My Midnight Moonlight Valentine (My Midnight Moonlight Valentine 1)

“Why is that?” he questioned, looking to read one of the quotes on the wall closest to him.

“Because…” I drew out, stepping in front of him. “I simply don’t, and this isn’t about me; this is about you. The sooner you remember what happened to you, the sooner you can get out of my hair, remember?”

He bent down and picked up one of my art history books, flipping through it and not paying attention to me. He didn’t reply, so once again, I stepped into his path. Placing my hand on the book, he glanced up at me.

“When I say I don’t have a lot of guests,” I whispered sternly, “I mean, I purposefully don’t invite people into my home. But I invited you because you seemed lost and you’re also the oldest vampire I’ve ever met. I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“You wish to ask me a great deal of questions,” he finished, and I nodded. “You have not been able to speak to other vampires?”

“The only other vampire I know is Mrs. Ming. She is an old vampire, like physically old, who works at a dry cleaner about ten minutes up the street. She’s not very welcoming. She prefers to be left alone. But she’s helped me once or twice. Other than that, you are the only vampire I’ve been able to speak with, which is why I’m trying to be nice by allowing you into my home.”

“It’s not because I saved you into beginning a mating ritual with me?” He grinned.

“Tricked me,” I glared. “And I have no idea why you’d do that. Sure, I didn’t want to help you in the beginning, but after you saved me, I would have been indebted to you anyway and would have helped.”

He snickered, rising back up to full height. “So, your first question is why I chose you as my mate?”

“Sure, we can sta

rt from there.” I rose back up, too.

“I am not sure you are ready for the answer, as you know nothing of our ways.” He glanced toward the bathroom, sniffing. “May I bathe? I do not wish to track any more dirt into your home.”

It was only then that I noticed, he had barely moved and was covered in dirt. Pressing my lips closed, I moved toward my bathroom, opening the door.

“Turn the knob towards the H for hot—”

“There were showers in 1920.” Theseus tried not to laugh at me.

“Never mind then,” I said, tossing one of my clean towels at him and closing the door behind me. “Try not to break the handles off anything, please.”

I waited outside the door, not sure he could actually figure it out, no matter how great the showers were a hundred years ago. But sure enough, I heard his clothes drop to the floor before he stepped inside the glass. It took only a second for the shower to come on and from the slight hum in the pipes, I knew he’d turned on the hot water full blast.

“You do not have to wait at the door. It is your bathroom; you may enter.” His voice startled me a bit, and I glanced over my shoulder.

“I’ll go see if I have any clean clothes you can wear.” I moved toward my bedroom.

There wouldn’t be. The only male clothes I had were a box of my father’s old things, which I kept in the back of my closet. After he’d died, I’d just put whatever I could in there and left. I wasn’t even sure what was in there anymore. He didn’t have much by the end of his life.

Dropping to my knees, I opened the first box but only found a few Peace Corps notes and flyers. The second was more of the same. It was only the last one that contained a few clothes: a short-sleeved shirt and some Red Cross sweatpants. I sniffed both, the smell of dust and a faint scent of downy fabric softener were the only scents I could smell. It hadn’t been that long, but my father’s scent was completely gone. Taking them both, I stepped back into the living room just as he stepped out of the bathroom with my burgundy towel around his waist. Water slid down his taut abs. His black hair was wavy and wet and clung to the top of his head.

Get it together, Druella. “That was fast?”

“Your neighbor also began using his shower and is singing,” he grumbled.

I closed my eyes, and sure enough, I heard the terrible gruff voice from the man next door, signing the worst rendition of “Into the Groove” I’d ever heard.

“What you don’t like Madonna’s music?” I joked, handing him the clothes and trying not to look at his chest again.

“I do not know what this Madonna is or if that is the name of the man singing, but either way, I am insulted on behalf music,” he replied, taking the clothes from me.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “You’re just going to suck up it sadly; homeless people cannot complain about my neighbors.”

“I am not homeless,” he said, taking the shirt and placing it over his head. “I have several estates across Europe, and those under me, as well as family that would manage whether I have been there or not.”

Several estates…across Europe!

What?