Usually the sheriff of Area Five sat in the center of the room, but tonight he was in the corner booth. He watched me approach. I knew he was taking in my jeans, which were on the tight side, and my tummy, which was on the flat side, and my soft fuzzy white sweater, which was filled with natural bounty. I should have worn my frumpiest clothes. (Believe me, I have plenty in my closet.) I shouldn’t have carried the cranberry coat, which Eric had given me. I should have done anything but look good for Eric—and I had to admit to myself that that had been my goal. I’d blindsided myself.
Eric slid out of the booth and rose to his considerable height—around six foot four. His mane of blond hair rippled down his back, and his blue eyes sparkled from his white, white face. Eric has bold features, high cheekbones, and a square jaw. He looks like a lawless Viking, the kind that could pillage a village in no time at all; and that’s exactly what he had been.
Vampires don’t shake hands except under extraordinary circumstances, so I didn’t expect any salutation from Eric. But he bent to give me a kiss on the cheek, and he gave it lingeringly, as if he wanted me to know he’d like to seduce me.
He didn’t realize he’d already kissed just about every inch of Sookie Stackhouse. We’d been as up close and personal as a man and a woman could be.
Eric just couldn’t remember anything about it. I wanted it to stay that way. Well, not exactly wanted; but I knew it was better all the way around if Eric didn’t recall our little fling.
“What pretty nail polish,” Eric said, smiling. He had a slight accent. English was not his second language, of course; it was maybe his twenty-fifth.
I tried not to smile back, but I was pleased at his compliment. Trust Eric to pick out the one thing that was new and different about me. I’d never had long nails until recently, and they were painted a wonderful deep red—cranberry, in fact, to match the coat.
Dead as a Doornail by Charlaine Harris