her.”
Phoebe c.o.c.ked her head at him when she pulled the rubber band from her hair to let it flow loose to the tops of her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it and gave it a shake. ”How would you know?”
”The pictures on your nightstand of the two of you. The birthday card from her that you framed. You looked happy in those pictures. You didn't look like your inner teenager was still grudging.”
Phoebe's smile was of genuine love, making her forget how powerful Sam's observations were. ”I'm not. My mom was so much great. I miss her every single day.”
”How did she die, if you don't mind me asking?”
”She was going to die of exactly what I was doomed for, but she had a heart attack first.” Phoebe's eyes s.h.i.+fted to the floor at the memory.
”You've had a pretty s.h.i.+tty lot lately, haven't you, Phoebe Reynolds?” Sam reached down and trailed a finger over her cheekbone, and she found herself allowing him to comfort her.
He plunked down next to her, taking her hand in his once more and smiling that infectious grin. ”So, one of the most important things in life. Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?”
His question drew a quirk of a smile to her lips. ”Ice cream?”
”Yep.”
”What difference does it make? We can't eat it anymore anyway.”
”I'm a firm believer in the ice cream theory.”
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