Hot Vampire Next Door: Season One (Midnight Harbor Book 1)

My house is empty when I go inside. I can feel it. All of Kelly’s blood from the night before is gone, almost like it never happened.

Last night I was worried sick about my sister, but today, in the daylight, I’m more pissed than sympathetic.

Kelly is keeping secrets from me too, and I think she’s been artfully dodging me this entire time, taking advantage of my willingness to let things slide so as not to create waves.

My sister knows me so damn well.

Upstairs, I unbutton Bran’s flannel shirt. I consider folding it up to return it to him, and then decide against it. It smells like him. Just holding on to it gives me butterflies. He’s screwing with my head, driving me mad. When I’m thinking outside of the lust, I feel silly for obeying him, even if it does send a fresh wave of desire straight down my belly.

I’m caught in the storm of Bran Duval, and I’m not sure how to find my way out, or even if I want to.

After pulling on jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt, I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Shadows from smudged mascara circle my eyes. My hair dried funny while I slept, so it’s kinked on one side. I look disheveled and unhinged.

Bending over, I tie my hair into a messy bun, then run a wipe over my face. Starting with a somewhat clean slate, I put on a fresh coat of mascara and a run of rose-tinted lip balm on my lips.

“Better than nothing,” I mutter and then grab my bag and hurry back downstairs to find Bran waiting on the front porch for me.

In the fading light, he’s hot as sin, deadly as lightning, and when his eyes drag over my body, and the irises flicker with desire, I tense up as if anticipating a rumble of answering thunder. There’s this wild roaring in my gut when he comes to stand beside me the second I cross over the threshold. I like that he stays near me as if he’s telling the world I’m his, even though that makes little sense. Even though the very thought makes me feel like I’ve lost touch with gravity.

I don’t know which way is up anymore. What happened between us early this morning has changed something, and I’m still spinning, wobbly on my axis.

I pull the door closed and start down the porch steps, Bran following behind.

“Are we driving or walking?” I ask.

“With your useless mortal legs?” I can practically hear the eye roll in his words. “Walking would take forever. We’ll drive.”

“You don’t have a car,” I point out. Most vampires in Midnight Harbor don’t. They can get anywhere on foot much faster than a car could.

“No, but you do.” He holds out his hand.

“You’re not driving my car.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a classic 1995 BMW M3 Coupe.” I’m not a car fanatic, but I know this one is a gem. My dad bought it brand new off the lot, and my mom babied it after he died. Kelly let me have it when my mom passed.

It’s got a 5-speed manual transmission and original leather interior with hardly a crack.

I love that car.

“Do you even know how to drive?” I quip.

“I’ve been driving since cars were invented.” He flicks his fingers at me, indicating I should hand over the keys.

A little flare of defiance ignites in my gut, and I cross my arms over my chest, my bag banging against my hip.

“Mouse,” he says, a warning edge to his voice. In one fluid motion, he’s suddenly inches away from me, towering over me. “Don’t make me make you.”

I think that’s exactly what I wanted and just the barest promise of it has my insides clenching up. And he knows it too. He knows it so damn well.

With a sigh, I dig into my bag and produce the keys attached to the retro motel keychain I bought online. I drop it into his outstretched hand, and he turns over the plastic tag.

“Dude, where’s my car?” he says, reading the cursive text on the keychain tag.

“What? I think it’s hilarious.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually like that movie.”

“It’s a funny movie.”

The grumble of revulsion rumbles in the back of his throat. “I suddenly think less of you.”

Snorting, I follow him across the front yard. The BMW, shining candy red in the street lights, sits waiting on the blacktop.

“Okay then, tell me a better movie than Dude, Where’s My Car?” I challenge.

“How about any?” He opens the driver’s side door and looks at me across the roof. “Literally any other movie.”

“Oh really? I take it you haven’t seen Transylmania then.”

He climbs into the car, his long legs scrunched up between the seat and the steering wheel. He adjusts it, and the seat slides back with a thunk.

“Christ, mouse, you’re practically eating the dash in this thing.”

“We can’t all be six-five gods.”

“Six-four,” he corrects.

Shit, he’s nearly a foot taller than I am. I mean, I know he’s much bigger than I am, but putting it into actual numbers makes me feel even smaller.

Bran turns the engine over then wraps his hand around the stick shift.

