Page 165 of The Keeper

“Nice night,” an unfamiliar voice sprinkled in a gentle southern accent sounded to my left.

I glanced over to see a guy around my age sit next to me. I bristled at the intrusion. There are at least half a dozen empty benches in this area. I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

“Ah. A native New Yorker,” he said. “I can tell by the inherent disinterest.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” I asked, trying to remember my manners and not sound irritated. “If you’re lost, there’s a hotel about a block and a half that way. The concierge is quite knowledgeable.”

He chuckled. A deep, unaffected, sound. “I know my way around Manhattan.”

Folding my arms, I turned to look at him.

Conventionally handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, expensive watch, crisp button down, tailored pants. Not a tourist. Just another Wall Street business bro on the prowl after hours.

“When I first moved here,” he went on, not bothered by my stand-offish behavior, “women like you scared the shit out of me.”

Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t engage.

“Women like me?” I arched an eyebrow.

He leaned back, turning toward me. “I meant no offense, ma’am. My thoughts sometimes come out faster than I can phrase them correctly.”

I wasn’t disarmed by his polite response at all.

“Verbal diarrhea is common in this city,” I noted.

His laugh was easy, unforced. “That’s a great way to put it. Mind if I steal your line?”

I sized him up one more time and turned away. I didn’t want to make friends tonight. I wanted to be left alone.

“I feel like I’ve started this conversation all wrong,” he said. “Hi. I’m Wes. Born and raised in Kansas City. The Missouri one.”

Charm oozed off him, and not in a good way. This charm felt fabricated. Like he was flipping through some flirting guidebook and trying out different lines. I could practically see him in his swanky Financial District apartment, styling his hair just right, picking out the perfect cufflinks, winking and giving his reflection a thumbs up.

To prove my point, he reached up to adjust his shirt collar so I could see exactly which cufflinks he chose to wear today and then ran his hand through his perfect hair.

“Do all men from Kansas City preen in such an obvious way?” I chided.

“Only the Missouri ones,” he replied a little too smoothly.

“Whatever.” I shook my head.

“Most women enjoy this. Have I met my first ice princess?”

Alright. Play time is over. I stood up.

“Probably not your last either. Have a good night.”

I only made it a couple feet away before I heard, “Now I know why people called you the fun twin.”

Everything froze. My legs, my blood, my lungs, time.

The fun twin.

“You’re easier to track down than I thought,” he drawled in an English accent reserved for the Ascot races and white tie affairs at Buckingham Palace.

Steeling myself, I pivoted on my heel to face him again. He remained seated on the bench, gazing up at me like a fucking asshole prince.

“Jordan.” I choked out his name through clenched teeth.

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