Chapter 4

4

T he next morning, Rory and I had an unspoken agreement to pretend last night hadn't happened. We'd freaked ourselves out over nothing, and while I couldn't speak for him, I felt incredibly foolish.

After throwing on jeans and a hoodie and weaving my hair into a loose braid, I stepped out of the yurt into the glorious sunshine, Rory on my heels. I almost tripped over a family of raccoons lying in a cuddle pile in the middle of our porch. My arms windmilled to stop myself from falling. Rory grabbed the back of my hoodie to steady me and peeked over my shoulder. The mother raised her head and gave an adorable little chitter before settling down again.

"That's odd. They must be used to humans," Rory said.

"Guess so. You'd think the mama raccoon would be aggressive with us so near her young." But she clearly had little interest in us.

I stepped to the side and inched around the pile. Rory followed. The raccoons didn't budge.

I strode to the shortcut. I really wanted to take the long way, though walking along the road wasn't the safest. We'd almost been run down the first day, and with my other recent near-death motor experiences, we'd been using the cut-through ever since.

I steeled myself and stepped onto the path. In the daylight, the trail looked harmless. Just trees. Nothing sinister. Birds sang and squirrels scurried between the branches. Not a raven in sight. Made me feel even more foolish. We ambled until we came out the other side. I breathed a sigh of relief. See, only our overactive imaginations.

No sign of a fork in the path. One simple trail. Also, no sign of our umbrellas. Dammit.

In the diner, we slid into the booth we'd come to think of as ours. Bonnie wasn't there this morning, though the new server was nice enough. We ordered breakfasts and a big carafe of coffee.

I dumped two heaping spoonful of sugar and three half-n-half containers in my cup.

"Is there any room for coffee?" Rory poured the sludge into his mug. Black. Eww.

"Never heard that from you before." I had. Like a million times. Didn't care. Sugar and half-n-half made hell's ashes taste good. End of story. It took two cups before I felt human. Rory drank coffee all day long. I only needed it in the morning to get me going. When the food arrived, we both dug in to pancakes with real maple syrup like we hadn't eaten in a week.

One more cup of coffee later, I excused myself, slid from the booth and headed to the restroom. After relieving myself, I washed my hands and gave my hair a cursory check in the mirror. Everything in proper place.

I turned to leave, then jumped back.

"Fuck!" It came out as more of a squeak. I stood nose-to-nose with a vampire.

Alistair Buckborne, to be exact. One of the bigger names associated with this film.

He chuckled, and it sounded like the perfect villain laugh.

"Sorry. You scared me," I said, barely keeping up my British lilt. I gripped my shirt-front, backing up against the sink to put a few more inches between us. "I didn't see you."

He closed the gap, his nostrils flaring like he was smelling me.

"Yes, I've heard that before," he drawled in a voice that screamed old Hollywood. He grinned, showing his two very sharp-looking fangs. "Mirrors and all that."

Oh, right. Not sure what it was about mirrors since he showed up fine on film and in pictures. Just a vampire thing, I guess. Then again, vampires weren't allergic to garlic, holy water wasn't a thing, and they could go out in the daylight, though they burned easily. They did have enhanced strength and speed, and while not quite hypnosis, they could be very persuasive. Supposedly their blood had healing properties, even though they rarely shared it. And no, you couldn't become a vampire by drinking their blood. Another myth.

I tried to smile back and probably failed miserably. My heart still pounded. I'd heard he'd be in the film, though I'd assumed he wouldn't be so . . . modern . After all, he'd had the longest career of anyone in Hollywood and had been around since silent films. So, color me surprised he rocked the punk look. Tight, ripped jeans, Doc Martens, and lots of leather jewelry. He'd swept his hair up in a faux hawk fade and he'd donned a flannel shirt open to his navel. Nice touch. Really played to the locals. Pretty hot, too.

After he nudged me aside and stepped to the sink, he washed and dried his hands. I should have left, but my feet felt glued to the floor. Something about his aura held me captive.

"There now. I'm presentable." He held out a perfectly manicured hand, his nails painted an iridescent black. "Alistair Buckborne, though you may call me Ali."

I took his hand. "I'm—"

"Jeremie Summers. Yes, I'm aware. I've done my research on all the cast."

