My Vampire Plus-One

Nothing sucks more than fake dating a vampire in this paranormal romantic comedy from the Amelia Collins is by definition successful. She would even go so far as to say successfully single. But not according to her family, and she''s tired of the constant questions about her nonexistent dating life. When an invitation to yet another family wedding arrives, she decides to get everyone off her back once and for all by finding someone--anyone--to pose as her date. After a chance encounter with Reginald Cleaves, Amelia decides he''s perfect for her purposes. He''s a bit strange, but that’s fine; it''ll discourage tough questions from her family. (And it certainly doesn''t hurt that he''s very handsome.) For centuries-old vampire Reggie, posing as her plus-one sounds like the ultimate fun. And if it helps his ruse of pretending to be human, so much the better. As Amelia and Reggie practice their fauxmance, it becomes clear that Reggie is as loyal to her as the day is long, and that Amelia’s first impressions could not have been more wrong. Suddenly, being in a real relationship with Reggie sounds pretty fang-tastic.

Autorentext

By day, Jenna Levine works to increase access to affordable housing in the American South. By night, she writes romance novels where ridiculous things happen to beautiful people. When Jenna isn't writing, she can usually be found crying over k-dramas, starting knitting projects she won't finish, or spending time with her family and small army of cats.

Leseprobe
One

SHOULD ANY INFORMATION ABOUT THIS:

CRIMINAL

EVIL VAMPIRE MASTERMIND

TERRIBLE GUY

COME TO LIGHT

PLEASE EMAIL THE COLLECTIVE IMMEDIATELY AT THECOLLECTIVE_1876@HOTMAIL.COM

Amelia

My friends and family HAD enjoyed teasing me with the adage the only sure things in life are death and taxes ever since I became an accountant.

After hearing it for the hundredth time, though, it stopped being funny. For me-a single, thirty-four-year-old CPA a year away from making partner at a big accounting firm-the only real sure things in life were an intractable caffeine addiction every tax season, and my mostly well-intentioned family giving me grief over my life choices.

Most people didn't understand that I loved my job. I loved the way the Internal Revenue Code made careful sense, and how it always gave you the right answer as long as you knew what questions to ask. Tax work was complex, but it was also neat, orderly, and consistent in a way the rest of life seldom was.

Most of all, though, I loved that I was good at what I did. It was hard to beat the high that came with knowing that very few people could do my job as well as I could.

But the night my world turned upside down, I was questioning my life choices for the first time in recent memory. It was the middle of tax season, which was always my most brutal time of year, but this year it was worse than usual. Mostly because of one absolute nightmare of a client.

The Wyatt Foundation had the biggest budget of any organization I'd ever worked with. In a show of confidence from Evelyn Anderson, the Butyl & Dowidge partner I reported to most frequently, I was handling this file solo. That was the good news. The bad news was within hours of getting the file it was obvious Wyatt was the least organized client I'd ever had.

The Wyatt Foundation was, to use a word you wouldn't find anywhere in the Internal Revenue Code, a shitshow. Its board seemed to have no idea how to run a nonprofit, and its chief financial officer seemed incapable of following simple directions. He'd been sending me new documents daily, some of which were from years I'd already told him the IRS didn't care about, and many of which were impossible to reconcile with other statements they'd sent.

I had less than three weeks to wrap everything up and get Wyatt's filing to the IRS. To say nothing of all my other files that were languishing from inattention.

I was good at working hard. But even though I was an accountant, I was still human. And I was nearing the breaking point.

I missed dancing around my Lakeview apartment to Taylor Swift. I missed spending time with Gracie, my temperamental cat. Above all, I missed my bed. Especially the way I used to spend at least seven hours in it every night.

I'd left my apartment at the crack of dawn that morning so I'd have a chance of getting on top of my other work before Wyatt's daily missives arrived. I had been focusing for so long on my Excel spreadsheet that when my phone buzzed with a series of texts, I nearly jumped out of my chair.

I fumbled through my briefcase until I found my phone, then reached for my glasses and slid them on. I'd taken them off hours ago; staring at my computer for too long made my vision blur. I needed to visit an optometrist, but that would have to wait until after tax season. Just like all the other forms of self-care I'd been putting off.

I smiled when I saw the texts were from my best friend, Sophie. She'd been dropping by my apartment every night the past two weeks to feed Gracie and take in my mail while I was working inhuman hours.

Sophie: Queen Gracie is fed and your mail is in its usual spot on the counter

Sophie: Also, Gracie asked me to ask you if you are coming home soon

Sophie: In cat language of course

Sophie: She's worried you're working too hard

I smiled. Sophie was so good to me. I glanced at the time and saw it was already six-thirty.

Shit.

If I didn't want to be late for my monthly dinner with my family, I needed to leave the office in the next ten minutes. And I was nowhere near finished with what I'd hoped to get done that day.

Amelia: I'm actually meeting my family for dinner tonight

Amelia: Could you apologize to Gracie for me?

Sophie: I mean I'm sure she'll forgive you

Sophie: She's a cat

Sophie: But I'm not a cat and I'm worried about how late you've been working

Sophie: You okay?

Not really, I thought. But I wasn't going to dump how stressed I was on Sophie. In addition to being a mom to twin toddlers, her attorney husband had been in San Francisco the past three weeks for depositions. She was no stranger to ridiculous demands on her time; she didn't need to hear me complain about mine.

Amelia: I'm fine. Just busy.

Amelia: Tell Gracie I hope to be
home by 9:30.

Amelia: Please give her scritches for me and tell her I'm sorry

Sophie: Will you be having dinner someplace where you actually can eat something this time?

Amelia: It's an Italian restaurant this time so hopefully.

I'd been a pescatarian since college, and a lactose intolerance that cropped up when I was in grad school meant I was off dairy. Ever since my brother Adam's twins were born eight years ago, though, my dietary needs were usually an afterthought at best when it came to family get-togethers. Because Adam's kids were young, only casual restaurants with a children's menu and a high level of background noise were options. And Dad liked red meat too much to take us anywhere that didn't offer it.

It was fine, though. I was the only one in our family who was single. And I didn't have kids. In the interest of being accommodating, I usually just went along with whatever the group wanted when we got together. Maybe it was the middle child in me, but making as few waves as possible had been my modus operandi for as long as I could remember. Sometimes I'd get lucky and my parents would pick an Italian restaurant with at least a few cheese-and-meat-free pasta options-like tonight. If I wasn't lucky, I'd have to wait until I got home to eat dinner.

As if on cue, my stomach chose that moment to do a comically loud rumble.

Sophie: Well I picked up some Chinese for the kids. They're getting fussy so I'm about to take them home, but I'll leave the leftover veggie lo mein for y…