Page 40 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

Julian reaches for the correct carrier, and I stop.

“You remembered.”

“You told me.”

“Yesterday.”

“Yes.”

Like that explains everything. Maybe with Julian it does.

After that, we find a rhythm. He comes through the loading door with an empty carrier and I have the next one waiting. I reach behind me for a towel and he puts one into my hand.

“Coffee to the dock.”

“It’s ready.”

“Mrs. Doyle needs⁠—”

“No onions. I remember.”

Somewhere around the two-hundredth egg sandwich, we stop asking each other what needs doing. We just work.

And sometime around noon, with my hair coming out of its knot and Julian Volkov standing in my kitchen in jeans with a dish towel over one shoulder, I realize something considerably more dangerous than wanting him.

Wanting him is easy, but this isn’t that. This is three hundred things happening at once and Julian becoming part of the machinery without ever getting in the way.

He pays attention. Apparently that is extremely attractive too.

This is becoming inconvenient.

By five thirty, we’ve made three hundred and fifteen sandwiches.

Wyatt ate four, which means technically we’ve distributed three hundred and eleven, but I refuse to let a seven-year-old compromise my statistics.

The last chowder goes to the fire station. Harriet goes home. Mabel takes the list. Lucy disappears to photograph the dory, which has finally been confirmed as belonging to a man named Frank in Eastport, creating several additional questions no one can answer. I lock Salt & Sage. Then I lean my forehead against the door.

“Done?” Julian asks behind me.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’ll be done in April.”

“Ah.”

“But I’m stopping.”

“That seems wise.”

I turn. I’m filthy. He’s filthy. There’s a streak of something dark along his jaw. Sawdust is still in his hair. His jeans are wet to the knee and his shirt has a tear near one cuff. Somewhere today he lost his elegance entirely.

I’ve never wanted him more.

“I’ll walk you home,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”