Page 52 of Maid of Dishonor

But…have I been misunderstanding things? Or does he just really like the way I smell, for purely platonic reasons?

Ugh. My inner romantic needs to backallthe way off. In fact, she needs to curl up in the corner and not come out. There is no place for her in this friendship. There is no room for me to read into every word this glorious, amazing, shirtless, sculpted…sculpted…

Huh. What was I saying?

More importantly, I wonder if he’s flexing, or if his abs just look like that all the time. They did last time I got a peek, but is that a thing? Does he have to flex to get that kind of definition?

I tilt my head, reaching out to poke one of the—I count quickly—one of the six abdominal muscles currently on display.Six.

“Are you flexing?” I say, poking it again.

Rock hard. Hehasto be flexing. Right? He has to be.

When he doesn’t answer, I look up at him. There’s a mischievous little smirk on his face that causes me to smack him on the stomach.

“You’re flexing,” I say. “I knew it.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah, I was flexing,” he admits. “I want you to like my muscles. Sue me.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m trying to contain my grin. “Ridiculous, you peacock,” I say, finally letting my smile free. “Andthat’sridiculous too,” I say, pointing at his stomach, which I can tell is now relaxed—and hardly less impressive. I shake my head, still smiling. “I like your muscles very much. Don’t wear yourself out on my account.”

He laughs again, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we walk. Turning his head so that his face is buried in my hair, he says, “In that case, I think I can reciprocate and confess that every inch of you is…” He exhales loudly. “Perfection.”

My heart picks up and yet cracks at the same time, but I just turn to look up at him. “Every inch?” I ask, raising one brow. “You haven’t seen every inch.”

His eyes flash wickedly, but his words are tame. “Every inch I’ve seen,” he concedes. “Especially your smile.”

“Oh, oh!” I say, his words reminding me of something I wanted to ask him this week—this week while he was apparently standing in the shampoo aisle sniffing women’s hair products. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something the other day, only…” I fade off, suddenly feeling awkward.

“Only you needed space,” he says, nodding. “I get it. What was it?”

“Right. Okay. So do you think vampires brush their teeth?”

He just stares blankly at me.

“And if so, do you think their gums bleed?” I go on, because I thought this one through. “And if so, do you think they like it?” I look up at him. “I need you to know I spent an abnormally long amount of time pondering this this week.”

“Huh,” he says, looking deep in thought. “I mean, I don’t see why theywouldn’tlike it. It would be like having a bit of food still stuck in your teeth, right?” He glances at me.

“Right—but,it’s their own blood,” I say. “Do they like their own blood?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” he says solemnly, “but I will ask the next vampire I meet if he likes his own blood.”

I wrinkle my nose. “It sounds gross when you say it like that.”

He laughs. “The blood-drinking life is not for us,” he agrees.

Right as he says this, we arrive at the grill, where a tray of frozen red hamburgers are sitting out, waiting to be cooked. I give brief thanks that they’re not slimy and raw and defrosted, because I know I wouldn’t be able to eat one if I saw that. Not while I’m in the middle of a conversation about how gross drinking blood is.

We wait a few minutes for some food and then go back to my chair, pushing my t-shirt out of the way so we can sit. We chat as we eat, and things feel almost normal.

Almost, because my stupid heart is still hurting, and my stupid brain is still wondering why he likes my scent so much or why he cares that I like his muscles or why he thinks every inch of me is perfection.

Stupid brain. Stupid heart.

Stupid Sam.

Fourteen

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