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I straighten so fast I nearly give my spine whiplash.
Of course.
It’s Vlad.
It wasn’t enough that he saw my vag last night; now he’s seen my butt too.
Does he at least like it?
I discreetly check his pants to see if Dracula is showing.
Yep. There’s a bulge. A nice, big one.
“My eyes are up here,” Vlad says.
Oh shit. Now he’s caught me staring at his crotch.
At work.
Jerking my head up, I catch my reflection in his glasses.
Surprise, surprise. My burning cheeks are redder than a rhesus monkey’s butt.
Like a case of déjà vu, Britney walks into the pantry at that very moment, her eyes jumping between me and Vlad.
“Lunch?” he asks me as soon as he spots her.
I nod, toss the wet towels into the garbage, and sprint out of there as if Britney has sprouted boils.
An elevator ride and a short walk later, I find myself in the same restaurant as the last time—except now I’m wiser and order the children’s menu right off the bat.
“The kids’ menu for me too,” Vlad tells the waiter.
“You don’t have to always get the same thing I get,” I say, still flushed and flustered from the tea bag incident. “Why should you miss out on tuna eyes, or cobra heart, or whatever else the chef has decided to cook up today?”
“We do have the sesos tacos you like,” the waiter chimes in.
My Spanish is so-so, but I’m pretty sure sesos is brains. Can someone say mad cow disease? At least I hope we’re talking cow and not, say, honey badger brains.
Vlad looks intrigued by the brains. I guess vampirism has gotten tiresome, and he’s ready to try being a zombie instead.
“Seriously, have the chef’s choice,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll feel bad.”
Vlad smiles. “If you’re sure.”
“I insist,” I say and mean it. The other alternative would be for me to get the special with him, and my stomach isn’t strong enough for that.
Vlad looks up at the waiter. “Since the lady insists, I’ll have the chef’s choice after all.”
“Of course.” The waiter pours us some wine and makes himself scarce.
Vlad raises his glass. “To your health.”
Do I look unwell? “Same to you.” I raise my wine ceremonially and take a dainty sip.
He puts down his glass.
I do the same, and get distracted by his fingers again—specifically, the urge to lick them.
