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right, all right. It was small, but it was all mine—at least for the rest of the month—and it was just a few blocks from Dead End Dating.
    Of course, all mine also meant all mine. As in no eternity mate. No boyfriend. No platonic roommate. Not even a cat.
    Not that I wanted any of the above. I was happy with my life. Extremely happy. Wildly, fantastically happy.
    Yeah, yeah. So I’m not that happy. But I’m working on it. First my career, then my own love life (an eternity mate who adores me and a half-dozen little vamps with my sense of style).
    I set my purse on a small antique phone table I’d talked my mother out of when I’d moved a few weeks ago. Along with a sofa and two chairs. Unfortunately, the sofa took up half my living room, and I’d had to return the chairs for lack of space. My parents had bought heavy-duty blinds for every window as a housewarming present. I’d splurged on some Egyptian cotton sheets that were now calling my name from the king-size bed that took up my entire bedroom.
    I was halfway undressed by the time I walked across the room to the blinking answering machine that sat on the floor next to the spot where a chrome and glass Huervo dining room table would eventually sit if my work with Francis panned out and I started raking in the dough. (Hey, a girl could dream.)
    I punched the blinking button with my toe and my mother’s voice filled the room.
    “Your father has called you three times and you haven’t called him back.”
    “Because I know what he wants,” I said out loud.
    “Midnight Moe’s has been good to us,” the message went on. “I know it’s not exactly a glamorous business, but it’s lucrative.”
    Guilt—oh, wait, that was my mother’s voice—followed me the few steps into the kitchen where I opened my itty-bitty refrigerator and surveyed the contents. I reached past a styrofoam Starbucks container, four juice boxes, and a six-pack of Diet Coke and pulled out what looked like a bottle of red wine.
    The label read BOTTLED ESPECIALLY FOR GARNIER’S GOURMET , an upscale deli and bakery located in the Village. Garnier’s offered their human customers the widest selection of French cheeses in New York, and their vamp clientele a civilized, and discreet, alternative to dinner.
    “…trying your father’s patience,” my mother went on. “He’s been so upset that he actually forgot to trim the bushes on the east side yesterday, and you know he always trims the east side…”
    My father always trimmed the bushes on the east side because they bordered the neighboring estate owned by one Viola Hamilton, president of the Connecticut chapter of the Naked and Unashamed Nudist Sisterhood, aka the NUNS. The NUNS were a group of female werewolves and, therefore, the plague of the great state of Connecticut as far as my father was concerned.
    Viola hosted the sisterhood’s weekend meetings, and so she liked the bushes high and full to maintain her privacy.
    And my father liked to piss her off.
    “…he’s terribly upset about this whole plan of yours. And so am I…” my mother went on.
    I uncorked the bottle, poured a glass, and nuked it in the microwave. Settling on the sofa, I took a sip. My tongue quivered at the first drop. The liquid teased my taste buds, slid down my throat, and worked its way through my body. Warmth rushed along my nerve endings. While it wasn’t the same rush that came from drinking from a flesh-and-blood human, it was just as satisfying.
    Sort of.
    “…know how embarrassing this is for us? What with you living in that hole in the wall? And finding eternity mates for a living? My word, you can’t find your own. How are you supposed to find one for someone else?”
    Forget the sipping. I downed the glass before my mom could point out the fact that I hadn’t had a real date since my great-uncle Gio took the plunge with mate number four—his three previous mates had all met with untimely deaths, and so eternity equaled about a hundred