I have this thing with guys driving stick-shifts. A fetish, maybe. Man and machine working in beautiful, quick unison. I once went on a date with a guy who drove a stick-shift, and I could barely hear a word he said. I was so focused on his hand moving through the gears as he sped down the freeway.

I think I fell more for his way with cars than I did for him. We only went on the one date.

The anticipation of seeing Bran drive my car suddenly overwhelms me. I think subconsciously my defiance on the keys wasn’t because I was worried about the safety of the Bimmer, but what seeing Bran drive it might do to me.

He pushes in the clutch and shifts into reverse. The car has always been lithe and speedy, but with Bran behind the wheel, it feels like it’s propelled by rocket fuel.

We’re in the street and shooting through the night before I can settle into my seat.

“Slow down,” I chide.

“I will not,” he answers and shifts into second, his thigh working as he pushes at the clutch.

“So,” I start, hand still griping at the door handle as the headlights cut through a dark section of road, “we’re going to the coffeeshop to confront my boss about the necklace I’ve been wearing since I was a kid that apparently smells like witch?”

“Yes,” Bran says, “exactly that.”

“And what if she laughs at us? What if she shoves us out the door?”

Or worse—what if she fires me? I need the job to save up money to move out of Midnight Harbor, even though my Pledging and moving feels so far away.

“She’ll answer me.” Bran takes a sharp turn. The car hugs the shoulder, and the velocity forces me to the left, closer to Bran. “Rita owes me.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Seriously? For what?”

He looks at me briefly before turning back to the road, the car slipping through the night.

“What could you possibly have done for a witch?”

“The ‘what’ doesn’t matter.”

“Rita hates vampires. I know this as fact. She’s probably going to toss you out the front door the second you walk over the threshold.”

“I will enjoy the look on your face when you realize you’re wrong.” He slows for another sharp turn and downshifts.

I bury a happy little sigh watching him work at the clutch with confidence.

God, he’s hot.

“Shall I pull over?” he asks, eyes on the road.

“For what?”

“You must be soaking wet,” he says. “Judging by the scent on the air.”

My mouth drops open, and then I stubbornly cross my legs as if doing so will hide the smell of my desire.

I hate vampires!

“Maybe I’ll take you in the backseat,” he says, eyes still on the road, hand loose on the steering wheel. “Maybe I’ll bend you over the hood of the car and—”

A little moan escapes me, and I rub my thighs together without thinking.

He glances at me, smug as hell. “Over the hood it is.” The car slows down.

“Stop that!” I say, groaning. “Like I said before, what happened in the shower was a momentary lap in judgment. It won’t be happening again.”

“Oh mouse.” He downshifts again as the street spills into downtown Midnight Harbor. “It’s cute that you think so.”

Just the promise of more of him makes my pussy throb and my stomach clench up.

Fuck. I’m in trouble.

Bran parks right out front of the coffee shop. There’s lots of foot traffic in this part of town, and heads turn our way when we climb out of the car, and people realize a McMahon is with a Duval vampire.

There are no rules against our being together, but it’s highly unusual for someone from a family typically pledged to the Lockes to be seen with a Duval.

In all of Midnight Harbor, the Lockes and the Duvals probably have the biggest rivalry. They’re founding families, and its members, by their very nature of being immortal vampires, have been around the longest.

If anyone were to ask my opinion, I’d say the Duvals hold more power. Bran and his brother Damien are some of the oldest in Midnight Harbor, but more than that, they were turned by a Montenaro, which is one of the oldest vampire houses in the entire world.

I’ve never been one to care about power, but it’s hard not to be swayed by the pull of it, especially with Bran.

Car keys jangling from his hand, Bran goes up on the sidewalk and rakes his eyes over the people staring. They quickly look away and hurry out of sight. It’s like I’ve walked into the middle of town with a black panther at my hip. People give the Lockes a wide berth, but they don’t part seas.

I meet Bran in front of the bay window of the coffee shop. Gold string lights glow from inside where my window display from last week shows off Rita’s charms, apothecary jars (with my remade labels), and several different flavors of bagged ground coffee. I’m supposed to work tomorrow and redo the display, provided I can get past all the shit that’s currently going wrong in my life.

Bran pulls the door open and holds it for me.

With a deep breath, I step inside.

Indie folk music plays alongside the hiss of the milk steamer and the grind of coffee beans. Rita stands at the end of the counter, looking over some paperwork, while Winnie, another witch from Rita’s coven, mixes some drink orders.

The tables are nearly full, and the din of conversation fills the cozy space.

