How socially acceptable it was of me to make a gift for a vampire? Evidently, my secret was no longer safe and it was no longer invisible. That is, my lack of appreciation for the undead. Even with a budding friendship between Damon and I accented by a business relationship, I wasn't necessarily ready to publicly admit my abandonment of my historic distaste for the creatures. With his words ringing in my ears as if a door bell rung far too loudly, my eyebrows knit together to show my displeasure at his suggestion that I might do anything remotely socially acceptable before snorting my indignance for all to hear.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't make a habit of uttering my darkest secrets; I don't want anyone to know I've behaved socially acceptable in the recent past."

The interaction between the vampires that passed while I was mumbling about my behavior did not go unnoticed. It would have been impossible to say that the sly but obviously intimate glances that Damon caressed Isolt's figure with were hidden. I wouldn't have been surprised about this, no, especially as I had been able to guess the extent of their relationship prior to this little pow-wow in their office. Somehow, though, it was a scenario that I felt intruding upon and with that, I sighed and kept further words to myself lest those words betray my silent understanding that whatever it was Isolt and I had experienced was to stay between us. It is with a relieving smirk that Damon pulls my attention from the silent matters stewing in my cauldron of a brain before I graced him with my gaze again.

"You plead the fifth, hm? No one gave you that option. You're dead, you don't get to play with Miranda rights," I replied, casually crossing my arms over my chest as an impish smirk began to tickle the corners of my lips before I uncrossed them quickly to take another sip of my drink, as if the liquid would wash away any words relating to our heathen experience shared in the confines of my shop. The redheaded vampire looked sated when I remained silent, steadily changing the topic to my professional recruiting methods. "All of my items are fabulous, Damon. Not just the knife," I explained, the condescension clearly a fond reaction to his terse words. "I am Mr.Human Resources himself."

With renewed interest in the cake that was displayed in front of the three of us, I sat up a little straighter to get a better glimpse of said blood cake. Easily, Damon distributes the three slices of cake; much to my chagrin does he acquiesce to my demand of trying the cake. Of course I would hate it, but there was a nagging gargoyle of wicked, wicked mischief that was prodding me to try it. Precariously the piece sat on a plate handed to me, sitting sedentary in my hand. With a cocked brow I prod at the cake, feeling kind of victorious when it jiggles a little at the prongs of my fork though the victorious feeling ebbs away quickly as a feeling of mild disgust replaces it, rendering my face and nose wrinkled. And so, the dreaded moment arises that I should lift the fork to my mouth though I can already smell the metallic tinge of blood.

If only it had tasted as red-velvety as it looked.

The moment the fork touched my tongue and I made the proper motions to attempt to chew the cake, I knew I was in trouble. It tasted almost as terrible as dog food and worse than rotten fish. Without thinking, I immediately spat whatever it was in my mouth out, not even caring that it was probably going to his some poor passerby who was unsuspecting of the saliva-covered blood cake that was going to come raining down on them.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Stalin! That is the worst fucking thing I have ever put in my mouth and believe me when I tell you there have been a lot of terrible things in there." With a disgusted glint in my eyes and expression do I turn to Isolt, huffing at what apparently is an offensive compliment. "Wonderful?! Your tastebuds are defective!"