"You know, because you're a vampire," I explain. "Cold-blooded, immortal, sucks the life out of everyone around you…?"
A beat of silence. Then—is that a laugh? It's hard to tell in the darkness, but I swear I hear the faintest huff of amusement. Barely perceptible. Not exactly blowing the top off the Richter scale.
But it's there.
"I don't sleep in a coffin." He's still growling, but it's several notches less enraged than it was a few minutes ago. "I sleep in a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, thank you very much."
"Of course you do. Probably thread count in the thousands."
"Twelve hundred, actually."
"You know your thread count off the top of your head?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"No, Andrew. Normal people do not memorize their sheet specifications. Honestly, that explains a lot about you."
And yet not nearly enough. Because, like I've been doing way too often lately, I keep wondering about who made Andrew Simon tick the way he does.