The decibel lowers when Bran walks in behind me, and it makes me want to address it to absolve myself of some of the guilt and shame I’m feeling. Not that I have any reason to feel either. I owe no one allegiance. I’m promised to no house. And if my mom were alive, I know she’d support whatever decision I made. Even if she did have a massive crush on Julian Locke.

When I catch one of the shifters eyeing me up and down then Bran, I almost shout, “What? What are you staring at?” But then think better of it.

When Rita looks over at me, a smile spreads across her face until she realizes who stands beside me. Her smile quickly vanishes.

I hurry over and lower my voice. “Can we talk in the back?”

Her gaze goes to the space behind my shoulder, and while I didn’t hear him move, I’m positive Bran is behind me already, probably looking like the bad decision he most definitely is.

“Sure,” Rita says and scoops up her work. “He coming too?”

“Is that okay?”

“Don’t ask for her permission,” Bran says to me, even though he’s staring at Rita while he says it. “Because I don’t need it.”

Rita huffs and turns for the swinging door to the back room. “Someday that mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble.”

“It hasn’t yet.”

I put my fist to my mouth, hiding a laugh.

Bran gives me a dead look.

“What? She’s probably right.”

I follow Rita through the swinging door, through the storage room, and into her office. There are no windows in the interior room, but Rita hired an artist to paint a trompe-l’œil painting that looks like a stone balcony overlooking a whimsical English garden. More string lights hang from the ceiling and are strung around the painting, giving it the look and feel of fireflies in the garden.

Rita dumps her work on her desk amongst several other piles then stands at its corner, one hand on her hip, the other splayed on the desk.

Being in her office always makes me itchy. It’s a complete and utter mess. There are old sticky notes stuck to the filing cabinet that I’m absolutely sure hold no relevancy anymore.

Pencil nubs dot every surface along with several uncapped markers that are probably so dry, you could use them to whittle wood. On the opposite wall, three long shelves hold books, jars, and various other treasures, but there’s no rhyme or reason to the display with jars stuck between books and books stacked on top of jars.

My gaze gets stuck on a jar with a peeling label that says fae quarrel. The inside is nearly empty save for one red flower. Despite the fact that the flower has been snipped from its stem, the petals are still vibrant with color and look velvety smooth.

“So what’s this about?” Rita asks.

I lick my lips trying to figure out how to start the conversation. It’s not every day you accuse your witch boss of making you a protection amulet that she and your mother have kept a secret.

“Well…so there’s this thing…well, what I mean is…Bran was saying…”

Bran leans against one of the filing cabinets. “What the little mouse is trying to ask is, why did you make her a protection amulet?”

I send a withering glare his way. I’ve been letting him get away with the nickname in private, but calling me mouse in front of my boss is crossing the line. Except my anger does nothing to him. He isn’t even looking at me. His attention is squarely on Rita.

I turn back to my boss to find her lips parted, ready to deny, but somehow locked in the second before the words can get past her lips.

Then she sighs and drops into her desk chair. “How did you know?”

“I can smell you on it,” Bran replies.

The line of her dark brow sinks over her wide, brown eyes. “Truly? I made that thing over twenty years ago.”

“I have a good sense of smell,” Bran answers.

She scoffs and turns in the chair, the casters creaking beneath her weight. “Your mom asked me for it,” she tells me.

“Why?” Bran pushes away from the cabinet and comes to stand beside me. I don’t know if he’s sensing the world is starting to shift for me, if Rita’s admission has caught me off guard, or if he just wants to be near.

Either way, I’m grateful for him, even though I want to hate him, even though every rational thought in my head is telling me that falling for the devilish vampire is a mistake.

Am I though? Am I falling for him?

I look up at him beside me, at the strong line of his jaw, the straight slope of his nose, the swell of his lips, the way his hair runs back in thick, jet-black waves, and every detail about him, ever angle, every curve sends butterflies into a frenzy in my gut.

Oh shit.

I think I am falling for him.

He looks down at me, eyes narrowing as he tries to read my sudden panic.

This is clearly not the most important thing going on in this room!

I need to get my head together.

Rita props an elbow on a stack of pamphlets for the coven’s annual fiscal report and scratches her nails through several of her tight braids. “I didn’t ask the why,” Rita says and exhales, long lashes fanning over her cheeks. “And it’s not a protection amulet.”

“Really? Are you serious?” I take a step toward her, the amulet now clutched in my hand. “Then what is it?”