The faint buzz of her phone dragged Amara out of a dream she couldn't quite remember—something about endless hallways and a very persistent vending machine. The sound rattled against her nightstand like an impatient bee, vibrating just loud enough to worm its way into her half-conscious brain.
She groaned dramatically, yanking the blanket over her head in protest. Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. Lazy. Quiet. Not invaded by buzzing electronics demanding attention.
But the phone wouldn't stop. Another insistent vibration, then another, until she flopped onto her side with all the grace of a disgruntled cat. One arm shot out from under the covers, patting blindly across the nightstand. She knocked into a pen, her notebook, almost spilled a glass of water, and finally captured the buzzing device.
Eyes half-shut, she squinted at the screen through the blur of sleep. For a moment, she couldn't even process the letters. And then her brain caught up.
Lucien.
Her heart did an utterly ridiculous little jump. Wide awake now, she sat up straighter in bed, hair falling in wild tangles around her face as she blinked away the haze of dreams. Of course. Who else would think it's appropriate to text at this hour?
Thumb trembling slightly annoyance, definitely annoyance she tapped the notification open.
Good morning, beautiful. I'll pick you up at noon. Don't keep me waiting ;) – L
She flopped back onto the mattress, dragging her pillow over her face. Beautiful? Really? At seven in the morning with bed hair that could double as a bird's nest? Ugh, he really thinks he's some kind of smooth-talking aristocrat, doesn't he? Great. Just great.
Still, she felt her lips twitch upward despite herself. Annoying. Very annoying.
She thumbed a reply with more attitude than finesse:
Good morning. Fine. Noon. Don't be late.
Satisfied, she tossed her phone aside and sat on the edge of the bed. Saturday mornings used to mean cartoons and cereal. Now they mean… coffee with Lucien Cullen. How did my life get this weird so fast?
Her gaze drifted toward her closet, and dread pooled in her stomach. The biggest battle of the morning wasn't vampires, wasn't secrets. It was choosing an outfit.
She stood in front of the open doors, arms folded.
"Not extravagant, not casual," she muttered. "Basically… impossible. Why don't they make clothes labeled appropriate for coffee with possibly-dangerous guy who flirts too much?"
Her fingers flicked through hangers. A dress? Too much. Hoodie? Too little. Ten minutes in, she was pacing like the fate of the world depended on cotton and denim.
Finally, inspiration struck. She pulled out a soft cream sweater warm, flattering but not screaming look at me. Paired it with dark fitted jeans, neat enough to say she'd tried but not enough to admit she'd agonized over it for twenty minutes. Add ankle boots for polish.
Decision made, she padded to the bathroom. Toothpaste foamed across her brush as she scrubbed furiously, determined not to let Lucien catch her with morning breath. Then came the shower steam curling up in clouds, washing away the remnants of sleep.
When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, her reflection met her with a raised brow. Damp hair sticking to her shoulders, skin fresh, eyes brighter. A little gloss, a brush through her hair until it gleamed, and suddenly the girl in the mirror looked like she had her life together.
She eyed herself in the mirror. Effortlessly put together. Except… she knew exactly how much effort had gone into it.
"Flawless," she told her reflection, then snorted. "Fabulous. And still doomed."
Okay, Amara. You look good. Annoyingly good. If worst comes to worst, you've already survived getting your blood drunk by a vampire. Coffee with a flirt can't possibly top that… right?
Bag in hand, she headed downstairs. The smell of bacon and reheated coffee curled through the air, wrapping the house in its usual morning coziness.
The kitchen was already occupied. Bella sat at the table, mug in hand, watching the steam curl up lazily. Charlie was half-hidden behind the newspaper, though his occasional glance over the edge betrayed him.
"Morning," Amara chirped, sliding into a chair like nothing was unusual.
Charlie's eyes immediately narrowed at her outfit. He lowered the paper, gaze sweeping her from boots to sweater. "Where are you headed looking all… polished?"
Uh-oh.
Bella's lips twitched. She knew. Oh, she definitely knew.
After all, Amara had already told her about the coffee with Lucien half-whispered the confession days ago while pretending it was no big deal. And Bella, being Bella, had filed it away neatly in that sharp brain of hers.
Now, watching Charlie go full dad-mode interrogation, she wasn't about to step in and save Amara. Oh no. Bella was having far too much fun sipping her coffee and enjoying the spectacle, like she'd scored front-row seats to the best comedy show in town.
"Uh…" MC reached for a piece of toast, suddenly very fascinated by butter. "Coffee."
Charlie folded the paper completely now, setting it aside with all the gravity of a sheriff about to interrogate a suspect. "Coffee. With who?"
She mumbled into her toast, "Lucien Cullen."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut bread.
Charlie's eyes narrowed further. "Lucien Cullen? Isn't he a little… too old for you?"
MC nearly choked, coughing on crumbs. Understatement of the year, Charlie. Try immortal vampire. Way too old. Like… centuries too old.
Out loud, she flailed, "It's just coffee! Not a date!"
Bella snorted into her mug, barely containing her laughter. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "Yeah. Not a date."
Amara whipped her head around, glaring. Bella only sipped smugly, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Charlie leaned back, crossing his arms, the picture of suspicious fatherhood. "Coffee turns into lunch, lunch turns into dinner… then next thing you know, you're...."
"Charlie !" Amara groaned, slamming her toast down. "We're friends. Friends go out for coffee. It's not a big deal."
Bella coughed into her mug, clearly covering a laugh. "Just friends." Her grin was so wide it looked painful.
Amara shot her a shut up before I throw bacon at you face, then turned back to Charlie. "Seriously. He's nice. Polite. Probably the type to pull out chairs and open doors. Nothing scary."
Charlie wasn't budging. He tapped the table with a finger, slow and steady. "Just remember, I own a shotgun."
Amara rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might stick. "Noted, Charlie. I'll be fine."
Bella tried, and failed, to stifle a laugh. It came out as a very obvious snort.
"Glad you find this funny," Amara muttered, stabbing at bacon like it had personally wronged her. Perfect. I get to go for coffee with shotgun threats in my ears and Bella waiting to tease me for the rest of eternity. Truly living the dream.
Amara sat there, cheeks burning, toast half-chewed, feeling like she'd accidentally wandered into a sitcom where she was the punchline.
God, she thought, she'd always assumed this side of Charlie the narrowed eyes, the folded arms, the suspicious dad routine was reserved strictly for Bella and her undead boyfriend. Never in a million years did she think she'd end up in the hot seat herself.
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