Robert, observing the exchange, wore an expression that was hard to read.
I peered at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing,” he said, meeting my eyes. “You’re simply enchanting, Olivia Taylor.”
We waited for a few minutes without being greeted, feeling like fools after seeing the PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF sign just a few feet in front us. We walked through the main dining area and settled into a secluded booth near the rear of the restaurant. Robert took no notice of the hushed comments and probing glances directed our way.
I, on the other hand, had to bite my tongue to stop myself from shouting, “Eat it up, looky-loos! I’m here with this spectacular vampire, and he just called me enchanting. That’s right,enchanting!”
“This place is quaint. I like it,” he said. He grabbed two menus from the metal holder on the side of the table and handed one of them to me. He scanned the menu, running a finger over the selections. “Hmm, now let me see. What looks delicious?”
“You aren’t seriously going to eat, are you?”
“Of course not, but I must maintain appearances. My, listen to this. The Scary Coronary:sausage, bacon, onion, and cheese omelet, sandwiched between two king-sized hash browns, smothered in hollandaise sauce, served with two buttermilk pancakes and a side of ham. Guaranteed to stop your heart.”
“Yikes.”
He closed the menu and clucked his tongue. “I cannot fathom this grotesque obsession Americans have with killing themselves with food. People treat eating like it’s a competitive sport in this country.”
He was so vexed that I had to laugh. “Robert, eatingisa competitive sport in this country.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
It was funny to hear someone so dignified using a colloquialism. “Oh, I’m serious.”
“What do people eat for these competitions?”
“I’ve never been in one myself, but they eat all kinds of stuff. Usually it’s hotdogs or pie.”
“That’s very odd.”
“This coming for a vampire!” I teased quietly, mindful of eavesdroppers. “You know, Michael told me all about your blood banks.”
“I sense there’s a question coming.”
I hesitated. “If that’s okay?”
He lifted his shoulders. He was ridiculously gorgeous even when he shrugged. “Guess that depends on what you want to know.”
“I’m just wondering what it’s like, drinking blood? Does it all taste the same? I mean, you must get bored having the same thing all the time.”
He shook his head. “Not really. Think of blood like you would human food. Some foods, like rice and beans, are inexpensive—nothing extravagant, but you could sustain a living off it if you had nothing else, yes?”
Nobody knew better than me how true the statement was. I’d also lived solely off plain noodles and a jar of peanut butter with some bread. “Sure.”
“Well, then there are other foods, like caviar and decadent cheeses, which humans eat for enjoyment. The things humans take delight in consuming—the gourmet foods—cost more. It works the same way with human blood.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s the vampire version of gourmet?”
“The purer, the better,” he explained. “I’m not referring to virgins and children, which is Puritanical nonsense, but rather the toxins humans have in their body. Sick humans taste the worst because of medicines they have in their system. A vampire might as well drink rat blood if they are going to consume plasma from an individual who is undergoing chemotherapy. Women on birth control pills also taste terrible, and so do those who eat a lot of processed foods and drink alcohol heavily. The tastiest humans are usually vegetarians and athletes, as they tend to be more cautious about the foods and chemicals that go into their body. This excludes those taking steroids, obviously.”
“That is so fascinating. I wonder what I’d taste like,” I said without thinking, though I trusted Robert was smart enough to realize that I was in no way offering him a nibble.
Still, he licked his lips. “I imagine fantastic.”
I could feel the blush spreading cross my cheeks. “Do you get it by the liter, like bottled water? And what’s the going rate for something like that?”
“Robert narrowed his eyes menacingly. “So many questions. Are you a spy?”
