© 2026, Vampires Love Garlic, Ashley Chapman. All rights reserved.

21

Stress and Stillness

McKenzie

Vampire Rule Number 17:

All vampires have horses.

It’s ridiculous, but true. I have a stallion, Brogard, at my father’s summer manor in Virginia. He’s old and blind in one eye, but he still counts as a horse.

I think about this as I stand next to the Savannah River, looking at the origami horse Homeless Joe gave me when I walked past him. Someone is playing “Moon River” on a harmonica nearby, and I try to relax.

My father demanded I move the engagement party to this weekend. Four days from now. He’s tired of waiting. He wants the engagement party, followed swiftly by a wedding, and then grandbabies as fast as possible. I’m past thirty and I’ve waited long enough. If I don’t hurry up and get a move on, my ability to reproduce will apparently cease to exist and there will be no heirs to the Bristol fortune.

Add to that the pressure of me having volunteered, like an idiot, to host the annual summit here.

Traditionally, I won’t know if my offer’s been accepted or not until only five weeks out from the actual event. The High Councilor has a thing for drama and wants the gathering celebration to be as stressful and ridiculous for the host as possible.

Thank you, Harold.

I hurry away from the river, hands tucked in my pockets, cold wind making me shiver. Narcissa’s out for the night, visiting family in Atlanta. I just want to get home, open a bottle of 1816 Wine-Bourbon and drink straight from the bottle. Anything to warm my insides and just maybe get me a little buzzed. Even better, make me a little dull and able to sleep.

I don’t want to deal with vampire problems tonight.

I make it inside my front door and don’t bother to shut it lightly. It slams as the rain starts to pour outside.

Great.

Even the weather’s in on my bloody rotten mood.

I toss my coat on a peg by the front door and stomp toward the kitchen. I think I have an emergency bottle under the sink somewhere.

Someone’s playing my piano.

I pivot, walking to the ballroom. Music is playing, one note at a time, the efforts of someone who only has one hand to spare and doesn’t know how to play very well. But the voice accompanying it, that voice is so wonderfully sweet, so soft, and I can feel my cranky mood ebbing away.

She’s singing “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” A Georgia song. Typical.

I lean against the doorframe and allow my gaze to fall on Heather. She’s sitting at the grand piano, playing so simply, singing so beautifully, oblivious to my frustration. She isn’t trying to play perfectly. The instrument is just a tool to help her voice along, and I can’t help but be guided into the room, following her singing.

She glances up and blushes, immediately stopping her playing and singing.

“Go on,” I encourage.

“I didn’t think you were home.”

“You can’t sing with me here?” I ask, leaning against the piano.

“I came here to work on my thesis,” she explains, pushing the piano bench back. “I thought I might relax a little bit, first. I’m not very good at the piano, but playing is a welcome segue from studying.”

“We’ll have to have another lesson.”

I rub the back of my neck, frustrated.

“I’m sorry, Heather. It’s been a rough day. You are welcome to stay and play. I’m going to grab something to drink.”

“Okay.”

She’s quiet for a minute and then stands up.

“I’m going into the basement to work on my paper.” She moves to the doorway. “If you want…” She’s having trouble speaking tonight. I don’t know why, but then I realize she hasn’t spoken with me since two nights ago, when we had our little experiment. “If you want,” she tries again, her voice softer, “you are welcome to join me downstairs. Sometimes it’s nice to have company when you’re frustrated.”

I watch her leave, catching a faint whiff of her juniper perfume.

She’s gotten under my skin.

Not just tonight.

I think about two nights ago as I walk into the kitchen and find my bottle of bourbon. I haven’t been able to sleep since without thinking about her. The way she smelled as I moved closer. The way her breath hitched, her lips parted, and every part of her body was drawn to me. How soft her hair was around my finger before I released her. How tempted I was to taste her throat.

I shouldn’t go downstairs.

But she’s right. I need company.

I pick up a glass, tuck my bourbon under my arm, find a book in one of the smaller living areas, and make my way into the basement.

She’s transformed it entirely. Black, white, and gold decorations are everywhere. The back bar is shining bright as a new penny with colorful bottles stretched across it. Garlands of silk roses drape from its top. There are small tables scattered throughout the room, each table with a vintage setting and Tiffany-style lamp at its center. There are leather armchairs placed strategically throughout the room. There are decorations that look almost like fans, printed motifs, and other pretty 1920s-appropriate designs placed in tasteful places.

Heather’s curled up in one of the armchairs, shoes off, glasses balancing precariously on the tip of her nose. Papers are scattered on the table next to her, and she’s engrossed in a book. She glances up, only her eyes and the upper half of her face visible, watching me as I sit down in an armchair across from her.

“The Great Gatsby?” she asks, looking at the book in my hands. Her eyes look quickly over me, and I can see a blush creeping into her cheeks. I glance down at my shirt, realize I’ve left quite a few buttons undone, then settle back in my chair.

I’m not buttoning up. She’s going to have to accept that I like to take it easy in my house.

“Thought I’d try and embrace the atmosphere,” I say, waving to the room. “Try and let my imagination roam a bit like yours does. This book seemed appropriate. You know, rich snob in a Roaring Twenties setting.”

“You’re not a snob,” she says quietly.

I pour myself three fingers of bourbon and look around the room.

