A/N: Hey guys ... I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated. It's embarassing, really. And if I were to write out every little excuse or reason I could come up with a couple chapters of my own life, and I know you guys want to read this update so I won't do that to you. Just know that I'll try my best not to let it happen again for this amount of time.

And as always ... thanks to chiisai-kitty for being my beta and my friend. And thanks to Charlaine Harris for her characters.

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Eric found little ways to touch me the rest of the flight and all the way to the house—holding a hand out for me to help me out of my seat, placing a hand on the small of my back as we walked through the airfield to the limo (and I checked out the driver—no Fellowship of the Sun flunky here), and alternating between holding my hand or putting a hand on my thigh on the way to his home. At first, I thought it was to show he was with me, and wasn't upset about the little bathroom freakout—I think that scared the both of us more than we wanted to let on.

But once we turned into his gated neighborhood (there was a security guard that waved us in and everything), I wryly wondered if the hand protection was to keep me from jumping out of my seat to try and guess which house was Eric's.

"You know what?" I asked Eric, looking out the window.

"What?" he answered, smiling a little in anticipation.

"I feel like my house would be a better vampire house than any of the actual vampire houses I've seen."

It was true. There were children playing on the sidewalk in Eric's development—probably, during the day; I could see various balls and hula hoops lying forgotten on lawns. Pam's house looked like Martha Stewart lived there. Stan's house was in a normal neighborhood. Me, I lived in a 200-year-old ramshackle house next to a graveyard, and it's only accessible by a dirt road. Go figure.

"Interesting theory."

Just then, the car turned into a driveway, and I tore myself away from Eric's gaze and scooted over the window, not even caring about the slight farting noise the movement made.

"See? Not a vampire house," I said, and it was true.

Sure, Eric's house—mansion, really—was bigger than the other houses, and had a longer driveway that went up a hill, so his house was a little more removed from the neighborhood, but it did look like a normal house—not one you'd be hesitant to trick-or-treat at on Halloween.

For much of the car ride, Eric had been talking about the various houses he owned—the cottage in northern Sweden, in the area where he thought he lived in when he was a human; the penthouse in London that he bought for Pam but she never used; the castle in rural Vienna; the apartment building in Tokyo. And all of those seemed easy to imagine—I thought of a stone fence and wooden walls for the cottage, the general run-of-the-mill castle with Rapunzel towers for the castle, and swanky buildings with shiny windows for the apartment and penthouse. But his house in Shreveport sounded so … normal I didn't know what to think of it.

Now I was kind of glad I didn't try and guess what his house looked like, because anything I would have come up with in my imagination would have been surpassed by reality. Although he'd probably frown at my adjective, I thought Eric's house was gorgeous. It was beautiful, and brick, and big … at least, from what I could see and think of it at, like, four in the morning. I mean, I could see columns, for Chrissake! And the path to his front door was lit up too!

Let's just say I would have bet big bucks Eric had those secret speakers that look like rocks.

I was mooning over his house when Eric was getting our luggage out, and when the limo drove away and left me and Eric in the driveway and I was still mooning over his house, Eric just chuckled.

"I told you, you should have come over earlier," he chided, picking up both of our bags and gesturing to the pathway leading to the front door.

I discreetly looked around for those speaker-rocks, but couldn't find any. Now, anyways. "Yeah, yeah," was all I could think of for my witty comeback.

"You'll like the inside then, I think," he said mysteriously before typing some keys on the keypad mounted next to the door.

As always, Eric was right. Son of a bitch.

When he opened the door, I gaped. The interior of the house was so richly decorated I dazedly wondered if Pam had decorated it for Eric. But, as I looked around the house, I realized this definitely looked like the quintessential bachelor pad, even if it was inside the quintessential family house. There was a widescreen TV in the living room, which was to my left from where I was standing in the doorway, along with a chocolate brown leather chairs and a matching couch, a huge mahogany shelf filled with DVDs, and—get this—a bear rug, right in front of the big brick fireplace.

The rest of the house was the same—the rooms were painted in lush, warm colors (forest green, cream, maroon, with wooden paneling and floors) and minimally decorated, but with just the right stuff to show that is was decorated with taste, and money. Every electronic device in Eric's house was state-of-the-art—even the appliances in his kitchen looked brand spankin' new … and also like they'd never been used.

Eric saw me looking at them and asked, "Those are correct, yes? I had my day man purchase them, and he assured me they were right."

I turned to look at him—he was leaning against the doorframe behind me, watching me look at the stove and the washer and even the coffee machine, the same crappy one I had at home—and smiled. "Yes, Eric, they're right."

He smiled lazily, proudly. "Good."

I smiled back at him before going back to my wide-eyed assessing of the room. Once my eyes landed on the refrigerator, I joked, "Want me to check the food too?"

Instead of replying, Eric walked past me and opened the door, stepping aside to let me inspect. He had rows and rows of True Bloods, milk, eggs, butter, and the generic grocery store brands of lemonade and iced tea; although I didn't open any of the shelves, I could see things in them through the glass, so I guessed he had fruit or vegetables or meat too.