"Teremie, actually." Shit, I'd hoped not everyone would know about my past.

He squinted at me. "Did your mother have something against you?"

"Funny."

"Thank you."

The deadpan delivery made me chuckle.

"I didn't realize you were a method actor." He looked me up and down. "I distinctly recall that you're American, not British."

"I'm not a method actor. I just don't want to lose a bet. Rory McMahon is better at accents, but I don't plan to make it easy on him. I'm not substituting English words for American ones, though. Only the pronunciation."

"Of course. That's sensible."

Was he mocking me? He kept his face blank, and it took total concentration not to fidget. Having a vampire stare me down was intense. I wouldn't crack. I stared back.

Still staring. No cracking here.

"My mom loved you in I Dreamt of Scarlet ," I blurted like a simp. Dammit.

But seriously. The film, a sappy 1990s period drama set during the late 1600s vampire reformation, had been one of her favorite movies. While I'd never admit it aloud, I still choked up when Alistair's character sacrificed himself to save his true love—the town's minister—who couldn't bring himself to carry out the death sentence. Yes, I'd seen it more than once. I loved a good tearjerker.

"Between your name and that film, I'd say your mother is a woman of questionable taste."

"My mom had exquisite taste." I waved a hand at myself with a flourish as proof.

"Indeed. You are quite breathtaking. Ethereal, even." He'd said it like he was examining a rare piece of art. He smirked. "You know, Teremie , you don't smell like a cheater."

My eyebrows had to be in my hairline. "Well, Ali , you don't smell like a corpse."

Alistair guffawed. "Oh, I like you, precious. I think we're going to get along smashingly."

He exited the restroom without another word. Okaaay . Guess we were done chatting.

I waited a moment, then followed.

He'd strode straight to my table, where Rory sat animatedly talking with a beautiful woman. She had a pixie cut and large emerald-green eyes with a thick fringe of lashes. Had to be Poppy Doyle. She was playing the prince's love interest and the thief/hidden royalty in our merry little band. While I wasn't familiar with her work, she had a history in theater and had even won a Tony award for some Broadway production. Rory knew all the details. Of course.

Alistair slid into the booth beside her and placed a smacking kiss on her cheek. "Miss me?"

She ignored him as I sat next to Rory.

"Wow, you're stunning." Poppy said in an Italian accent. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. "I'm surprised they're not having you be the prince's love interest."

"You're sweet. But have you seen yourself? I don't think you have any competition." I held out a hand, which she took.

"Well, aren't you lovely? You must be Teremie. Rory explained about your little bet. I hope you don't mind me joining? It sounds like a lot of fun."

"Really, Poppy?" Alistair shook his head. "Don't encourage them, or everyone will do it."

She elbowed him. "Says the guy who speaks with a classic transatlantic accent."

I expected Rory to laugh. He loved playing with accents and would talk your ear off about the differences between a broad Australian and a generic Australian accent or an Arkansas versus Georgia Southern accent. I side-eyed him. His lips parted, and he stared at Alistair like he'd met his wet dream come to life. I nudged his thigh under the table so he'd stop staring. When he didn't respond, I shook my head.

"Ali, this is Rory. He's usually more talkative." I didn't add, "And not a creeper," though it was tempting.

"Charmed," the vampire said, giving my BFF a thorough once over.

"Aye, I am," Rory answered, blushing a fiery red.

Both Poppy and I snickered. Get it, Rory!

Alistair grinned, flashing his fangs, and I swear Rory trembled against me. And definitely not in fear. Who knew my bestie had a thing for vamps? How had I not known that?

After Matt, I'd never make a fool of myself over a man again. A year had a way of giving a guy perspective. I didn't mind watching someone else take a turn, though. I poured myself another cup of coffee and settled in for the show.

Breakfast turned out to be a fun affair, though Alistair didn't eat, since he'd had a bag of synthetic blood earlier in the morning and was only here to keep Poppy company. Turns out, they'd known each other for years and had been in a production of Richard III together.

"Come on, we'll give you a lift," Poppy insisted, her arm linked through mine as the four of us left the diner. I hadn't felt this relaxed with someone in a long time. "We're headed toward the ski lodge, anyway."

