over me as if I were already pregnant. She made Nina move to the love seat so that I could sit in the recliner. She made me put my feet up while she rushed off to the kitchen to mix up a cup. She even left a canister of the stuff so that I could enjoy another cup later. Isn’t that thoughtful?”
“She definitely did a lot of thinking.” And plotting. And planning. “Listen, Mandy. Don’t drink any more, okay?”
“But why? It’s so delicious.”
“Because …”
Because your night creeping mother-in-law doesn’t want human grandchildren and will do anything to sabotage your chances.
Because she’s a controlling, manipulative born bloodsucker who wants everything her own way.
“Because it’s chocolate,” I blurted, my mind racing for a plausible excuse that wouldn’t hurt her feelings and start a major family feud. “Chocolate has caffeine and caffeine is bad for you.”
“Not in such a small amount, silly.” She paused as if remembering something. “Then again, I don’t want to do anything that might inhibit my chances at conception. Maybe I should lay off the caffeine entirely.”
Atta girl. “It’s the only way to be totally safe.”
“I’ll give the rest to Jack. He loves hot chocolate.”
“That might not be such a good idea.”
“Why?”
Who knew what Yaz-tainted hot chocolate would do to a male BV’s fertility rating. A quick mental of Jack’s Mr. Happy withering up and falling off and I blurted, “If you have to give up your favorites, he should have to sacrifice a little, too. He is the father.”
“True.” She seemed to think. “It really isn’t fair that my butt spreads and my ankles swell, while he sits around sucking down imported chocolate and getting massages.”
“Massages? You mean …” I wasn’t going to think it, much less say it.
“Hans is here.”
Hans was six feet plus of beautiful, blond Swede. He had bulging muscles and awesome hands and I lusted after his hot oil massage the way a PMSing female lusts after a triple chunk brownie.
Unfortunately, my mother kept Hans to herself and so I’d only experienced the magic once, when she and my father had attended an Old World French Vampires reunion in Paris.
I’d been house-sitting and Hans had been bored and, well, abracadabra.
“She really left Hans with you?”
“She said a massage would relax Jack and up his chances of shooting a bull’s-eye.”
And give her a spy in the house hold to report back Jack and Mandy’s every conception attempt.
Big Brother had nothing on Big Mama.
“You don’t need a massage. What you need is some alone time with my brother.”
“I do feel funny having a stranger in the apartment. I tend to get a little noisy when we’re, you know, having intercourse.”
Too much info. “It’s settled, then. Send him over to my place and I’ll see that he gets back to my mom.”
“You’d do that for us?”
“What are sisters for?”
“You’re the greatest. I swear, you and your mom are two peas in the same pod.”
As if I weren’t feeling crappy enough over Esther’s disappearance, Mandy’s comment stirred up a giant wave of Ugh, my afterlife sucks. I said good-bye, gave a last warning about the chocolate and hung up. And then I shifted my attention to the stack of bills sitting on the corner of my desk.
I was this close to staking myself as it was. Might as well go for broke.
W hen the whole world is going to Hades in a Hermès silk bag (we’re talking a major stack of bills), there are certain strategies a girl must employ to get by: a double spritz of my favorite, Gucci Rush, an extra-large Starbucks House Blend with three shots of espresso and ten minutes of online lusting at Bloomingdales.com (that would be online shopping for anyone with a lucrative job who doesn’t rely on the dating habits of the fanged and fickle).
“I’m heading out.” Evie ducked her head in the doorway. “Don’t forget to brainstorm some tag lines for the brochure.
“She definitely did a lot of thinking.” And plotting. And planning. “Listen, Mandy. Don’t drink any more, okay?”
“But why? It’s so delicious.”
“Because …”
Because your night creeping mother-in-law doesn’t want human grandchildren and will do anything to sabotage your chances.
Because she’s a controlling, manipulative born bloodsucker who wants everything her own way.
“Because it’s chocolate,” I blurted, my mind racing for a plausible excuse that wouldn’t hurt her feelings and start a major family feud. “Chocolate has caffeine and caffeine is bad for you.”
“Not in such a small amount, silly.” She paused as if remembering something. “Then again, I don’t want to do anything that might inhibit my chances at conception. Maybe I should lay off the caffeine entirely.”
Atta girl. “It’s the only way to be totally safe.”
“I’ll give the rest to Jack. He loves hot chocolate.”
“That might not be such a good idea.”
“Why?”
Who knew what Yaz-tainted hot chocolate would do to a male BV’s fertility rating. A quick mental of Jack’s Mr. Happy withering up and falling off and I blurted, “If you have to give up your favorites, he should have to sacrifice a little, too. He is the father.”
“True.” She seemed to think. “It really isn’t fair that my butt spreads and my ankles swell, while he sits around sucking down imported chocolate and getting massages.”
“Massages? You mean …” I wasn’t going to think it, much less say it.
“Hans is here.”
Hans was six feet plus of beautiful, blond Swede. He had bulging muscles and awesome hands and I lusted after his hot oil massage the way a PMSing female lusts after a triple chunk brownie.
Unfortunately, my mother kept Hans to herself and so I’d only experienced the magic once, when she and my father had attended an Old World French Vampires reunion in Paris.
I’d been house-sitting and Hans had been bored and, well, abracadabra.
“She really left Hans with you?”
“She said a massage would relax Jack and up his chances of shooting a bull’s-eye.”
And give her a spy in the house hold to report back Jack and Mandy’s every conception attempt.
Big Brother had nothing on Big Mama.
“You don’t need a massage. What you need is some alone time with my brother.”
“I do feel funny having a stranger in the apartment. I tend to get a little noisy when we’re, you know, having intercourse.”
Too much info. “It’s settled, then. Send him over to my place and I’ll see that he gets back to my mom.”
“You’d do that for us?”
“What are sisters for?”
“You’re the greatest. I swear, you and your mom are two peas in the same pod.”
As if I weren’t feeling crappy enough over Esther’s disappearance, Mandy’s comment stirred up a giant wave of Ugh, my afterlife sucks. I said good-bye, gave a last warning about the chocolate and hung up. And then I shifted my attention to the stack of bills sitting on the corner of my desk.
I was this close to staking myself as it was. Might as well go for broke.
W hen the whole world is going to Hades in a Hermès silk bag (we’re talking a major stack of bills), there are certain strategies a girl must employ to get by: a double spritz of my favorite, Gucci Rush, an extra-large Starbucks House Blend with three shots of espresso and ten minutes of online lusting at Bloomingdales.com (that would be online shopping for anyone with a lucrative job who doesn’t rely on the dating habits of the fanged and fickle).
“I’m heading out.” Evie ducked her head in the doorway. “Don’t forget to brainstorm some tag lines for the brochure.
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