Thomas couldn’t help but watch her from across the room, but then again neither could his friend Calvin; there was a magnetism there that wasn’t all that hard to explain in terms of physical attraction.

“Don’t stare,” Calvin said.

“You’re the one who’s staring.”

Everything about her–from her delicately managed winter tan to the confident polish strokes on her nails–bespoke a sharply intelligent woman that didn’t tolerate imperfection in herself or others. Calvin ruefully noted that her type was always looking to “trade up;” swapping a less desirable specimen for a fresh prospect at the earliest opportunity. After all, perfection was an ideal, and there was always someone out there who embodied it more.

Even when Thomas said something funny and she laughed, there was something feral in her scrunched nose and flash of ivory-white teeth–something that said “you may amuse me now, but watch your step or I will devour you.”

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