"I'm meeting with makeup and costuming so we can finalize the design," Alistair added. "I hope they aren't gluing on too many parts and pieces. You'd think a vampire would already be ideal to play a necromancer."

"Thanks, we'd love a lift. That would be a big help. I'm supposed to learn to sit on a horse today. Or at least not fall off one." Not like we could call a ride share out here, and I wasn't overeager to walk through the forest again.

Rory and I followed them toward a large truck. Only they walked around it. Two Yamaha motorcycles parked in the next slot. Oh, hell yes!

"Here we are." Poppy pointed. She handed me an extra helmet she'd strapped on the back. "Rory, you ride with Ali. I'm keeping Teremie to myself."

Ooh, she was evil. I liked her.

I tried not to laugh at Rory's deer-in-headlights expression. Being a redhead, when he blushed, it was extra obvious. And right now, his face matched his hair. I wouldn't have pegged Alistair as Rory's type. Rory liked big jocks, and Alistair wasn't tiny, but he and I shared a similar build—cut, while not at all bulky.

"Yes, good idea." Alistair preened under Rory's infatuation and handed him a helmet with a visor.

"You only have one." Rory tried to hand it back.

"I don't need a helmet. You can't say the same, sweet human. Make sure you hang on extra tight, my little laird. I always ride hard." He winked.

Rory slammed the helmet over his head—probably to hide his embarrassment—and gingerly climbed on the bike behind Alistair.

"Ooh, this is going to be so much fun." Ali waved at us before starting the motorcycle and zooming away with Rory holding on for dear life.

I shook my head. "Is he always like that?"

"Always." Poppy said fondly. "He'll keep things interesting on set, too. He's a bit of a prankster."

I groaned. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"He likes you," she said.

"Me? Seems he has his eye on Rory." I didn't get any sexual interest vibes from him at all.

"He has his eye on anything with a pulse. But no, I mean he likes you. Like in a friend way."

"Yeah? How can you tell?"

"The way he teases you. Plus, I know him. For all his sass, he has an uncanny sense of people. He's loyal as fuck and will have your back."

"That would be a nice change. I've only had Rory for . . . well, probably ever. I just didn't realize it until everything went to shit a year ago, and everyone else walked away."

"Perhaps it's time to expand your circle." She patted my arm, and we tugged on our helmets. I climbed on behind her.

"I appreciate you not asking to drive," she said once we were situated. "A lot of guys don't want to ride pillion."

I huffed. "A lot of men have issues with competent women and subscribe to toxic masculinity. I try my best not to be one of them."

"Good to know." She revved the engine. "You might want to put your arm around my waist. I have a thing for speed."

I'd only barely wrapped my arm around her when she peeled out of the parking lot even faster than Alistair. In no time, we raced into the lot by the yurts, where Alistair was dropping off Rory. The two of them seemed awfully friendly. I didn't have time to gawk as Poppy kept going and zoomed onto a sidetrack.

"I think they set up the horse stable on the other side of camp," she called.

We bumped along the dirt track until we saw new fencing that had been erected for the shoot. A string of horses trotted around in a ring with riders practicing complicated dismounts and jumps. Almost all the riders were women. They'd better have a stunt person for me, because not sure I could even sit on a horse, much less make it do anything.

Poppy pulled to the gate of another paddock. I hopped off and handed back her helmet. She lifted her visor and grimaced.

I followed her gaze. Hyde Hatcher. He stood in the center of the ring talking to a woman holding a horse's lead. He didn't appear happy. Seemed to be a thing with him.

"You don't like him?" I asked, quietly.

She sniffed. "I'll let you make up your own mind."

So, that would be a "no."

"I'm heading to Calumet to pick up some snacks at the IGA there. Want anything?" she asked.

"Isn't that back by the bridge?" There was only one way on and off this peninsula, and it was over a drawbridge.

She shrugged. "Yeah, it's like 40 minutes from here. Don't know if you've noticed, but we're pretty isolated."

"Smart ass. Fine." I asked for some of Rory's favorite snacks and a few other small items—including umbrellas—gave her some cash and waved as she drove off. Hated spending the money, though we received a per diem, at least, and I wanted to make sure my bestie had his favorites.

When I turned back to the paddock, Hyde was staring at me. Or glaring might be more accurate. What was the guy's deal?