© Vampires Love Garlic, Ashley Chapman, copyright 2026

9

McKenzie

Hypnotic

I don’t have to be a vampire to feel Heather’s horror.

I don’t have to be a mind-reader to see every thought flickering in those pretty eyes of hers.

Something along the lines of “oh shit” and “I’m so embarrassed.”

Actually.

“Gosh.”

She wouldn’t use “shit.”

She’s completely frozen, poor thing.

“You weren’t supposed to be home!” she gasps when her tongue decides to work again. “You’re in Charleston!”

“I finished business early,” I say, noticing that she hasn’t moved her hands. They’re glued to my pecs. “I was coming in here to find some clothes. I saw you standing at the doors and thought I’d say hello.”

“In nothing but a towel?”

She nearly shrieks, and I can’t help but smirk.

Her cheeks are so red they must be physically burning her. Her breaths are coming out in little pants, slipping past her full red lips as though she’s a steam engine puffing smoke with every turn of her wheels. I can hear her heart pounding in her chest, an irregular rhythm. Slow, then fast, then faster. She’s trembling, barely, but it’s there.

“I had to come in here. To get clothes.”

I repeat myself. Her mind is trying to catch up with her body’s reaction. Her fingers curl on my pectorals, her fingertips brushing against muscle. I feel heat, insane, unexpected heat, rushing from beneath her palms to below the makeshift waistband of my towel.

My senses are suddenly on high alert.

I can smell her blood, just beneath her skin. It’s pulsing steadily, in harmony with her heart.

She doesn’t wear perfume.

The scents I pick up on her every day at the café are from where she works, not from what she actually smells like. There’s the faintest whiff of soap coming from her skin, a fresh apple smell from dish soap. Another gentle scent lifts from her hair, and I can feel myself getting turned on. She uses some sort of rose shampoo and conditioner, and I feel the sudden urge to bury my face in those multi-colored locks.

Hello.

What the hell is this?

My towel’s starting to fit a bit tighter, and I’m glad her eyes are glued to my face.

“I…” She tries to speak, her blush creeping down into her throat. “I can’t seem to move.”

She laughs, and I’m under the impression she may very well burst into tears of humiliation.

Vampire Rule Number 8:

We can’t hypnotize people.

But we sure can be seductive. We have to be skilled in that particular talent. It’s another survival thing. If all else fails, seduce a human and get blood from them.

And I seem to have the very real desire to seduce this woman.

“Heather,” I say softly, trying to spare her some embarrassment and shake away this maddening thirst for toying with her. “You have to take your hands off. It’s alright. You don’t have to be ashamed. It was an accident.”

“I’m… I’m standing here with you… with you barely dressed… my hands on your chest …and. Oh my gosh.” She’s stuttering adorably. “Your… your abs!”

Her eyes drift down to my six-pack, and I can feel it.

My fangs are trying to extend. My canines are elongating, threatening to break my gums and fully descend. It’s painful, sharp, alerting me to how dangerous this new territory is with the pretty barista from Broughton Street. Any second now, they’ll be fully exposed. God save her if she somehow manages to get a cut in the next thirty seconds. I won’t be able to resist.

“There you are!” Narcissa’s voice interrupts the sudden tension in the room.

She looks over me, then looks to Heather. Understanding flickers in her dark eyes. She knows fully well the effect we have on humans. Heather’s all but hypnotized, not because of anything I’ve done, but because her hormones are all over the place. I can smell the heady combination of embarrassment, anxiety, and beneath it all, arousal.

Yes, it’s there.

She’s doing an admirable job trying to fight it.

I’m fairly certain Narcissa can smell it, too.

“Heather,” she says kindly and moves to Heather.

With a startled gasp, Heather jerks her hands away from me and takes a long step back, nearly tripping over the settee.

“Oh, Narcissa!” she cries, her eyes shifting in horror from me to Narcissa. “I am so sorry! This must look so awful! I would never mean to touch him! I’m so sorry!”

I can smell her tears as they build in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Narcissa says with a smile. “Don’t blame yourself. McKenzie and I have been toying a bit with pheromones. He’s got a cologne that you can’t smell, but it does something to the air. Sorry.” She blushes, one hundred percent invested in her act. “God, but I hate that you have to deal with this. Really, McKenzie.” She guides Heather to the door and looks over her shoulder, scolding me in a glance. “I thought I told you over the phone that I had company coming. You should have at least warned me you were home. And naked.”

