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Before I could talk myself out of doing it, I emailed the cover letter, my CV, and photographs of several recent projects—including an in-progress shot ofManor House on a Lake—to Cressida Marks, Harmony Academy’s head of school.
There. Done.
With that out of the way, hopefully I’d be able to dedicate the rest of the evening to drawing and mindless television.
I leaned back against the black leather couch, where my sketchpad rested beside me. Before finding out about the Harmony Academy job I’d been half watching an oldBuffy the Vampire Slayerepisode on Frederick’s new flatscreen television, letting it play in the background as I drew. I’d seen this episode already—in the days since finding out Frederick was a vampire, I’d binged most of the first two seasons—but it was comfortable background noise, helping me focus as I thought through some final fiddly details toManor House.
“May I join you?”
I startled at the sound of Frederick’s deep voice, accidentally jostling my notepad off the couch with my knee. It fell with a loud rustling of pages, landing upside down on the floor.
I hadn’t even heard him enter the room.
In fact, before now, I hadn’t seen him at all since ourshopping trip a couple days earlier. Part of me suspected he’d been intentionally keeping his distance after that moment we’d shared outside the dressing room. But I couldn’t let myself think about that. I wasn’t ready to admit to myself that I had enjoyed touching him as much as I did.
Or that it had even happened at all.
He was looking directly at me with a laser-sharp gaze, wearing one of the sweaters we’d picked out at Nordstrom. The pale green pullover perfectly accentuated his broad chest, and the dark-wash jeans fit him just as well.
I swallowed and fumbled for my notepad, willing my suddenly racing heart to slow. Could he hear my heart beating? The way his eyes flicked down to my chest before quickly shifting back up to my face made me wonder.
“Of course you can join me,” I mumbled to the floor. I motioned to the spot next to me on the couch without looking at him.
He hummed, then sat down, leaving enough space between us that no parts of our bodies were touching—but not so much space that I couldn’t smell the lavender soap he liked to use in the shower.
We sat together in silence for a long moment, watching as Buffy Summers single-handedly beat up and then staked a string of vampires, one right after the other. This was one of the earlier episodes, back when Sarah Michelle Gellar still had some roundness to her cheeks and the show’s special effects budget was lower than Xander’s IQ.
Buffy’s fighting moves and her outfits were something to behold, as always. Even still, it took more concentration than it really should have to keep my eyes trained on the screen rather than on the person beside me.
“Have you ever seen this show?” I blurted out. It was a dumb question. Frederick had been asleep for a century and had only gotten Wi-Fi a few days ago; surely he hadn’t found the time to watch a campy show from the nineties about fictional vampires. But I was desperate for something to say to break the awkward silence.
He ignored my question. “Do you think Angel or Spike is more handsome?” he asked instead, with all the seriousness of an NPR journalist. His eyes were on the screen, not on me—but his tone, his ramrod-straight posture, and the steady, rapid way he drummed his fingers on his thigh gave away his keen interest in my response.
I was completely thrown. Whatever I’d expected him to say when he joined me on the couch, it wasn’t that. I had no idea how I was supposed to answer it—partly because it felt extremely loaded, but mostly because I’d never been particularly into either ofBuffy’s bad boy vamps.
After a bit of somewhat frantic consideration, I gave him the truth.
“Giles is the hottest man on this show.”
“Giles?” Frederick spluttered in what sounded like genuine surprise. He turned to face me, eyes boring into mine with an expression that bordered on outrage. “Thelibrarian?”
“Yeah.” I pointed to the screen, where Giles was presiding over a meeting of teenagers in the high school library. He looked supremely put upon and hot in his unique, middle-aged, glasses-wearing librarian way. “I mean, look at him.”
“I am looking at him.”
“He’s objectively attractive.”
Frederick grunted something unintelligible. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, his mouth turning down in a scowl.
“Also, of all the men on this show—alive and undead—he’s the only one who’s already processed and dealt with his shit.” I shrugged, turning back to the television. “Everyone else has way too much baggage.”
Frederick looked unconvinced. “But Giles is just so...” He trailed off, shaking his head and closing his eyes. His scowl deepened.
“He’s just so what?”
“Human,” he spat, the single word laced with bitterness and disapproval.
I gaped at him. But Frederick wasn’t looking at me anymore. His eyes were back on the television, staring at it with an intensity that could burn a hole through paper.
