Blood Type: Book One of the Blood Type Series (complete)

Creepy Andrew Larsen

"Really?"

"His name is Marcus, he's super cute, and his caramel mocha lattes are to die for."

I turned the phone away from me and pumped my fist in the air, mouthing a silent YES! Turning the phone around again, I said, "Is 'caramel mocha latte' a metaphor for something else?"

"Don't be disgusting, Blake. Just tell me what I should wear."

"I'm going conservative," I said. "Swim shorts and a tankini top. Sporty and stylish, yet appropriately modest."

"Sounds positively Amish," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Well, Andrew Larsen will be there," I said, as though that explained everything.

"Ugh. That guy gives me the creeps."

"Me, too. Choose your outfit wisely."

"Duly noted," Olivia said. "I'd better go. Mom's shoving a toilet brush in my hand and giving me a totally parental look." She turned the phone around. "See? Wave 'hi,' Mom." Olivia's mother obligingly waved hello. Olivia turned the phone around again. "I'm thinking of changing my name to Cinderella. If I start talking to little woodland creatures or sewing my own clothes, go hunt down Prince Charming to rescue me."

**********

My parents had me on drinks and hors d'oeuvres duty, despite the fact they had hired caterers, which meant I had to walk around saying things like So nice to see you and Can I get you a refill? and Would you like a napkin with that? about a million times as I shoved platters of finger food under everyone's noses.

Olivia finally showed up with her parents, saving me from an afternoon of servitude. "Are the guys here yet?" she asked.

"John texted me a little while ago and said he had to take care of something first."

"Sounds mysterious."

"It's probably something to do with work," I said dismissively. "Whatever it is, he said it wouldn't take long."

We made our way to the kitchen where I added the platter of spring rolls still in my hands to the mountain of food already laid out on the counter. As far as I was concerned, the caterers could worry about what to do with it all.

"Where's the perv?" Olivia whispered in my ear, scanning the faces in the back yard as we stood at the French door.

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I squinted against the summer sun as I searched the faces of our guests. "Over there," I said with a discreet point of the finger, even though there was no chance of him hearing us. "Creepy Andrew Larsen."

Olivia followed my finger and frowned. "What a shame he's so weird. He's so hot!"

"He's, like, thirty!"

"Doesn't mean he's not hot. If I were five years older . . ." She gasped. "Look at his shoes! Are those Jimmy Choo loafers?" She squealed. "Omigod, I think I'm in love!"

I gave her an exasperated look. "He told me I smelled nice."

With impeccable timing, Andrew looked in our direction. Our eyes met and he raised his glass of white wine to me before returning his attention to the person he'd been speaking to.

Olivia clutched my arm as though she was about to fall over and fanned herself with her hand. "I think his eyes were actually smoldering."

I pushed her off me. "I'm about to dump that bucket of ice over your head if you don't stop, Libby. Whenever I go into my mom's office, he stares at me with this grin on his face. It makes my skin crawl."