21. A Table for Four
Chapter twenty-one
A Table for Four
Nicolette
E very eye turned toward Julian and me as we walked into the dining room of the Olde Pink House—which, ironically, had green walls instead of pink.
The smell of caramelized onions and vanilla butter drifted through the air, warm and decadent.
But the lively chatter dulled the moment we stepped inside, as if someone had turned down the volume knob for the entire restaurant.
People stared openly. Whispered. Assessed.
We were holding hands like a normal couple.
And oddly . . . it felt like we were one.
Even though nothing about our situation was remotely normal. Least of all the fact that Julian was a vampire.
But now I had actual proof—real, biological proof—that he was still part human. Something had happened in his genome. Some rare, dramatic mutation. That second band on the gel wasn’t just a minor thing; it was packed with additional genetic material. A whole insertion event.
It was going to take me time to unravel it—mapping the sequence, determining whether it was viral in origin, figuring out how it altered his metabolic pathways.
And then there was the protein in my blood, the one that behaved like some kind of vampire-specific modulator.
Not a cure, not yet, but something that clearly interacted with his altered physiology.
And layered on top of all that was the deepening mystery surrounding my mother . . . and Delia.
I was exhausted just thinking about it. And paranoid. Wondering who was watching me.
At that moment, the answer was: everyone.
As Julian and I wove between the tables, people didn’t even bother pretending they weren’t staring. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Forks hovered halfway to mouths. Couples leaned toward each other to whisper behind their hands.
“What are they saying?” I murmured out of the side of my mouth to Julian. “Or maybe I don’t want to know,” I added quickly. It hit me how bizarre it would be to overhear conversations never meant for you. Probably a blessing not to know exactly what people thought of you at any given moment.
Julian chuckled low, the sound warm against my ear, before leaning in. “They think I’m a very lucky man. Mrs. Giles, over near the window table, thinks you have the perkiest boobs she’s ever seen.”
I snorted and swatted his arm. “She did not say that.”
“Indeed she did,” Julian crooned, far too pleased with himself. “And I happen to agree with her.” Julian kissed my cheek.
Heat rushed up my neck, and I leaned into him without thinking as we made our way toward my dad’s table in the corner.
Dad stood the moment he saw us, his pinched brow saying everything he didn’t voice.
He hated this—hated the ease between Julian and me, hated that we looked like a couple who actually liked each other.
If only he knew what we were dealing with.
If only he understood the shift between us.
Maybe then he’d stop looking at Julian like he wished he had a wooden stake he could drive through his heart.
And honestly, it was in both my father’s and my best interests that everyone believe Julian and I were a match made in heaven.
Now more than ever, we needed the rumors about my marriage to die down.
Assuming Julian’s family wasn’t in league with the psycho after me, we needed their protection until science could step in.
I wished I could tell my father everything, but I couldn’t take that risk. I didn’t know who I could trust anymore. And maybe I was an idiot for trusting Julian. But what other choice did I have? My options were limited. And I was up against things I’d never imagined before.
“Hey, Dad,” I said as cheerily as I could, trying not to notice the empty shot glasses on the table. I hated that he was using whiskey as a coping mechanism. “Sorry we’re running a little late. I got caught up in a conversation.”
Dad shook his head, and it was like that switched some sort of button and activated the happy version of him I’d heard when we’d spoken on the phone.
Dad grinned wide. I don’t think I’d ever even seen his teeth before when he smiled.
“It’s all right. Delia isn’t here yet,” he said.
My stomach dropped. I gripped Julian’s hand, squeezing the life out of it. “Delia’s coming? You didn’t mention that.” I tried to keep my voice steady.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind. When she was at the house last, she said how much she missed you and—”
“How often does she come over now?” The question burst out before I could stop it. Was my dad dating her? His wife’s best friend? Even if I hadn’t had concerns about Delia, it just didn’t seem . . . kosher.
Dad cleared his throat and waved for us to sit. He was obviously stalling. And the second he did it, I knew I wasn’t going to like his answer.
“Please, have a seat.”
Julian kissed the side of my head—subtle, comforting—before pulling out my chair.
He alone understood how disconcerting this was for me.