“You must really like this time period,” I say.

“Actually, it’s one of my least favorite times.”

That surprises me. With how excited she got about the tunnel down here and the engagement party, I thought she must love the whole Prohibition era.

“It’s about excess,” she says, closing her book and reaching for a notebook and pen. “Followed immediately by the Great Depression. Two opposite times in history. Both somewhat catastrophic. One was about opulence and mobs, the other about starving children and men killing themselves because they couldn’t provide for their families.” She stops and smiles shyly. “I’m going on again. Sorry. I took a dark turn. I haven’t read a whole lot of fiction about that time period.” She gestures to my book. “But my favorite movie that takes place around then is ‘The Legend of Bagger Vance.’ Have you seen it?”

“I don’t watch a lot of movies,” I say and take a sip of bourbon.

“Oh.”

“What do you like so much about it?”

“Honestly.” She smiles, and I can’t help but feel my heart melting. “It’s the romance.”

“Do tell,” I chuckle.

“There’s a scene.” Here she goes again, trying to watch what she says. It’s adorable, but I wish she’d just tell me what she’s thinking without treading so carefully. “Adele goes to Captain Junuh to try and convince him to play in a golf tournament. Anyways, it gets very hot very fast, and there’s no sex, and I just really like it.”

She picks up her book again and tries to hide behind it.

I can’t help it. I really can’t.

I lean forward, rest my fingertips on the top of the pages, and tug the book down, exposing her face.

“Not very comfortable talking about romance, are you?” I tease.

“Not with you.”

“Why?”

She sighs and sets the book down.

“Two nights ago,” she says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Two nights ago, and…”

“Listen, Kenzie, you’re my friend. I shouldn’t have asked you about the neck thing the other night. I shouldn’t have let you get close. You’re really hot.” She says it as casually as she can, doing her best not to look embarrassed, but her blush is a dead giveaway. “I think you know that, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it. You and Narcissa are together. I want our relationship to stay the way it was before.”

“Where I go for coffee every morning, read my paper, and leave?”

“That would be more appropriate,” she says with a nod. “Certainly more appropriate than sitting here talking about love scenes in a movie.”

“We can talk about something else.”

“Alright.” She leans forward and studies my face. “You don’t like coffee. Why do you order it every day?”

Narcissa. Narcissa told her something.

Damn it twice.

“Originally to see if Cissa would like it. She loves coffee. After that, I wanted to see my daily art. I like seeing smiley faces and suns first thing in the morning. Also, you figured out I hate capers and you make sure I don’t have to see them. You and the girls have spoiled me. It’s become a habit.”

“Okay.” She sits back again. “Fine. What else can we talk about?”

“What’s your favorite time in history?”

“You don’t already know?” She tsks and shakes her head. “I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Yellow fever?”

“Pirates!” she exclaims with a laugh. “How could you miss that?”

“I blame your hair.”

“My hair?” Her laughter is punctuated by a snort. She gasps, covers her nose and mouth, and looks at me with wide eyes.

“Yeah, your hair. All the different colors.” I wave at it, grinning that I caught her snorting. “It’s distracting.”

“Well, what color would you have it?”

“Scarlet. Try some scarlet highlights. You’d look more piratey.”

“Because pirates ran around with red highlights in their hair?” she asks.

“I mean, you could run around with your shirt wide open. I’ll bet you’ve got a gorgeous pair of…”

She throws a pillow at me before I can finish my sentence.

“Don’t you dare finish that thought,” she scolds. “Of all the things you heard on my pirate tour, that’s what you remembered?”

“I’m very male,” I say, gesturing to my chest.

“I can see that,” she says, trying her best not to look at my skin. “Your engagement party is next week. Are you ready for it?”

“Actually…” I sit back with a sigh. “It’s in four days. This Saturday. Our parents are forcing it.”

“Four days?” She gasps. “I’ve got so much I need to do still for the food! And I have different things I have to pick up still from the stores! And fresh flowers, some more decorations…”

She’s counting off her list on her fingers, and I find my eyes drawn to her mouth.

How have I never noticed how full and beautiful her lips are before? Even that small scar above her lip she was so self-conscious about?

I toss back more bourbon before reaching out and putting a hand on her arm.

“I’ll help however you need me to,” I say. “I know this is a lot of work, and I appreciate you for it.”

“You’re paying me a rather generous amount. I want to make this perfect for you.”

“And you will. Even a week early.”

She nods and slips a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Do you have an outfit yet?” she asks, pulling on her shoes.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Narcissa is really looking forward to seeing you in costume and dancing with you.”

I stand up when she does.

“Let me walk you to your car. It’s dark out there,” I offer.

“Thank you,” she says, and I lead her to the exit door and up the stairs to the back courtyard.

“You know, Kenzie,” she says softly as I bring her to her car. “I wish the best for you and Narcissa. You both deserve to be happy.”

“Then stop being so shy around me,” I say, reaching out and catching her chin gently before I can think better of it. “I like our friendship, Heather, and I’m not willing to go back to just seeing you at the café every day. I’m nothing if not stubborn. I’ve built my empire on it.”

She smiles and nods before getting in her car.

I watch her drive away, the feel of her soft skin still a ghost on my fingertips.

I think I’m getting in over my head, Heath.