I try to sneak a look at what she’s written, but it’s like some kind of code, her looping cursive completely unintelligible from this angle. The only thing I can make out is my own name, underlined twice.
And then Dean is talking again, pulling Lucy’s attention back to him as he so loves to do. He’s waxing lyrical about Ravenskull’s themed cocktails, telling her how he pulled inspiration from the rich gothic history of the town, even though he must know thatIknow they’re almost entirely lifted from our specials list.
I need to say more about Bitten and the guys– Sammi will kill me if I don’t– but something about sharing space with the idiot across the table tends to suck all the life out of me.
Ironic, as I’m the one with fangs.
I realise, though, just as Lucy’s genuine laugh at whatever bullshit Dean is feeding her tears a hot lance of jealousy across my chest, that one of us will be sleeping under the same roof as her tonight, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Deano. I’m just about to shoot him a smug look when Lucy checks her watch and turns to me, almost catching me in the act.
‘I have so much more to ask you,’ she says, eyes wide, ‘but I know you’re supposed to be working, and I don’t want to keep you.’
I tap my phone screen to wake it up and wince when I see the time. I’m already cutting it pretty fine. I can see two messages from Sammi just on my lock screen, plus at least one each fromFox and Emmy. Setting up the group chat for the bar was a mistake. I get updates on every last thought each of them has now, and I’m willing to bet that the last few are centred around them wondering how long I’m going to be.
‘I’ve probably got to get going,’ I say, hoping that my voice doesn’t betray the cut of disappointment in my throat. I see Dean smirk in my periphery and grit my teeth against the urge to slap that smile off his stupid face.
‘Well,’ Lucy says with a smile, clicking her pen and sliding it into the binding of her notebook, ‘if you don’t mind a tag-along, maybe I could join you and you could show me the bar? I’d love to see it!’
I feel the graze of plastic fangs against my lip as I grin. ‘Brilliant. It’s a date!’ I say, deliberately looking up at Dean, who is now the one trying to choke down his rage. Lucy thanks him for his time and takes his number so she can ask him some follow-up questions, but it doesn’t wipe the smile off my face, not then and not when he stands to hug her and she reciprocates.
And when Lucy bumps my shoulder with hers and we walk out of the pub together, I feel like I’m on top of the damn world.
Take that, Ratty Ratcliffe.
Chapter Seven
LUCY
My heart’s in my throat when I call Jon’s number, just like always. I’m sitting on a stack of crates in the small alley behind Bram’s bar, sipping on the gin and lemonade that he wordlessly slipped into my hand before disappearing back through the door with a wink. I did find it odd that he knew my usual drink order without me having to tell him, but maybe I’m just that easy to read. Or maybe it’s the sign of an experienced bartender?
Either way, it’s mixed perfectly– bordering on sweet, but with enough of a bite to keep things interesting.
Like Bram, my brain whispers, before the call connects and I lose all power of rational thought.
‘Ey up, Fluff,’ Jon says down the line, the gravel of his voice making my heart leap. I don’t love the nickname, I can’t lie, but I let it slide when it comes from him. Something about the warm timbre of his Yorkshire accent catches me off guard every time. ‘How’s Whitby treating you? You dressing like Mina yet?’
I can’t stop my chuckle at the idea. ‘Not quite,’ I say, ‘but I am sitting outside a vampire-themed bar right now, so it might not be long.’
I hear the breath he huffs out, somewhere close to a laugh. ‘I thought the interview was at The Pier?’
‘It was.’ My drink swirls in my glass as I spin it, small rivulets forming in the condensation. I notice for the first time that a tiny set of fangs has somehow been etched into the rind of my lemon, and a smile pulls at my mouth. ‘I’m off the clock now, at one of the bars I’m going to be writing about for the article. The owner mentioned it in the interview, and I couldn’t resist checking it out.’
I hear Jon’s hum over the line– a sound he makes when he’s trying not to give too much away. ‘He invited you to his bar?’
That isn’t at all what I said, and I note his leap with interest, not to mention the fact that he didn’t ask which of the two bars I meant. There’s a strange quality to his voice too, something close to jealousy but which stops just short of it. Whatever it is, I suddenly feel like I have to explain myself, even though I don’t think that I’ve done anything wrong.
‘Bram’s just being friendly.’ I wonder if I should mention the mix-up with the cottage, or the fact that Bram and I are currently sharing that very small space.
Or the fact that I have seen every firm, tattooed, naked inch of him.
I decide against it. ‘Did you know he’s Mina’s cousin?’
The silence on the other end of the phone is charged. Jon doesn’t correct me, confirming my suspicion that he was talking about Bram. I hear the small breath Jon pulls in and the creak of his chair as he shifts forward, and it doesn’t surprise me at all that he’s still in the office after 7pm on a Friday.
‘I did,’ he says eventually. ‘Did you know he’s bad news?’
That lands like a slap in the face. I actually didn’t know that. Maybe I would have if I’d have remembered the warning in Jon’s email from earlier and managed to put two and two together. I don’t mention any of that to Jon, though. I don’t want him to think badly of me and my poorly honed investigative skills. Instead I settle for a noncommittal, ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, he’s a real piece of work.’ He huffs out a breath. ‘He was in a crazy viral video a few years back, and he’s been in and out of the press ever since. Never in a good way, mind.’