Mrs. Prim frowns, short brown hair bouncing as she ushers him forward anyway. “Sarelia’s new boyfriend is going to think we’re rude if you don’t hurry up,” she says.
He rolls his eyes, glancing toward Sarelia and I. We stand not even twelve feet away greeting his father.
“I’m pretty sure that’s her husband,” Fred says, eyeing our clasped hands. “No ring, though, so maybe you’re right.” Louder, he addresses Sarelia, “I thought you said that guy was rich. Where’s your massive rock?” He plants hazel eyes on me, not waiting for an answer. “Dude, when you’re rich, you’re supposed to get your girl a rock the size of the moon. Everybody knows that. That way she can pawn it in the divorce and use the money to take care of her little brother for the rest of his life.”
I decide immediately that Sarelia’s brother amuses me, and I like him. He’s rude, but in that teenager way that means he’s going to grow into an adult with a sense of humor, not in the teenager way that rings of true entitlement and selfishness.
He further wins my favor when he approaches and, unlike his father before him, goes straight for Sarelia. He wraps her in a embrace that takes her hand from me, but I don’t mind, because when she hugs him back it’s just as hard.
“You must be Archie.” Mrs. Prim drags my attention from her children. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“For years,” Mr. Prim puts in, scrubbing a pale hand over scruffy hair. “And yet, also so little. We didn’t know the two of you actually knew each other. We thought Sarelia’s crush was just a little schoolgirl thing.”
Sarelia, the twenty-eight-and-a-quarter-years-old schoolgirl. Right.
I force a carefree smile to my face and shrug. “I’ve loved her for some time.”
“Let me see him,” Fred says, passing Sarelia to their mother to greet.
He stands before me, eyes roving from my feet to the top of my head, which he can see quite clearly thanks to his at least four inches on me. “You’re kind of short.”
“Fred!” Mrs. Prim scolds as she lets go of my wife, aghast.
I thread my fingers back through Sarelia’s. “The better to lull you into a false sense of security before I strap you down in my secret basement lab and torture you,” I say, grinning my most feral grin at the boy.
His face goes blank, then bursts, cackles flying out of him as he bends nearly in half.
Sarelia’s hand flexes in mine, and she snorts.
Even her parents crack rueful smiles.
“Come in,” I say, sweeping an arm toward the pink door of my house. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Once I get them inside and seated around my kitchen table, I make us a pot of tea to share. I set out milk and sugar crystalsso that the Prims can adjust their tea as they like while I prepare Sarelia’s cup.
“How was the drive?” I ask. “You didn’t have any trouble at the gate, did you? I told Sal we were expecting you.”
“Is that the bug-eyed dude?” Fred asks, dumping four sugar crystals into his tea. “That guy was hilarious. He asked if we were here to interview for the open assassin position. Said I’m the perfect candidate, since I’m young.”
Sarelia’s lips press together, and her face goes red.
“A good assassin is an educated assassin,” I reply. “Which means finishing school. You’re a bit young to have done that yet, yes?”
“He’s sixteen,” Mrs. Prim says. “And top of his class, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.” She rolls brown eyes. “You were a teenage boy once, Archie. Maybe you can tell me why they think it’s cooler to have an air of stupidity instead of showcasing their intelligence?”
Was her husband not also once a teenage boy? Does he not hold the answers she seeks?
My eyes meet Sarelia’s embarrassed gaze, and I wink. “It’s been a few years since I was a teenage boy,” I confess. “And I didn’t much excel at school, so my insight is quite useless, I fear.”
Fred’s face sours—whether from the conversation or his tea is anyone’s guess.
“You had to have been smart enough,” Mr. Prim notes, waving a hand at my home. “You’ve got a nice house in a private, gated community, and you’re a celebrity, are you not?”
“Celebrity might be pushing it,” I laugh. “I’m a popular man in a niche corner of the internet.”
“That ‘niche corner’ is massive, though,” Sarelia says, tugging me to sit in the chair beside her. “And he signs autographs at the events he’s part of. That makes him a celebrity.”
I hum. “Then I suppose you’re a celebrity, too,” I say, then gasp. “This could’ve been a PR marriage!”
