“Not sweet enough for you?” I guess.
“It’s not lavender. I was hoping to get a taste of something that would change my life,” he counters.
Damn, that was a good line. I kind of hate how good that line was.
His eyes dip to the cleavage below the neckline of my sweater, and he freezes, making me tense. My cheeks heat when I realize what snagged his attention. Fuck, I should have thrown this stupid necklace he won me at the arcade in the damn trash—I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away this reminder of our time together. In my defense, I didn’t exactly expect to run into him today.
Oblivious to the sexual tension, Abuela launches right in. “Wesley was telling me all about himself,” she says as I unwrap and set the bagel in front of her. “He’s new to the facility, but has lived in America for four years, and he isn’t married,” she emphasizes, clearly proud of her detective skills to have learned howavailablehe was after just a few minutes of conversation. She adjusts the greasy paper in front of her.
I’m listening, but I’m trying not to care. It’s probably all made up anyway. I mean, Iknowhe doesn’t work at Sunset Hills. My eyes drop to the little badge clipped to his breast pocket that proclaims him Wesley Parker with the Sunset Hills logo. A functioning electronic badge, no doubt.
I wish it didn’t impress me. I wish I didn’t immediately get the Peter Parker reference. I wish it didn’t make my insides squirm, because it’s exactly what the SpyderMan I miss talking to so much would do.
“How do you like working here?” I ask pointedly, taking a bite of my bagel.
“It’s an excellent facility,” he says, flashing a grin. A lie wearing the truth like a hat.
“It is!” Abuela echoes. “I love living here.”
I nearly glare at her. Traitor! Only last week she was ripping out my heart by telling me how much she hates it here. But a handsome man shows up, and suddenly she’s the poster child of happy residents. I guess it’s not herfault—she’s just excited about the prospect of a setup. She doesn’t know that the man in front of her is a sham.
Well, Mr. Parker, you like lying so much? Let’s see whatcha got. Rapid-fire hot seat. “Where are you from originally?”
“Manchester.”
“I thought they had different accents—harsher. You sound like the Queen of England.”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “I went to school in London.”
“How long did you live in the UK?”
“All my life until I moved here.”
“And how long was that?”
He smiles. “I’m 31.”
He could be—he’s got some fine lines cutting through his forehead and bracketing his mouth that aren’t deep enough for him to be much older than that. That makes him four years older than me.
“Do you like it here?” Abuela pipes in, deconstructing her breakfast and ripping off a small piece of bread.
“It’s recently become very interesting,” he answers her, staring straight at me.
“What’s your favorite thing?” she presses.
“Probably the locals,” he says, still staring.
My stomach twists, and heat rises to my face. “Siblings? Parents?”
“No family.”
“So, what’s your job here?”
“I’m on the board of advisors.”
“What do you doon the board of advisors?”
“We make some financial decisions and facilitate projects for the overall success of the business and comfort of the residents.”
