EPILOGUE
Willowberg, 121 years later
Who would have thought that finding green hair dye would be so hard? Eric hadn’t. Not that he was complaining. The distraction couldn’t have come at a better time.
Today was the day. Mitchell’s search was finally coming to an end. After hundreds of years, he had found her. Amelia. It was supposed to be a happy day. But … for Eric, not so much.
Jealous. That’s exactly how Eric felt. Well that and angry. For the last one-hundred and twenty-one years, Eric had somehow managed to slowly let go of Megan, burying the memories deep within him, and now … now Mitchell had to go and ruin it, resurrecting the love and longing Eric felt for her so long ago.
Mitchell had decided, like this morning, that he was moving out until Amelia settled in, because for some retarded reason that Eric couldn’t understand, Mitchell didn’t want her to know that they were vampires—yet. But that wasn’t even the worst part, not only was he moving out, but he had also given Eric the job of “Amelia’s chaperone.” Eric had agreed, of course. Really, what choice did he have? Except, the last thing he needed right now was to surround himself with a lovesick teenage girl.
Eric flipped down the visor and opened up the mirror, inspecting his new hair. The color turned out better than he had thought it would, and it matched his eyes perfectly. Note to self: next time just go to a hair place first, Eric thought, realizing how much time he would have saved if he hadn’t spent two hours driving around trying to find the right shade (or any shade for that matter) of green. It had been a spur of the moment decision, something to get his mind off Megan, and as he checked himself out, he was glad he did it.
With another quick inspection, he closed the visor and started up his Corvette. The engine purred to life, and he popped the car into gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed towards home.
The drive home took less than ten minutes, and before he knew it, Eric pulled his car up to the gate. He rolled down his window and grinned, when he caught Joe’s muffled laughter. “What’s so funny?” he asked, innocently glancing at the portly, balding guard in full uniform, except, he was pretty sure Joe was laughing at his hair.
Joe’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and he grinned. “The color suits you, Mr. Carter,” he said with a chuckle.
“How many times do I have to tell you, call me Eric,” he said as sternly as he could, and then he wrinkled his nose. “You make me feel so old.”
Joe shrugged, as if to say get used to it already, and then he flipped the switch, and the big iron gate clanked open. This had been a daily conversation for years, and still, for some reason, the guard insisted on calling him Mr. Carter. Eric was pretty sure he did it for a laugh, but man, it really did make him feel old.
“They here yet?” Eric asked, looking at the road before him.
“Not yet, Mr. Carter.” Eric grumbled something, and Joe’s smile widened. He rolled up the window, and thrust the car forward through the opened gate, climbing up the hilly street.
When he turned onto the driveway, and the house came into view, he clenched his jaw. It was all arches, turrets, and balconies, with a brown tiled roof and gray stone walls. A present for Amelia. Mitchell had the castle built after one of their dreams. It should have been magical. Seriously, he lived in a bloody castle, but with the way he was feeling, it looked more like a wicked witch’s castle than his home.
Eric tried to push the turmoil that was brewing inside him away, because really, he wasn’t one of those guys. He liked people. People liked him. Having Amelia around could be … fun.
He glanced at the clock on his dash. Twenty minutes. She’ll be here in twenty minutes. Megan’s bright eyes surfaced in his mind, and his stomach clenched with anxiety. Pull it together, he coached himself. She’s been gone for more than a hundred years.
With that little pep talk, he maneuvered his Corvette around the west side of the house and into a motor court with large carports on both sides and parked in the empty lot. He hastily turned off the car, jumped out, and then he ran up the stone-covered terrace steps and threw open the French doors leading to the kitchen.
Eric needed to calm his nerves. He padded over to the cherry-wood island. I need pancakes. Pancakes made everything better. It was in that moment that he clued in that the driveway had been empty. No one was home. And if no one was home, there was no Mabel to yell at him for cooking.
He set about the kitchen, pulling out a box of pancake mix and a frying pan. After reading the directions, and figuring even he couldn’t screw up pancakes, he turned on the stove and added some olive oil to the pan.