The women leave.

I reach for one of the drawers in the wall and pull out a pair of boxers and slacks. I dress quickly, ignoring the tightening of my stomach, the heat building at the base of my spine.

This isn’t good.

I’ve thought Heather was cute from the beginning, yes.

I’ve maybe even thought she’s more than that. Downright beautiful if I’m being honest with myself.

Sure.

Never did I expect my body to react the way it is now.

I can feel the tips of my canines, sharp, and I run my tongue over the points. I try to convince myself I’m only interested in her blood. That’s all. I’m having a perfectly normal reaction to hearing her pulse and feeling her distress. It’s that predator instinct, the need to hunt and feed. That’s why my traps are bunched like a wolf with its hackles up. That’s why my entire torso is taut and ready to spring.

That’s why my body’s hard in other places.

Absolutely.

It’s the hunt.

Has nothing to do with her intoxicating scent, the way she stared at me like I’m some sort of god, the fact that she couldn’t move.

Bullshit.

I snarl at my own denial as I tug on a button-down shirt and fumble with the buttons.

She had me hooked the second I saw that crooked smiley face in my latte.

She’s got a passion sorely lacking in the vampire community. The glow in her eyes, when she talks about history, makes me feel as though I’m right there with her in another time. She treats me like a human, and I find that adorable and flattering.

She’s a good person, and I just embarrassed her.

Badly.

She cares about Narcissa, and she cares about my relationship with her. That lust I felt simmering beneath all her other emotions was a feeling she was trying desperately to suppress, and I wasn’t helping her at all.

Another few minutes alone with her and I probably would have encouraged it.

I pull on socks and a pair of shoes and make my way downstairs, careful to keep my distance. I catch sight of the women standing in front of the Savannah River painting and then lean on the nearest door frame, my arms folded across my chest, and watch as Heather finds the secret button to unlock the basement door. It’s a small button painted into the illustration to look like a small knob atop one of the cast-iron fences.

Her delight, when she finds it, sends pleasant thrills up and down my body.

Narcissa has successfully drawn her away from embarrassment into wonder and curiosity.

I’ll have to thank Narcissa later.

After she chews me out for nearly slipping into full vampire mode.

I follow them into the basement, continuing to keep my distance. Narcissa flips the light switch, illuminating what really was once a speakeasy.

The basement is large enough for twenty-five people or so to comfortably hide out.

The bar is the original bar, still here from the twenties. The back bar is huge, made of heavy oak, with bottles of my favorite drinks resting atop slightly dusty shelves. There are a few round tables and leather furnishings scattered around the place, and Tiffany lamps grace each table and the bar. Stained-glass fixtures hang from the low ceiling, casting everything in a mysterious, intimate light.

Heather’s lost in a dream.

I can hear it in her voice as she carefully touches the bar.

I’ve transported her to another place and time without even saying a word.

Narcissa is going on about how they can make this place perfect for an engagement party, but I don’t hear anything she’s saying. I’m thrilled with Heather’s reaction.

She slips behind the counter and looks around the room as though she can see flappers and mobsters gathered around, drinking illegal booze while cigar smoke rises into the air and blends in with the light from the low-hanging fixtures. She closes her eyes, and I know she’s hearing music that isn’t here. Blues and jazz. She’s in her own version of euphoria, and I have no desire to interrupt that.

Not even to tell her what’s behind the closet door just beside the bar.

“Well?” Narcissa asks, plopping down onto one of the leather couches. “Will it work?”

Heather nods, a dazzling smile appearing on her face.

“Yes. We can rearrange the furniture, so it’s more appropriate for a party, but I think this will be perfect. Do you think McKenzie would mind if we use the ballroom, too? You could have all sorts of fun if we hire a dance instructor and learn some dances that fit in with Prohibition.”

“I love it!” Narcissa exclaims. “I don’t think McKenzie will mind! Will you, honey?”

She looks over to me, and I can feel Heather’s blush.

“You can use whatever rooms you want,” I say easily. “I’ve got a meeting in my office in thirty minutes, Cissa. Plenty of food in the fridge, of course. Heather.” I smile. I can feel the dimple pulling my cheek, and I know I look devastating. At least, if Heather’s expression is any indication. “Sorry about the shirtless cliché. I’m sure you didn’t come over hoping to reenact a scene from a romcom.”

I turn and make my way back upstairs, a little too pleased with a simple barista’s reaction.