We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (2 page)

“No rush,” I said. “I'm waiting for my employee, and then I'll call for a cab.”

“My driver's nearby. I could give you a lift, as a thank you for allowing me to hide in your bathroom like a coward.”

“I'm sure you're not a coward. That reporter was nasty. I can't say I blame you for running.” I shook the pens out of the tin can, and along with them came some little bits that had been hidden, including an eraser, three gummy bears, and a square packet that was unmistakably a condom packet. There it was, right between us. SEX, SEX, SEX! Naturally, I shrieked.

The man jumped. “What is it?” He turned to the window, on the alert for reporters. “Are they back?”

I snatched the condom packet from the pile of debris, and stuffed it into my purse, which was just under the counter top.

He turned back and frowned down at the pens. “I could have sworn there there five gummy bears there a moment ago.” He grinned at me. “Did you eat two of them?”

I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue in answer, which made him laugh. He wasn’t leaving. Maybe he would stay for a bit.
Stay forever! Mwah-hah-hah!

“My name is Petra Monroe,” I said, offering him my hand. “Everyone calls me Peaches. Peaches Monroe.”

“I'm Dalton Deangelo,” he said.

Our hands connected, flesh on flesh, and something strange happened. A life flash before my eyes, only it wasn't
my
life. The man standing before me played a bad-boy vampire in a TV series.
Drake Cheshire, two hundred years old and forever young.
I hadn't recognized him without the pale makeup and contact lenses that made his eyes darker, but every tingling nerve in my body confirmed it was him.

I was shaking hands with the man Shayla referred to as Meatflaps Moistener. She’d named her vibrator Drake Cheshire. Truth be told, I would have too, if I was fun enough to own one.

My mouth filled with water, and the bookstore went dim, like someone had shut off the lights. My consciousness closed to a pinhole, and the only thing keeping me from fainting was the warm sensation of Dalton's hand on mine.

Through the fog, I heard his voice, saying, “Why isn't your date picking you up for the wedding?”

Swallowing hard, I swam back to reality. “I don't have a date. Or a boyfriend.”

Oh, those eyes!
That face! Those
biceps.
I couldn't see them through his shirt, but I'd seen them on TV a hundred times, because they always found an excuse for Drake to be shirtless and emotional.

“You shouldn't have to go to a wedding dateless,” he said.

“I do most everything dateless, so I'll probably survive.”

“I have an idea.” He grabbed the pens on the counter and stacked them into the pen holder. “You won't have to go alone, because I'll arrange for a date for you. That is, if it's not too late to add a plus-one. I wouldn't want to foul up the seating arrangements.”

“Oh, Drake—um, Mr. Deangelo, I couldn't ask you to do that. You probably have a very busy life and lots of things to do tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Me? Oh, no. I was going to send my butler. He's very cute from the eyebrows up. Completely gay, of course, but he'll look nice in the photos.”

I crossed my arms. “Your butler?”
What the Fudgeeo cookies was this shit?

He laughed. “I knew it! You're even more adorable when you're angry. Oh, Peaches. I'm sorry I said such a thing. Can you forgive me?”

I backed away. “You know, I have to keep my eyes open.”

“And?”

“My eyes are open, and I think I should get a taxi.”

His head hung, and he took a few more steps back, moving toward the door.

“I guess I was being foolish,” he said. “It's just that I was back there, in your washroom, and you had all those beautiful engravings back there, with the poems and inspirations. And I've only been inside this bookstore for a few minutes, really, but I've never felt so warm and welcome, and I don't think it's the books or the funny little Buddha statue over there, or the Chinese good luck cat, but I think it's you. It's you, Peaches. You're surrounded by light and goodness, and I want to bask in your aura, be in your presence. So, I'm going to ask you, formally and properly, like I should have in the first place. Peaches, can I take you on a date? I'd love to go to this wedding and be your date, or if that's too bold, maybe we can get a coffee tomorrow?”

Eyes open. Eyes open.

Yes, my eyes were open, and my brain was working, saying go ahead.

“Fine,” I said. “You can be my date for the wedding. You'll be bored to tears within an hour, and you can duck out early if you'd like.”