Eric carefully measured the mix, added the recommended amount of water, and began to stir, but no matter what utensil he tried, it looked … lumpy. Was it supposed to look like that? He shifted through the cupboards, looking for something else that might work, and he spotted the blender. Perfect! He grabbed it, quickly dumped in the lumpy mix, and plugged the blender in. He was just about to push the button when Mabel walked in, arms loaded with groceries. She dropped them at the door, put her hands on her round hips, and gave him one of her stern grandmother looks.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” she asked, narrowing her eyes further.
Eric grinned. “You weren’t here, so I thought I’d make pancakes,” he said. The oil in the frying pan began to crackle as it heated.
“With a blender?” she asked, clearly not amused, and she started towards him. She was wearing her favorite flowery apron, and her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun, making the dirty look she was shooting him appear more severe than it really should have been.
Eric glanced at the blender. It’s a good idea, he thought. He looked back up at her and grinned, his finger hovering over the button. She was overreacting, he was sure of it. It was just pancakes.
“Eric, no!” she hollered, just as he pushed down, and the blender roared to life.
Okay, maybe, just maybe, Mabel wasn’t actually overreacting. As soon as he pushed down, Eric clued in as to why she was yelling. Turns out, blenders have lids, or if they didn’t, Eric figured they should. The room exploded in a mess of yellowish pancake batter, coating Eric, and splashing onto Mabel. It dripped from the ceiling and covered the floors. It was a sticky, gooey mess, and Eric laughed.
Well, he laughed until the first strike came. Mabel screamed, a shrill sound that ruptured through him, and then she hit him on the backside with what felt like a stick. He spun around, his foot caught on the cupboard that he had left open, and a bunch of pots and pans clattered to the floor.
“Stop it,” he yelled, raising his arms as Mabel swung a broom at him. He jumped back, knocking a glass off the counter, and it crashed to the marble floor, shattering into pieces.
Mabel kept coming at him, screaming unintelligible curses about ruining her kitchen. “Ouch,” Eric groaned with amusement, trying to stifle his laughter, which was on the verge of exploding. He raised his arms in an attempt to protect himself from the blows of a broom swishing furiously at him. “It was an accident!” he cried out.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angelle fly through the door, looking furious and right on her heels … He blinked, and his jaw dropped—literally. Megan. Her hair was different, brown, not red, and her eyes … blue-gray, but everything else was her. Suddenly, she darted over to the fridge and whipped it open, and then Mabel hit him again.
“What the hell is going on?” Angelle yelled, jumping in front of Mabel. She snatched the broom and tossed it. It flew across the room, and slammed into the wall before clattering to the marble floor. “That’s enough.” She turned to Eric, grabbing him by the shoulder, and shoved him away, hard. Hard enough that his shoulder popped out of its joint and he had to bite back a growl as he snapped it back into place.
It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her. She’s Mitchell’s. Amelia. But even if he knew it … dammit! How was he going to survive this? Eric watched the girl run over to the stove, and that’s when he noticed the fire. She dumped a box of something on the burning grease-lit frying pan. The fire extinguished in a billowing cloud of smoke, and she started to cough.
“He’s ruining my kitchen. Look at this mess!” Mabel cried in a tizzy, surveying the mess.
Eric was rubbing his shoulders, looking at Angelle, because he seriously couldn’t look at the girl any longer. “I was just trying to make pancakes for Amelia,” he said. The name felt wrong on his tongue; he thought that the little lie might smooth over the mess, and then, because he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her, he gave the girl a bashful smile. Then he looked back over at Angelle and said, “And in case you missed it, she was hitting me. Why did you shove me like that?”
Angelle rolled her eyes in a dramatic show of annoyance. “I’m sure you deserved it, Eric. You usually do.” She looked over at Mabel, who was now scurrying around the kitchen, trying to clean up the mess. “What did he do, Mabel?”
“He used a blender without the lid,” Mabel said. Her voice was stern and a touch motherly. And she looked absolutely fit to be tied.
