remind her.” Her voice took on a desperate quality. “You do think she’ll come, don’t you?”
Never in a million years. “I’m sure she wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I know. My bad. But she sounded so hopeful that I couldn’t bring myself to break the news. “The only way she would miss something of this magnitude is if she were kidnapped and bound with ropes of garlic.”
“You’re so funny, Lil. I’m so glad we’re going to be sisters. I always wanted a sister. Someone I could talk to about boys and do makeup with and try out new hairdos with.”
“If you ask to borrow my clothes, I’m hanging up.” A girl had to have her boundaries.
She laughed. “Hurry over, okay? I don’t know where to start. This is like the most important thing ever. ”
“The biggie,” I agreed. “Top of the mountain.”
She went silent for a long moment. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“How could I forget the most important thing ever ?” Unless, of course, I was stressed out of my head with an MIA made vampire, a meddling mother, and a struggling business. “But let’s just say—in theory—that I did forget. What would it be that actually slipped my mind?”
“The bridal shop. I left the address on your cell. I’m picking out the wedding dress tonight.”
“Now?”
“Right now, and I really need your advice.”
I eyed the stack of profiles that begged for my undivided attention. I also had an in-box full of e-mail. I had to proof the newest ad for the local newspaper. I’d promised to help Word with his profile when he finished up with the computer. I needed to get a bag of kitty litter and a bed for Killer. And —and this was the biggie—I had to find Ty before something really bad happened.
I didn’t have time to lounge around at Vera Wang, a glass of champagne in hand, and spend someone else’s money on a ridiculously expensive dress that would only be worn—
Wait a second. Was I insane?
Free drinks?
Shopping?
Someone else’s green?
“I’m on my way.”
Eight
T hey say confession is good for the soul. Being a denizen of the dark (and because I mowed down that lady at Barney’s last week trying to get to a half-off BCBG bag), I need all the help I can get. So here goes…
I’ve had the fantasy.
No, I’m not talking the one about winning the lottery or being Brad Pitt’s one and only or being a rock star/supermodel/Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
I’m talking the fantasy.
The (big sigh) wedding fantasy.
The one with the white doves and sprays of pink roses and the ice sculpture shaped like my favorite Salvatore Ferragamo hobo bag. The MAC Super Luster lip gloss favors for the women, mini-bottles of Ralph Lauren for the men. A horse-drawn carriage. A multitiered cake done in the palest pink with edible silver bows and French piping.
I know, I know. I’m a vampire who can’t eat solid food. What the hell am I doing envisioning a wedding cake? But they smell scrumptious and you can’t have a wedding without a cake.
Since I was someday hoping for my own dum, dum, da-dum, I couldn’t help but be excited for Mandy. I dropped Killer off at home—with a saucer of milk and several newspapers—and took a cab to the address my soon-to-be sister-in-law had left on my cell.
“But this is Queens,” I told the driver when he finally pulled up in front of the small shop located between a Vietnamese bakery and a pizza parlor, far, far away from Vera or Lazaro or Jim Hjelm, or any of the other prominent designers of bridal couture.
“This is the address, lady. That’ll be fifteen bucks.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “That is, unless you want to take it out in trade.”
No, really. Such is the life of a vampire with mucho sex appeal and really great accessories.
“Here’s a twenty.” I handed him the money.
His face fell. “You sure?”
I stared into his eyes and saw more than I ever wanted to know about Wally Gillespie aka
Never in a million years. “I’m sure she wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I know. My bad. But she sounded so hopeful that I couldn’t bring myself to break the news. “The only way she would miss something of this magnitude is if she were kidnapped and bound with ropes of garlic.”
“You’re so funny, Lil. I’m so glad we’re going to be sisters. I always wanted a sister. Someone I could talk to about boys and do makeup with and try out new hairdos with.”
“If you ask to borrow my clothes, I’m hanging up.” A girl had to have her boundaries.
She laughed. “Hurry over, okay? I don’t know where to start. This is like the most important thing ever. ”
“The biggie,” I agreed. “Top of the mountain.”
She went silent for a long moment. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“How could I forget the most important thing ever ?” Unless, of course, I was stressed out of my head with an MIA made vampire, a meddling mother, and a struggling business. “But let’s just say—in theory—that I did forget. What would it be that actually slipped my mind?”
“The bridal shop. I left the address on your cell. I’m picking out the wedding dress tonight.”
“Now?”
“Right now, and I really need your advice.”
I eyed the stack of profiles that begged for my undivided attention. I also had an in-box full of e-mail. I had to proof the newest ad for the local newspaper. I’d promised to help Word with his profile when he finished up with the computer. I needed to get a bag of kitty litter and a bed for Killer. And —and this was the biggie—I had to find Ty before something really bad happened.
I didn’t have time to lounge around at Vera Wang, a glass of champagne in hand, and spend someone else’s money on a ridiculously expensive dress that would only be worn—
Wait a second. Was I insane?
Free drinks?
Shopping?
Someone else’s green?
“I’m on my way.”
Eight
T hey say confession is good for the soul. Being a denizen of the dark (and because I mowed down that lady at Barney’s last week trying to get to a half-off BCBG bag), I need all the help I can get. So here goes…
I’ve had the fantasy.
No, I’m not talking the one about winning the lottery or being Brad Pitt’s one and only or being a rock star/supermodel/Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
I’m talking the fantasy.
The (big sigh) wedding fantasy.
The one with the white doves and sprays of pink roses and the ice sculpture shaped like my favorite Salvatore Ferragamo hobo bag. The MAC Super Luster lip gloss favors for the women, mini-bottles of Ralph Lauren for the men. A horse-drawn carriage. A multitiered cake done in the palest pink with edible silver bows and French piping.
I know, I know. I’m a vampire who can’t eat solid food. What the hell am I doing envisioning a wedding cake? But they smell scrumptious and you can’t have a wedding without a cake.
Since I was someday hoping for my own dum, dum, da-dum, I couldn’t help but be excited for Mandy. I dropped Killer off at home—with a saucer of milk and several newspapers—and took a cab to the address my soon-to-be sister-in-law had left on my cell.
“But this is Queens,” I told the driver when he finally pulled up in front of the small shop located between a Vietnamese bakery and a pizza parlor, far, far away from Vera or Lazaro or Jim Hjelm, or any of the other prominent designers of bridal couture.
“This is the address, lady. That’ll be fifteen bucks.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “That is, unless you want to take it out in trade.”
No, really. Such is the life of a vampire with mucho sex appeal and really great accessories.
“Here’s a twenty.” I handed him the money.
His face fell. “You sure?”
I stared into his eyes and saw more than I ever wanted to know about Wally Gillespie aka
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