I linked arms with Nina and guided her through the crowd. “We’re here. You might as well get your book signed.”
We stopped in front of Edie’s table and I felt Nina stiffen, heard her let out a tiny yip. Her eyes were Disney cartoon wide, and her small chin hitched upward, with lips slightly parted. I started to panic.
I knew this look.
I loathed this look.
I followed Nina’s laser-sharp gaze and gave a little yip myself.
He was beautiful. He was hunched over, with one perfect, large hand resting on Edie Havenhurst’s shoulder. Even in this crouching state you could tell that this man was tall, commanding; he wore his confidence as well as he wore his relaxed Chinos and his smart blue button-down shirt. His eyes—an amazing cross between golden wheat and burnt sugar—were focused wholly on Nina.
The bookstore din seemed to fade and I realized I was trapped inside Nina and Mr. Perfect’s lovestruck bubble. I stepped forward and gave Nina a hard, for-her-own-good shove. She pitched forward, breaking the mesmerizing stare, throwing her copy of Fendi and Fangs forward so that it hit poor, unsuspecting Edie smack between her too-small eyes.
While Edie rubbed vigorously at the red spot that the book had left, I noticed that her fingers were short, her nails stubby and bitten to the quick, and that I had likely lost Nina forever.
“Oh geez,” I breathed out.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want my best friend to find true love. I did. For years I lived vicariously through Nina’s never-ending parade of well-muscled party boys and San Francisco power brokers. She brought home millionaires and dukes, and they almost always left with all their blood. But when her eyes went wide and her lips pursed like that, I knew there was going to be trouble—and I was the one usually up to my neck in it.
“Oh, are you okay?” His smooth voice matched his burnt-sugar eyes.
“I’m fine.” Nina’s voice came out soft and breathy—like a sex kitten or Michael Jackson. “I’m Nina.”
“Harley.” The man held out that perfect hand and Nina grasped it; the whole exchange happened just above Edie’s dark roots.
“I’m Sophie and we were just leaving.” I thanked Edie for politely ignoring the Taylor Swift video going on above her, jammed Nina’s now-signed copy of Fendi and Fangs into my purse, and pushed Nina away from the signing table.
“Harley.” Nina was mouthing the word, her tongue snaking over her lips. “I think I’ve found my Prince Charming.”
“Oh, not again,” I groaned.
Before I could suck in a breath, Nina shook me off and disappeared back into the crowd of gawkers and vampire fans. She pushed her way through them with purpose and I knew—with a sickening, sinking feeling—that she was headed back toward Prince Charming, in search of her happily-ever-afterlife. The people around me seemed to close in, their voices churning around me, and I could hear the vague pulse of the VERMers’ protest cries outside. I felt myself being jostled and tugged by the crowd moving toward Edie. Sweat started to bead at my hairline as panic gripped my chest.
And then there were hands on my shoulders. I sank back against a warm body and glanced up at Will, who slipped his arms around me—part Guardian, part friendly protection—and pulled me to the empty table that Alex and I had shared a day earlier. I sank down gratefully, using my fingertips to rub small circles on my temples until I could feel the tension loosen.
“I think I was about to have a panic attack,” I said.
“Should we get out of here?”
I shook my head. “I can’t leave without Nina. She could be in”—I paused—“love.”
Will looked alarmed, leaning into me. “Is he ... ?”
“A vampire?” I supplied. “No.”
“Is that allowed?”
I shrugged as Nina wound her way through the crowd to where Will and I were stationed. Harley was walking behind her, and both were beaming wild, maniacal, puppy love grins.
“Crap,” I muttered under my breath.
“Will, Sophie.” Nina tore her eyes away from Harley in a way that made it obvious that it pained her to do so. She looked at Will and me. “This is Harley. Harley, my best friend, Sophie, and her friend Will. Harley is a writer.”
“Like the Havenhurst bird?”
Harley raised a fawn-colored eyebrow. “Not exactly.”
“Harley writes nonfiction. He’s here on a publicity tour.”
Without missing a beat Harley presented me with a thick hardcover book, the title Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist in bold red letters on the cover.
I stopped, grinned, and showed the book to Nina.
“Did you see this, Nees? It’s a book about legends.”