I’d known Amy for years, since we were both nonvampiric personal assistants—a day job she still held. I met George three months ago after I was sired into my new life as a vampire. They were trying to help me mend my broken heart and shattered self-esteem after my big, nasty break-up with my master vampire boyfriend, Thierry, a week and a half ago.

Unfortunately, since alcohol didn’t affect vampires other than remaining a tasty treat, I was on my third Tequila Sunrise and not feeling any differently about life, the universe, and, well… everything.

“Perky” was no longer my middle name. Not that it ever was.

I eyed Amy cautiously. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t reply. Amy’s red-lipsticked mouth was frozen in a slightly scared-looking smile.

She wore her short, platinum-blond hair like a Papa-Don’t-Preach-era Madonna to contrast her low-cut, black sequined top and tight black skirt.

When I glanced at George, he shrugged. He looked like a male model with shoulder-

length, sandy-colored hair he currently had back in a low ponytail. He had chiseled features, a square jaw, and under his tight white shirt and black leather pants I knew he had a body worth crying over. Crying, mostly because he batted for the other team. Not that I’d ever harbored any unrequited fantasies about George. Not a chance. I had enough trouble with men without adding him to the list.

But he was mighty pretty.

“She’s definitely going to freak,” he confirmed.

Before I could ask for any more details about this predicted freak-out, a man approached the bar at which we were belly-up on rather uncomfortable stools. He was tall, built, attractive, and wore a dark blue button-down shirt exactly the same color as his eyes. His gaze was entirely fixed on yours truly.