“Oh! Sorry,” he repeats, and then grabs something off the porch railing, presenting it with a flourish. “You left this at the café the night that, you know, a vampire catapulted through our front window.” In his hands, he’s holding my US History textbook, and I actually glance over my shoulder at my backpack for a second, as if somehow he swiped it from me while I wasn’t paying attention. “I guess we could’ve just kept it behind the counter—you come in pretty often. But I thought if you had, like, a test coming up or something, you might want it?”

He looks down at his hands as he mumbles the last part, and I accept the book, still staring. I should probably just be grateful, like a normal person, but paranoia keeps whispering little warnings in my ear. “How did you even know where I live?”

“Your name is written inside it. I looked up ‘Pfeiffer in Fulton Heights,’ and this address was the only result. It’s part of why I couldn’t decide what to do when no one answered the door. I mean, if it wasn’t your house, I didn’t want to just leave the book.”

The explanation makes sense—of course it makes sense. I rub my forehead like it’ll chase away my scrambled thoughts. “Thanks. I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it.”

“Oh good. Then you didn’t need it for a test or whatever.”

“No, I mean, I totally did.” The test was this morning, and I’m pretty sure I failed it. “That’s what we were studying for when Mr. Toothy showed up. I’ve just been … I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“It was a pretty intense night.” He grimaces, and lines appear at the corners of his mouth. Somehow, I find them sexy, and I’m pretty sure something’s wrong with me. “Are you doing okay? The way he got in your face … you must’ve been terrified.”

I can’t think of an elegant reply. “I didn’t shit myself, so I’m proud of how I handled things.”

“Impressive.” He grins, more lines appearing. “I admire intestinal fortitude.”

“I might have peed a little, though,” I admit.

“I’m not judging—I had it easy.” Gunnar shrugs, his eyes comfortably on mine. “I just got wrecking-balled across the room by a screaming, blood-soaked mom. Luckily, all I hurt was my whole entire body.”

“Oh yeah. Ouch.” I push my glasses up my nose, still discombobulated by the events of the night—by the fact that Gunnar the Sexy Barista is here now, talking to me. “Are you okay? No permanent damage?”

“Just the psychological trauma,” he replies cheerfully.