“You want to come back to my place for a smoothie?”
A tingle of excitement shoots up my spine and a few other places. Ivan joined our night-running club last month, and although the other women stare as hard at him as I do, I’m the only one he’s stared back at.
I play it cool. “Just a quick one. Gotta get up early tomorrow—board meeting.”
He nods. “Same. We’re on a crunch to finish a company-wide analysis of—” He stops with a chuckle. “Sorry. That’s even boring to me.”
It’s a short walk to his condo near the park. Inside, he tosses his keys on a table and bustles into the kitchen, grabbing produce and hauling a blender onto the countertop. I take a seat at the island.
When his back is turned, I stealthily raise my phone to snap a picture. Brandy will never believe I went home with Ivan without proof.
But there’s nothing on the screen except a handful of spinach floating through the air.
I look up to see Ivan smirking at me. Tiny tips of ivory peek through his lips. My heart pounds as icicles form in my veins, which I am suddenly extremely aware of.
“Don’t worry,” he says, accent thicker than ever. He grabs an apple and takes a giant bite, the juice running down his chin. “After three hundred years, I figured I can decide what kind of blood I want to drink.”
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
