Page 39

The idea of Noah sitting next to me at my stand is almost too cozy.

“Okay, but it’s not all that exciting…”

“I didn’t figure it would be.”

“But the food is good—and there’s a guy who roasts turkey legs. That seems like something you’d like,” I say, feeling I should defend it. “And my brother is playing tonight, so the music should be decent.”

“What time do you leave?”

“About four.”

“I’ll be here at three thirty.” Noah turns toward the door. “I hope your medical consultation goes well.”

I don’t tell him it was canceled. I barely remember to say goodbye.

With a wave, he’s out the door.

I scanthe email I just got from Montgomery, relieved he didn’t ask to reschedule. He just wants to know if I’ve read the pamphlets, taken my first dose of blood (spoiler—I haven’t), and if I have questions. He’s also been in touch with my dietitian, and apparently, I need to tell him what time I’m free for an appointment next week.

His email is distant and professional. On one hand, that’s a relief. I don’t want someone hovering over me constantly. On the other, it’s going to be uncomfortable having an aloof conservator.

Before I can respond, the doorbell rings, and I snap my laptop closed. My phone says Noah’s right on time.

Nervous, I pause to look at my reflection in the hall tree mirror. I look okay…maybe even good. Feeling pretty, I test a smile. I’d probably have a little more color if I’d started taking my blood, but I had a steak for lunch. Baby steps, you know?

I swing the door open, catching myself before I beam at him.

This isn’t a date.

Noah turns from the baby petunias I recently replanted in the pot by the front door, his eyes sweeping over me.

I’m in jeans and a fitted T-shirt with my business logo. I also have my hair down, and I’m wearing a baseball cap because it’s still sunny.

He frowns. “It’s a little warm for a long sleeve, don’t you think?”

“It cools off in the evenings. And sometimes, the mosquitoes come out.”

Not that I have to worry about them anymore. That was another odd quirk covered in the pamphlets—mosquitoes won’t feed on blood tainted with Vampiria B. Professional courtesy and all that.

“I doubt they’ll mess with you now,” Noah says.

That catches me off guard. “What?”

“The mosquitoes.” He nods toward my fabric-covered arms. “Because you’re all covered up.”

“Oh.” I laugh a little, deciding this disease is making me paranoid. “Right.”

I step out the door and head around the back of the house, waving for him to follow me.

“I harvested everything this morning, so we just have to grab the buckets from the cellar.”

“You have a cellar?” Noah asks from behind me.

“My grandfather put it in for my grandmother. This place belongs to them. The area I use for my flowers used to be a huge vegetable garden. We’d stock the cellar every year.” I look over my shoulder, smiling. “I still do. But now I fill it with flowers instead of pumpkins and canned tomatoes.”

Noah’s bemused smile reaches his eyes. Distracted, I stumble on an uneven paver. Immediately, he reaches out, catching my arm. “Careful there.”

His eyes are muted honey—light brown, touched with shadows, and framed with dark lashes.