“Ooo, now I want fried chicken.”
She gets a dreamy look in her eye, and I laugh.
“And fried chicken you will get, my lady. Let’s go.” I start toward the door again, but she resists.
“I still need to get my purse, because that’s where my keys are. You want me to be able to lock up, don’t you?”
“Of course. Safety first.”
She disappears into her bedroom to grab her purse, slips her shoes on, locks the door behind us, and finally takes my hand again.
As the elevator descends to the lobby, she asks, “Can I lick my own fingers?”
I groan. “Wendy …”
“I’m talking about when I’m eating my fried chicken.” She pokes me in the ribs. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“You put it there, you evil vampire Munchkin witch.”
She giggles. “I’m loving all the nicknames. Now I need some good ones for you.”
* * *
“So, Ponyboy,” Wendy says, “are you ready to explain why you won’t kiss me?”
“Really? You’re going with Ponyboy?”
As we walked to the diner and while we perused the menu, Wendy tried out a host of potential nicknames, from guttersnipe to chickadee to lip-hater and more. I nixed them all.
“Yep. You look like an older, handsomer version of C. Thomas Howell.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I hope I don’t remind you of his character inThe Outsiders.And aren’t you a little …” I trail off when I realize what I was about to say.
“Aren’t I a little what?” Wendy’s jaw is set, and I don’t like the look in her eyes.
“A little … beautiful, good, vampire witch?”
“A littlewhat,Randall?”
Why did I hint at her age? “I’m not going to say it. I shouldn’t have thought it.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Twenty-three?”
She glares at me, and I sigh. I might as well admit the truth. “I know you’re thirty.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “How do you know that?”
“Ash told me.”
She closes her eyes and inhales through her nose. “I’m going to kill Leslie.”
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Look at me.”
She reluctantly opens her eyes.
“I don’t care how old you are. It does not now nor will it ever bother me that you’re older than me. Okay?”
