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

Author Note: A couple of notes, actually. Firstly, the paperback novel will be available for purchase in two days! Hurray! That gives me a little bit of a dilemma on here. You guys still have three chapters to the end. Soooo…. Audience participation! Put the rest of the novel on here before Halloween, or make all of you suffer and have to buy the book for the ending? I’ll just conclude everything with this chapter. Feedback appreciated! Secondly, I feel like this is becoming more and more of a thing BUT none of “Vampires Love Garlic” was written by AI. None. I do not allow any sort of AI to rewrite or change anything I write. This is 100% written by Ashley Chapman, not some Bot somewhere. I do use AI images (specifically Chatgpt) for character concepts and “fan art.” The actual novel itself has no AI influence or illustrations. The cover illustration was created by an awesome artist who hand sketched everything. He even left his signature on the back cover. Just wanted to clarify, since there’s a whole lot of controversy in the author world when it comes to AI. And now, for the next chapter (and possibly the last)! Enjoy!

45

The Vampire and the Barista

Heather

The party goes well into the wee hours of the morning.

I’m so glad Marquis hired such a large staff. I don’t have to worry about the kitchen or cleaning anything. Marquis encourages me to take a few plates of food and desserts and head home. He helps me to my car and sees me off.

I should head back to Oma’s. I’m tired enough.

But McKenzie had a rough night.

He didn’t say anything about it, but I know his meeting with Harold grated on his nerves. He danced with me a little bit after their conversation, then set about entertaining his company. Last I saw him, he was talking about stocks and properties on Cape Cod. I want to leave some dessert at his house for him. I don’t think he’s had a chance to try the Mississippi mud pie. He’s been too busy playing host.

His house is quiet and calm when I unlock the basement door and climb up the stairs to the kitchen. I put my cartons of leftovers in the fridge and make my way to his bedroom on the second floor. I think I’ll leave this one lonely plate of Mud Pie on his bedside table. He told me once he likes to read in bed to wind down after a long night. This seems like the perfect place for it.

I walk past the office, knock lightly on his bedroom door, and step inside when he doesn’t answer.

Mission accomplished. Pie distributed.

Now to get home and get some sleep.

I walk past his office again, but this time I hear his voice.

“Heather.”

I peek inside.

McKenzie is sitting in his chair, ankles crossed on his desk, coat discarded, shirt unbuttoned at the top, tumbler of bourbon in his hand. There aren’t any lights on, but it’s storming outside, and every now and then lightning flickers into the room, illuminating his features. He looks comfortable but tired, and I smile.

“It’s been a long night,” I say.

“It has,” he agrees.

“You pulled off the party of the century.”

“No. That would be you.”

He pulls his feet off the desk, places his bourbon on a coaster, and leans forward. He smiles, that slow, devastating smile.

“Isn’t it a little late for you to be here?” he asks in a slow, Southern drawl.

“What?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

“Come here.”

Not a question. A direct order. And one spoken in such a sultry purr that I’d be an idiot to refuse.

I walk to him, stand before him, then gasp when he puts his hands on my waist and pulls me in. I lose my balance and suddenly find myself with one knee on either side of his thighs, straddling him. Oh. Oh, but this is intimate. I wasn’t planning on this at all. I was going to leave him some baked goods and head home, but then I somehow found myself here.

“What… what do you need, McKenzie?”

“Some romance would be nice,” he says, still in that accent.

And it hits me.

Gosh dang it, he watched it.

He watched The Legend of Bagger Vance.

“You saw it!” I gasp, my hands finding his shoulders. “You watched that scene!”

He chuckles as my face reddens.

“Oh my gosh, I never should have told you about that,” I groan, taking my hands off him and covering my face.

“How am I doing?” he asks, a laugh in his voice.

“I’m not going to stand up and shimmy down to my slip for you,” I murmur.

“You don’t have a slip to shimmy down to.”

I gasp, move my hand to slap him ever so lightly, just playfully, on the cheek.

He catches my hand, grinning, and laces his fingers through mine.

“I can play the Southern gentleman all night long if you want,” he says, slipping back into that Southern twang.

“I’m mortified,” I groan, trying to pull my hand back from his, but he only chuckles and holds on.