“And do what?”

“Let's just start with the wedding.”

He clapped his hands together. “Great. Shall I pop out and get a gift, or do you have that covered?”

Just then, the door jingled open and my employee, Amy, came running in, apologizing for being late. The fair-skinned girl with bright blue hair ran around the counter, tossed her purse next to mine, looked up at Dalton Deangelo, screamed, and fainted into my arms.

As I waved my hands over young Amy's small face, trying to revive her, I was struck by how unfair the whole thing was. I'd certainly never fainted before, because that was something a
fun
person did.

Dalton ran back to the washroom, then returned and handed me a glass of water. I tossed it on Amy's face. Amy gasped and opened her eyes.

Dalton started to laugh. “That was for her to drink. Peaches, you’re wild!”

Amy wasn't as light as she looked, so I groaned as I eased her down to the floor. “Well, it worked, didn't it?”

“Don't hit me, Boss,” Amy said, pretending to cower, a strand of her blue hair stuck to her wet face.

Dalton reached down and helped Amy to her feet, grinning madly. “Miss, has she been abusing you? Perhaps there's a union you could join.”

Her brown eyes bugging out under her pale blond eyebrows, Amy gawked at Dalton, then me, then Dalton, then me again. “Is this really happening? Is Drake the vampire in our bookstore?”

“Not for long,” he said. “I'm taking Peaches to the wedding. I trust you'll be able to manage without her? We straightened out all the pens in the tin can already, so you should be set.”

Amy gave me a quizzical look. With one hand along the side of her dripping-wet face, she whispered to me, “Do you two know each other?”

“Not really—”

Dalton interrupted. “We're future old friends.”

Amy said to me, “He's very pushy. I've read that in interviews. This is just how he is.” She turned to Dalton and smiled. “I follow you online.”

He pulled an old-fashioned handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the water drops on her face.

“You follow my publicist,” he said, giving her a sly wink.

Amy, who was sixteen, but texted and tweeted like she was thirteen, gasped in horror.

I said, “Ah, the sweet sound of scales falling from a young person's eyes.”

Dalton cocked his head and asked me, “Young person? How old are you?”

“Twenty-two. But I've seen things.”

“Sure you have. But have you
done
things?”

“A couple things.”

“Good!” He tucked away the handkerchief and offered me his elbow. “I’m only into dating girls who’ve done a couple things.”

“Dating? I thought we were future old friends.”

“This is how we get there,” he said as he led me toward the front door.

I hesitated, looking back at a damp Amy, standing in my favorite comfortable spot behind the counter, near the yellow vintage phone. Behind her stood piles of special order books with customer tags sticking out like multi-colored paper tongues.

I turned my head to the left and looked over all my shelves, packed tight yet organized, far enough apart that one customer could walk past another without bumping butts, yet close enough to encourage friendly conversation. High above, one of the ferns looked like it needed some water, but I didn't dare ask Amy to do that job, as she tended to daze out and flood the shelves when given a watering can.

The bookstore was my whole life, set up just how I liked it. Sometimes in the evening, after we were closed and the lights were dimmed, I found it difficult to leave the space. I'd stay behind and watch the traffic on the rainy street outside, as people walked back and forth, going to Java Jones or DeNirro’s, unaware of me, sitting in the dark.

Dalton pulled open the front door, and the sounds of the world came in. He'd probably get a phone call and make some excuse before we were half-way there, and I'd be going to the wedding alone. I'd had other men make big promises before, and it always started like this: the grand, spontaneous gesture. The excuses kicked in later.

My eyes were wide open.

Dalton turned to me, his beautiful green eyes bright with promise. “Let's have some fun.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear. “Fun,” I agreed, and I walked ahead of him out the door.

“What is it about bridesmaids?” he asked as soon as we were outside.

I laughed. “Maybe it's our association with the bride, all dressed in white and virtuous.”

He held out his arm for me to hold his elbow, like a gentleman. “You, Peaches Monroe, are looking quite virtuous yourself. That pretty dress with all the ruffles. You're so clean and nice, you give me bad thoughts.”

