"Probably not."
"Oh, sweet Jesus...."
"Keep breathing, Rita."
And it had gone on like that for some time: her begging for bodies and hyperventilating and me holding my ground. She finally hung up when I promised to at least add some blood.
But before she hung up she asked, "Any chance King Arthur can be a vampire?"
"No."
"Damn."
Now in the hotel room, I finished my email to Rita by telling her that the plane had miraculously pulled out of its dive and that, after this near-death experience, I had had a vision of me writing historical romance novels. I typed a winkie face and could almost see her fainting. Poor thing.
I dashed off a few more emails, snapped shut my laptop and took a brief nap.
Big surprise, I dreamed of Christ hanging from the cross, a bloody goblet, and, just to mix things up a little, a surging underground river. I woke up and checked the time on my cell phone. I had been asleep for just under twenty minutes.
A lot of dreaming for just twenty minutes.
Surprisingly rested, I pocketed the hotel room key and headed down to the dining room for some dinner.
A surging river?
Lord help me.
Chapter Four
The dining room was small but elegant.
I was seated next to a window that looked out upon the western gardens. A young waiter dressed smartly in a long-sleeved shirt and apron gave me a leather-bound menu. He asked if I wanted a drink and, despite making a concerted effort not to drink lately, I decided that a locally brewed ale couldn't hurt.
Just one, I reminded myself.
I don't drink for a number of reasons but top on the list is that I tend to get belligerent when I consume alcohol. I think everyone is a jerk and everyone needs to be put in their place. Except I'm really not a fighter and I tend to get my ass kicked by just about everyone.
Anyway, the waiter returned with a frothing mug of brown ale (think Newcastle). Some of the froth bubbled over his hairy knuckles, but he didn't seem to mind, although I did. The hairy knuckles, that is. I next ordered a broccoli quiche. He asked if I wanted chicken with that, and I said no. He wanted to be sure he'd heard me right and I mentioned that I was a vegetarian. He looked at me strangely, nodded uncomfortably, smiled weakly, and headed off, absently sucking his knuckles.
I sipped my foaming beer, no doubt sporting an equally foaming mustache. Attractive. A man with a wife a few tables away belched loudly. Asshole. Someone should teach him some manners.
Down boy.
As this was mid-June, the late evening sun still had a lot of warmth left in it. The gardens beyond the window were immaculate and perfect with flowers and plants that I should know the names of but didn't. Still, I appreciated their beauty.
The reality of my situation struck me again: Here I was in England, alone, because of a dream. A dream.
A persistent dream, granted. Still, a dream.
I must be crazy, right?
Right?
And just as I was doubting my sanity - heck, just as I was wondering if I was actually dreaming this whole damn trip - a strikingly beautiful woman was shown to the table next to mine.
Oh?
As she sat, she removed a Kindle ebook reader and a writing journal from her oversized purse. She set the Kindle off to one side, opened the journal and unhooked a plastic, leopard-print pen.
Well, well, well....
Was she a writer? Could I possibly be so lucky?
As I watched her, drinking my beer and doing my best to ignore the too-loud man behind me, I decided that she had a most perfect nose. It was small, but not too small. Straight, but not too straight. Upturned, but not too upturned. She also had lovely, rounded cheekbones that reflected the dining room light. Her black hair was ruler straight, just the way I liked it, and she wore a snug, sleeveless sweater that took my breath away with each breath she herself took. Oh, and she had a cute little mole on her left forearm.
God, I needed to get a life.
As the sky beyond darkened, the dining room filled with patrons. Overflowing beer mugs streamed out of the bar area. There was much clanking of glass and laughter. Too much laughter. Someone on my left was irritating the crap out of me. Seriously, did she have to laugh so loudly? Sweet Jesus, she sounded like a rabid hyena.
Easy James.
And all the while, the woman with the perfect nose and leopard-print pen wrote away. I ached to see what she was writing. I also ached to punch the douche bag waving to someone across the dining room.
She can see you, asshole. We can all see you. Sheesh.
I was getting hot. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I was halfway done with the beer and already I itched to do something about the guy belching. He'd let loose with another nauseating burp that even had some warble in it. Where the hell did he think he was, anyway? Seriously, someone needed to teach that s.o.b. a lesson....
I continued sipping from my beer. The trapezoid muscles along my neck and shoulders felt tight. I was going to blow a gasket any minute now.
I pushed my beer aside.
Enough, I thought.
I virtually inhaled the glass of water sitting on my table...and nearly wretched. It was lukewarm. Where the hell was the ice?
It was about that time my quiche arrived. I dove in. I needed to take the edge off the alcohol, which I had consumed on an empty stomach. I didn't come all the way to England only to get thrown out again.
And why did you come?
But I ignored my own question and dove into the quiche. As I ate, I noticed the beautiful, black-haired woman was still writing, and furiously. She turned a page, smoothed it out, and started anew at the top of the next. The pink tip of her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth as she wrote. I thought it looked adorable.
When she finished the third page, I finished my quiche.
Synchronicity at its best.
She finally set her pen down just as the alcohol all but left my system and I was once again at peace with the world. The laughing, the waving, the clanking and the belching had little effect on me. That had been close. I had been moments away from getting into someone's face.
Anyway, the woman next reached inside her oversized handbag and extracted a small, plastic container. She uncapped the container and brought it to her lips and inhaled deeply from it. She held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. She replaced the cap and returned the container to her purse.
Medicine? Did she have asthma? I didn't know, but I did know one thing: I wanted to talk to her.
Then go talk with her, I thought. Ask her about her writing. Mention you're a writer, too. Couldn't be easier. Heck, just say something to her, anything.
But at the prospect of talking to her, complete with the many potentially humiliating outcomes, I broke out in a cold sweat. Talking to random women just wasn't my thing. Especially gorgeous random woman.