He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Mortified because I’ve seen your movie, or mortified because you’re straddling me?”

I glance down, as if I need the visual to believe what he’s saying.

On most occasions, I’d be embarrassed, but traitor that my body is, it’s remembering the coat closet. It’s remembering the feel of him moving with me, the heat of needing more. It’s noticing that my thighs are bare, that his trousers are soft and sleek against my skin. It’s noticing that I’m getting warm again, that I actually want him to unzip my gown.

“Harold told me what you think about me. Narcissa told me how you defended me,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

I move my free hand to his face and stroke gently. His stubble is rough against my hand, but it’s soothing in its own way.

It’s him.

He closes his eyes and nuzzles his cheek into my palm, kissing the scar where I cut myself.

And for just a moment, we breathe.

Our foreheads meet, and we release all the tension from the evening by being each other’s company.

“I need to get back to Oma. My bed is calling,” I say softly.

“Stay here. With me.”

“Kenzie…”

“Our conversation in the coat closet isn’t over.”

“What conversation?” I laugh. “There wasn’t any conversation.”

“You’re right.” He smiles, rubbing his face into my hand like a cat. “There was only heat and skin, grinding and sighing. There was only you and me. There was only us.”

He opens his eyes and cups my chin in his hand.

“I know the inner you, who you really are, is far more beautiful than the physical you, Heather, but damn. You are stunning. This dress. This dress has been tormenting me all night. I want more than just a closet.” He kisses my throat and then my collarbone. “I want more than passionate kisses and hurried touches.” He sucks gently on my earlobe. “I want you. All of you. Every inch. Every moan. Every cry. I want to hear my name on your lips as I bite you, here.” He traces his fingertips down my throat, making me shiver.

“I want more, too,” I whisper and then gasp as he sucks on my collarbone.

I can’t find words. He’s always been more eloquent than I have. But I can show him my desire. I can show him how very much I need him, too.

I close my eyes and lean my head to the side.

My hair drapes across my back, rolling off my right shoulder. My right earring brushes against my cheek, tickling. I can feel cool air on my neck as the thunder rolls and lightning flashes behind my eyelids. And I can feel his breath, irregular, a concoction of chilly vampire and warm air, brushing against the sensitive skin of my throat.

His hand finds the back of my neck, cradling me. His fingers stroke through my hair so tenderly I nearly cry. He finds the back of my gown, fingertips tracing a trail like a cool stream down my spine, soft and careful, finding the zipper at the middle of my back. I can hear every tooth as he pulls the zipper down, can feel every touch, every breath. Cool air touches my skin, and I suppress a moan of pleasure as he slides my lone shoulder strap down, over my bicep, down my arm, pulling the silk and sheer of my bodice along with it.

I’m completely bare from the waist up, but somehow I’m not nervous. Somewhere between the closet and now, I’ve begun to crave his touch. I want him to see me. I may blush as he looks at me, but I want this. I want his hands on me, even as he takes a minute just to look.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing the underside of my jaw.

I find his hands, lace my fingers through his, and carefully place them on my breasts.

His eyes find mine and stay there as he caresses me, as he strokes until I’m whimpering. He lowers his head, takes me in his mouth, and my hands scramble for him, trying to find something to hold as overwhelming heat floods every part of my body.

“I love you,” he croons, kissing my left breast.

“Aaaannnd I love you,” he repeats, kissing the right.

“And what about me?” I demand as he kisses his way back up to my mouth.

“You’re all right,” he says, pecking my lips.

“Just all right?”

“Well, you drool in your sleep. You could go on forever about dank tunnels.” He grins, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me in close. “You don’t read romantasy novels.” He kisses my nose. “You have a thing for Pretty in Pink, which is overrated.”

“It is not!” I exclaim as he kisses the corner of my lips.

“And you talk too much,” he murmurs, mouth brushing mine. “Far too much.”

He teases my lips with his tongue. I try to put up a good fight, try to pretend to be offended by his words, but I can’t.

This is my man.

This is my vampire.

This is my McKenzie.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he growls as he picks me up. My legs wrap around him, my skirt falling like a curtain around my waist. “I’m taking you to bed.”

“Even though I talk too much?” I ask with a giggle.

“Shut up,” he growls with a smirk and devours my mouth.