Eric shrugged. “Stirring was taking too long.” His heart was jumping into his throat, and he could barely catch his breath. He snuck a peek at the girl, and it took everything he had not to run to her and take her in his arms.
“You’re such a dork—and what’s with the hair?” Angelle laughed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You look like a little punk.”
“Don’t knock the hair,” Eric said, leaning back against the island, arms folded across his chest.
“You can’t go to the office like that,” Angelle said.
“Don’t have to. I’ve been promoted to personal chauffeur. And I think it looks great. I thought you would appreciate it.” He batted his eyes and struck a pose. “It totally matches my eyes.” He looked Amelia over again, and then pushed off from the counter, strolling towards her, and he felt a grin spread across his face. He dropped into a gallant bow, and a cute little giggle slipped from her lips. He took her hand in his, and kissed it lightly. “Welcome, my lady,” he said playfully.
Angelle groaned. “You are such a moron.”
Eric forced a laugh and dropped Amelia’s hand. If he had hoped that his skin would sizzle as it did when he had touched his Megan, he was disappointed. He strolled back over to the island, and leaned lazily, elbows propping him up.
“This is Mabel,” Angelle said with laughter in her voice. “She’s our housekeeper, cook, and den mother.”
“Hello, dear. How was your trip?” Mabel asked distractedly.
“It was okay,” Amelia answered, with the same sweet tones that Megan’s voice held. As she spoke, he watched her intently, waiting, wishing she would show some sign, any sign, that she felt something, anything, being so close to him.
“That’s good, dear. Look at this disaster.” Mabel let out a long, exasperated sigh. “At least I caught him before he burnt the house down.” She paused, scrubbing at the counters. “Why in the world were you making pancakes? It’s almost dinner time.”
“She had a long trip,” he shrugged. “Thought she’d be hungry.” Eric was still leaning against the counter, watching the girl, scanning her over from head to toe. Her heart was racing, fluttering like a humming bird’s wings, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
“We just finished rebuilding the kitchen from the last time Eric tried to cook,” Angelle added.
“Um, can I help clean up?” Amelia asked, and took a small step towards the sink, looking around.
“That’s okay, dear,” Mabel said. “You two run along now, and I’ll clean up this mess.” Mabel made a shoo-ing gesture and shot Eric a look, not a good one.
“That’s her nice way of saying get out of my space,” Angelle said, ushering the girl away from the mess. “Believe me, you don’t want to stay and help. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.” Angelle snagged the girl’s hand and started pulling her through the kitchen. As they went, Angelle glanced over her shoulder at him and said, “Eric, bring Millie’s bag to her room.”
“Make the tour quick,” Mabel said. “I don’t want you to be late for dinner. I’m making your favorite, Amelia, Fettuccini Alfredo with chicken.”
Angelle towed her through an open doorway, out of the kitchen, and into the living room.
The girl snuck a peek over her shoulder at Eric, catching him staring. His eyes met hers, and his heart stopped. They drew him in, and everything around him vanished. She flushed, and her beautiful heart fluttered. He had an overwhelming urge to run to her, pull her in his arms, and sink his teeth into her neck. He wanted to claim her. He wanted his name to appear on her neck. She licked her lips, and right then he knew he could, and she would let him.
She’s not yours! his conscious hissed, breaking the spell. He blinked and gave his head a little shake. She gasped, and he forced a grin on his face. He winked at her and turned away, leaving the kitchen as fast as he could.
Crap! Crap! Crap! The word echoed through his brain with each step he took. How the hell could this happen? What if Mitchell was wrong? Okay, Eric knew that was impossible. You can’t be wrong about the soulmate bond. It just doesn’t happen. Mitchell had been dreaming about that … that … girl for five years. But … but … his brain couldn’t finish the thought.
Eric rushed into his bedroom, closing the door, and leaned against it. He didn’t know how he would survive this or even if he could. No matter what his brain told him, his heart was pulling him in another direction. And his stupid, reckless heart was sure that his father’s Amelia was, in fact, his Megan.