“Now? I’ll remind you I’m thirty, but I could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing that.” I add my age for Hans’s benefit. I don’t want him thinking I’m too young for him.
“And how old are you, young man?” Dad calmly turns his attention to Hans, like he hadn’t jumped the last time he looked at him.
“I’m thirty-nine, sir,” Hans answers formally.
My dad nods. “Good age.”
Thirty-nine. I memorize the information.
“Name?” Dad prompts.
“Hans,” my neighbor responds, holding his hand out.
Dad shakes it.
“Alright, alright. You can grill the boy while we eat.” Mom gestures to the table. “Everyone, sit.”
I snicker at my mom referring to Hans, the larger-than-life man, as a boy.
The man in question surreptitiously slides his thumb down the back of my arm, and I know it’s his way of warning me that he heard my laugh.
Knowing which chairs my parents always sit in, I move to one of the other two and direct Hans to the last chair.
Mom jumps right into dishing food onto everyone’s plate, starting with Hans.
When she’s done, everyone has a square of cheesy sausage egg bake, two slices of crispy bacon, and wedges of salted heirloom tomatoes.
“Dig in,” Dad commands, already shoving a forkful into his mouth.
Hans stays silent as he takes one bite, then a second and third.
I don’t know if he’s feeling uncomfortable about the situation, but it’s not stopping his appetite.
Hans pauses and looks up from his plate, tomato speared on the end of his fork halted halfway to his mouth. “This is delicious,” he tells my mom before looking at me. “Take it this is where you get your love of cooking from?”
Warmth floods my chest as I nod. “Mom had me helping her before I could even reach the counter. I had to stand on a box.”
“It was a wooden crate.” Mom corrects me before she smiles at Hans. “So, our Cassie has cooked for you? Did you know she has her own food blog?”
I try widening my eyes while she’s talking to get her to stop, but she doesn’t take the hint.
“It’s just for fun,” I tell her and Hans, referring to my blog that practically no one follows.
“You do such a good job at it,” Mom insists.
I’m trying not to grimace when I look over at Hans, hoping he’s not holding back a laugh at the idea of me with a blog. But when I meet his gaze, he’s looking at me seriously.
“I’d like you to show me.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Why is that so sweet and so dirty sounding?
“Where did you two meet?” Dad interrupts my dirty thoughts.
“Um, well, Hans is actually my neighbor.” I don’t know why that fact makes my cheeks flame red, but it does.
“Oh, really?” Mom picks up her mug, and I can see her trying to remember what the houses near me look like. “You buy the one at the end of the street?” she asks Hans, referring to the unoccupied house.
“I’m in the house directly across from Cassandra’s.” Hans uses my full name, as he always does, and I don’t miss when Mom widens her eyes.
But Dad just nods. “Makes sense.”
Wait, what?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Dad lifts his brows. “Well, you work from home and don’t ever go out to actually meet people, so someone falling into your lap was really the only way this was ever going to happen.”
I groan. “Thanks a lot. But there isn’t anything to happen. We aren’t dating or anything.” My stupid blush is back. “It’s just that my car wouldn’t start, and when I asked Hans if I could borrow his truck, he offered to drive me.”
Dad smirks. “I wouldn’t let you drive my truck either.”
“So—” I talk over the old man. “I invited him to come up for a meal as a thank-you. Please don’t turn it into torture.”
“What’s wrong with your car?” Mom jumps back into the conversation.
I shrug. “Who knows. I’ll get it figured out. I just didn’t have time to do it today without canceling on dinner.”
“How are you going to get to the airport tomorrow?”
At her question, I can feel Hans turn his attention to me.
“I’ll figure it out.” I don’t know why I bother lowering my voice, everyone is obviously listening.
“I’m sure Hans wouldn’t mind driving you,” Dad helpfully chimes in.
“No, that’s not—”
“I’ll drive you.” Hans cuts me off.
I lift my eyes to his. “You don’t—”
He cuts me off again. “I’ll drive you.”
The hard look in his gaze tells me it would be a mistake to argue. “Okay,” I whisper.
Mom clears her throat. “You all packed?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Where are you going?” Hans hasn’t turned his attention away from me.
“Um, Mexico.” I try to smile. “It’s for work.”
“Where in Mexico?” Hans’s tone has gone hard, like maybe he already knows the answer.
CHAPTER 34
Hans
When she says the name of the city, I nearly drag her over my knee.
I’m no stranger to the country. It’s beautiful. The people are kind. The food is some of my favorite on earth. But that city, that particular city, has been labeled the most dangerous city in the world the last three years running. Specifically for cartel violence and kidnapping for ransom. That city is not somewhere I want my Butterfly going. Ever. And definitely not without me.
But those facts aren’t something the average person would know. And if it wasn’t for my fascination with my beautiful neighbor, I wouldn’t know it either. But when I did my research on Cassandra, I did my research on the company she works for too. They have branches all over the world, but their biggest and newest manufacturing facility is in this particular city.
As someone who works in human resources, I didn’t think there would be any threat of her having to go there. That’s for product development people, maybe the salespeople for training.
But apparently, I need to up my game. Tap her phone. Hack her emails.
If I’d known about this more than a day in advance, I could’ve found a way to make sure she couldn’t go. But now…
“And where do you work, Hans?” Mrs. Cantrell asks.
Since I’m still staring at Cassandra’s profile, I watch her slowly turn to face me. She’s clearly curious about my answer but can’t really admit she doesn’t know.
In all fairness, I’ve never asked her about her job either. I just know the answer because… well, because.
“I’m a health inspector.” The lie is one I’ve had ready for years.
I don’t have to use it often since I don’t interact much with people outside my real profession, but I know more than enough about the inspector world to answer any question Mrs. Cantrell, or anyone else, might ask.
“Bet you go to some interesting places,” Mr. Cantrell says around a bite of bacon. “Explains the clothes.”
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with his clothes,” Cassandra argues.