I picked up the milk and brought it to my face, biting my lip as I studied it. The expiration date was in two days, so there was a good chance the milk had been brought to the house sometime before today. I wondered how long ago Eric—or, more likely and honestly, his day man—had bought the milk.

How long had Eric been waiting to show me his fridge?

"What?" he said anxiously, not missing the biting of my lip or the forehead crinkles I knew appeared when I furrowed my brows. "What's wrong? That milk is from a cow, yes?"

He sounded so concerned I had to laugh. "Yes. And everything's right, Eric. Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"Oh," he said, and he sounded a tiny bit relieved. I put the milk back in its spot, and he closed the door soon afterwards.

"It's close to dawn," he said, looking out the window. I could just barely make out the little sliver of orange behind the trees, but I believed him.

"Oh. Good. I'm pooped out," I replied, putting a hand over my mouth as I yawned loudly.

Eric turned to stare at me, so bug-eyed it was comical. "Pooped out?"

I burst out laughing mid-yawn, something I had never done before. Then again, I don't think I ever managed to confuse or, to be honest, gross out a vampire before I told Eric I was "pooped out."

Once I was able to speak—and breathe—normally, I explained, "Oh my God, Eric, it's just an expression. It means I'm exhausted."

"I see." He waited a beat, then added, "But, pooped out?"

I giggled, nodding my head.

He shook his head and dismissively muttered, "And I wonder why I don't understand the human vernacular …." After a moment, he shook himself out of it. "Ready to continue the tour?

"Yep. And, I can carry my bag," I offered as I watched Eric bend down to pick up both of our bags.

"It is nothing. Come," he said, cocking his head for me to follow. He showed me his work offices—one for his businesses, and one for his sheriff duties—and his library, which was the size of Bon Temps' library, except it had a bigger and better selection of books.

I spent at least a half hour combing the shelves, mentally picking out books I knew I would have fun reading during the days I knew I would be spending here soon, on my own terms. Not because there was a killer in Bon Temps and I should spend the night at Eric's house … but because I should spend the night at Eric's house just because.

Once I was finished with my inspection of the library, and Eric stopped beaming, he led me to a hallway I hadn't been down before; we both started walking down it.

After a couple steps he stopped directly in front of a painting and stared at it like he'd never seen it before. Huh. Weird.

Right when I was about to ask what he was doing, the entire wall started moving—a trap door … er, trap wall. It was like Eric was too good for just the painting to swing open and reveal a hidden passageway—he had to have the whole wall move to reveal a hidden passageway.

"Oh, so is this your evil vampire lair?" I joked.

Eric barked out a laugh, then replied, "It's my lair, yes, but this particular one isn't evil."

I laughed, secretly wondering if he was kidding.

For what it's worth, "this particular one" wasn't evil looking at all. It was just as neat and nicely furnished as the upstairs—and I'd expect it to be, since this was Eric's resting area. There was a spacious four-corner bed with soft-looking off-white sheets and a blood-red comforter, this was Eric. Resting on the bed were pillows of every shape and size, but all in red or gold. There was a door opened just enough to reveal a white tiled floor—bathroom, probably—and there was an even bigger wide-screen TV down here, along with an ornate wooden desk set.

It made me feel crappy knowing Eric usually stayed here, in this palace of a resting place, for the day, yet he had been spending most of that time squeezed in a claustrophobic wooden box under my closet.

"Do you like it?" he asked after he dropped the bags on the floor.

"Love it," I replied, looking around still.

"Good," he said, obviously satisfied. "We'll sleep here, and I'll write down the numerical code for you to go upstairs, and keep the wall open—the painting only opens when it scans my eyes, or Pam's eyes, but I'll program it to open for your retinal scan too, tomorrow."

"Sounds good." I yawned again, and Eric smiled sympathetically.

"Tired?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

He handed me my bag, and I took it, placing it on the floor so I could take out my PJs. Eric watched me for a second before he moved his bag over next to the chest of drawers. After that, he nonchalantly began taking off his clothes until he was just in his black silk boxers—and by that time I was just in my tee shirt and undies.

Without saying a word, Eric went over to the bed and got in on the same side he slept on in the bed at my house, and in the bed at the hotel—forever his side of the bed, in my opinion. I got in mine, and laid on my side, putting Eric's arms around me so he was spooning me from behind.

"I'm glad you came here," he whispered, his chin cradled on my shoulder so he could kiss me on the cheek.

"Me too. I should have been here earlier," I replied, turning my head in a slightly uncomfortable angle so I could kiss him on the lips.

"I couldn't agree more," was his simple response.

I know he didn't mean to, but I felt like an ass. Why had I resisted this so much?

"I'm sorry," I whispered, resting my chin on his chest.

"You're here now. That's all that matters."

Eric was always right.

Chapter 54 is written, so it will probably be up in a couple days as an I'm-sorry offering!