There was a real possibility Delia had done my mother’s autopsy and lied about it, and now suddenly she was spending time with my father? Something was terribly off.
Julian and my father each took one of my sides at the smallish round table, its candlelight shimmering across pretty china and crystal goblets waiting to be filled.
Dad patted the hand I’d placed on the table—my fingers itched to grip the tablecloth instead. “She’s been helping me sort through your mother’s things. I figured it was time.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to help?”
Dad’s eyes flicked toward Julian, and he tried to maintain this cheerful version of himself. But I swore I saw him fight off a frown. “I figured you had enough on your plate, and Delia offered.”
She offered?
Why would she offer that?
“Are you dating her?” I asked point-blank.
Dad shook his head immediately. “No. No. It’s not like that. Just two friends getting together and going through memories. Delia knew your mother long before I did.”
I knew that part was true. My parents met by chance on a subway in New York—my mom on vacation, my dad on a business trip.
He’d been a young executive for a pharmaceutical company back then.
It wasn’t until after they married that they started Hart Labs.
It had been my mother’s dream, and my father made it real.
Who could have predicted the nightmare it was all becoming?
“I need Delia’s stories about your mother right now,” Dad said softly, almost pleading for me to believe him.
Something about the raw vulnerability in his voice made me want to. But the knot forming in my stomach told me something was off.
Julian placed his hand on my thigh under the table, knowing exactly how this news would hit me. The slow brush of his thumb wasn’t random; it was a message. And if I wasn’t mistaken, he was telling me to play along. To stay calm. To see where this led.
So I took a deep breath and reminded myself what was at stake.
My life.
I forced a smile and took my father’s hand. “I’m glad you feel like you have someone you can talk to about Mom. It’s really nice of Delia to help you,” I managed, my voice light even though the words scraped my throat coming out.
Julian squeezed my thigh—subtle, approving. Good. Keep going.
How much longer was I going to have to keep up all these charades? My marriage was feeling less and less like one, but everything else in my life felt like a performance. A strategy. A calculation.
It was as if my entire existence had turned into a game of survival, and every move I made could end in my execution.
I felt like a pawn on a chessboard.
Dad let out a sigh of relief and raised his hand to flag down our server. “Another shot, please. And bring drinks for my daughter and her . . . uh . . . my . . . son-in-law.” He pointed at Julian.
And that’s when I knew something was definitely off. Even Julian looked shocked. My father wasn’t this good an actor. No way would he call Julian his son-in-law.
Or maybe he’d just had too much to drink already and wasn’t thinking clearly. But I had a feeling that wasn’t it.
I wanted to tell the server not to bring my father another shot, but instead I ordered water with a lemon twist. Julian did the same. We were still abstaining from alcohol, wary of anything that might lower our inhibitions.
Good thing, too. Because the pull Julian had on me wasn’t just that primal, biological tug anymore—something instinctive and chemical and out of my control. No, this was different. More dangerous.
He made me feel seen. He made me feel wanted.
That was far more intoxicating than the allure of the vampire within him.
The man in him was much more attractive.
That man . . . I could see giving myself to.
Before our drinks arrived, and while we were still pretending to study the menu, Delia appeared.
“Hello, sorry I’m late,” she said, far too chipper.
Delia wasn’t chipper.
Delia was sarcastic, biting, maybe even a little bitter. That was why I loved her. She said the things everyone else was thinking but didn’t have the guts to say out loud. She was sharp and dry and unapologetically herself.
This version of her?
This bright, bubbly, peppy version?
I didn’t recognize her at all.
It was like she and my dad had taken some happy pills or something. It was disconcerting. I needed the surly versions of them back. That was normal.
Dad practically launched himself out of his chair like he’d been spring-loaded and pulled out the seat across from me for Delia.
Which meant I’d have to watch my facial expressions and my tongue.
Fantastic. This was not the night I’d signed up for.
At this rate, I would rather have received another note from my stalker than deal with . . . whatever this was.
Before sitting, Delia gave me an awkward side hug.
Delia did not hug.
Delia barely tolerated handshakes.
Delia once told me physical affection was “for people who needed constant validation,” and she was “far too busy for that nonsense.”