I laughed, harder this time. “Wow. You don't waste any time. You just say whatever you want, don't you?”

He grinned. “I suspect I've met my match in you.”

“Are you always like this? I feel like I've known you for years, but I've been watching you on TV. You don't know me, though, but you seem pretty comfortable.”

“My car's this way,” he said, pulling me to the right. “And who's to say I don't already know you? Maybe we share a common past.”

“I think I'd remember that.”

He stopped walking and turned to look at me. Really look at me. With those gorgeous green eyes, set in that achingly handsome face.

I started to worry he was going to kiss me. Or not kiss me. Either way, I was in big trouble.

He looked down my body, along my fluffy bridesmaid gown, like he was formulating a plan to get it off of me.

Forget the wedding
, I thought.
Unzip me, bend me over, and make me call you weird names until the sun comes up.

He smiled, as if he was his vampire character, and could read my mind.

The wedding was for my cousin Marita, age thirty-three, and her partner James, who was a whopping four days over twenty. Marita had met him at a bar, where he'd gained entry with fake ID, and they'd started dating casually, “just for fun.” Neither of them had expected marriage, until suddenly it was happening. Marita had a certain glow about her, if you know what I mean.

His family was ultra conservative, and he had seven brothers and sisters, all of them older than him, and none of them married. I knew Marita to be a sensible, wonderful woman, but by the looks on her fiance's parents' faces, she was the she-devil who was about to ruin their youngest son's life and future.

Marita was a Monroe, after all, and our family has a bit of a reputation in Beaverdale, but that’s a complicated story I’ll tell you more about later.

Marita and James wore tight smiles through the brief ceremony at the chapel, but relaxed afterward, in the receiving line.
It's all done now
, their faces said.

Relief.

There’s a dentist's office to one side of the bookstore, and I know post-root-canal magnitude of relief when I see it.

By contrast, I was nervous and jittery.

To my surprise, Dalton Deangelo sat patiently on his own, in the back row, through the whole ceremony. Nobody fainted, or even recognized him, I suppose because most people in attendance weren’t watchers of vampire soap operas.

Dalton and I had arrived on the late side, which would have been unforgivable if I'd had any actual duties as bridesmaid, but I was simply a spare who'd been added at the last minute to balance out an extra groomsman. I stood in my place, holding my flowers, and making everyone else including the bride look slimmer by comparison for the photos.

Because there'd been no time to introduce Dalton to my family, the awkwardness with my parents was a treat to still look forward to.

The summer weather was hot, and the little chapel grew muggy with all the people inside, so I found Dalton and ducked outside to the front steps as soon as we could.

“That was a beautiful ceremony,” Dalton said. “Everything happened so fast. I don't know if I've ever been to a real wedding before.”

“You only go to fake weddings?”

“Yes.”

I smacked my forehead. “Oh, for the show. That's right. There've been…” I counted in my head. “Four weddings.”

He looked at me as if seeing me without any clothes on.

For the record, I did not hate this feeling.

“You're a fan of the show,” he said.

“Don't let it go to your head, but yes, I have worshiped you for years.”

He raised his eyebrows, sexy like an immortal TV vampire.

I rubbed my bare arms as a gentle summer breeze puckered the follicles on my arms and reminded me I was but a mere mortal. “I said don't let it go to your head, mister. I can stop watching any time I want.”

“Our ratings say otherwise.” He got an I-ate-the-whole-thing grin.

Our conversation was interrupted by my family walking up.

“What ratings?” asked my father. He squinted to protect his pale blue eyes in the bright sun, his red hair curly and golden. Before we could answer, he was onto a new topic, saying, “What they ought to have on the ceiling in there is a chain of fans. You could set them up in tandem and create a stream of air.”

“You should tell them, Dad.”

He ducked his head back, forming double chins of I-don’t-think-so, as though the idea of telling someone something they ought to know, such as the optimal way to ventilate a building, was preposterous.

My mother, who’s the same shade of blond and the same shape of voluptuous as me, couldn’t take her eyes off my surprise date. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes, tied with a red belt that matched her red shoes, her toes pointed demurely together as she gazed up at Dalton.