Page 63 of Blood and Bells

“I said she’s not without her charms,” I snap. “Infuriating, yes. Narrow-minded, occasionally. She smells of blood oranges and cinnamon, which is an absurd combination. And she scrunches her nose up when she’s thinking. Bites her thumb when she’s worried. I haven’t decided if that’s adorable or irritating.”

“Nick.” He leans in. “Yes or no?”

I make a face like I’ve been presented with a moral dilemma involving fire. It has been a long time since I’ve let this happen. Relationships are unwise at the best of times. Worse when one of you can die.

Holly makes none of this matter.

She gets under my skin. Quietly. Persistently. Like a problem I can’t charm or outmaneuver. She’s sharp. Unimpressed. The sort of person who expects you to be better and then stands there until you are.

And I was not.

The memory of last night sits badly.

I chose expedience. She saw something else.

I don’t like the version of me that makes her look at me like that.

“Yes,” I admit.

Wes spreads his hands like he’s a magician revealing a card trick. “There it is.”

“There is what?”

“The problem. And the solution.”

“How is that the solution?”

“Nick,” he says, leaning in again, “you like her. That’s the whole thing.”

“She’s mad at me, Wes. She says I broke her trust.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, picking up a glass and holding it to the light like it might confess under pressure.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’ll do it.”

“But I didn’t⁠—”

“No,” he cuts in. “She’s not angry with you because you’re a vampire. She’s upset with you because she started believing you weren’t going to let her down when it mattered.”

A pause.

“And then you did,” he adds, not unkindly.

I look back at my drink. It offers no defense.

Wes takes his time polishing a glass, dragging the moment out until the crystal all but hums. I note his insolence while filing this technique away for later use.

“You older guys make everything so complicated. There are two options. You sit here and feel sorry for yourself… or you get up and do something about it.”

“It might not work.” I dislike how that sounds.

“No,” Wes agrees easily. “It might not. But if you stay here, it definitely won’t.”

I blink.

“Go say sorry. Properly. No loopholes or speeches. Just…mean it.” He jerks his chin toward the other end of the bar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an audience that still thinks I’m interesting.”

I watch him go, reflecting briefly on how irritating it is when other people are right.