“Who’s your pretty friend?” I asked, though I remembered very well that Alyssa had called him Kieran and that Andrew had been anxious for his return from somewhere-or-other. 

I expected the pretty boy to fix me with a death look, but he only smiled and checked me out, still clinging to Andrew. He said, just the faintest hint of the South in his voice, “Been wanting to ask the same thing all night. Hello, handsome.” 

Andrew’s cheeks flushed beneath his tan, and he made a halfhearted attempt to pry the boy off him. “Um, this is Kieran Hooper. Kieran, Gabriel Genêt, an old friend.” 

I refer to him as a boy, but that wasn’t accurate. This Kieran was easily in his twenties, but there was something about the eyes, the smile, that spoke of a kind of youth—or perhaps innocence—that made his true age difficult to judge. He disengaged one arm from around Andrew and leaned toward me, laying that hand on my shoulder. He stage-whispered, “Your old friend is being a tease.” 

I smirked. “He’s good at that.” 

“Right?” 

Andrew, still holding Kieran about the middle like he wasn’t sure what to do with him, said, “I know this must look bad.” 

That sounded dangerously like an apology. I had no desire to hear it or to know why he’d think such a thing necessary, so I cut him off with, “No, actually. It’s looking very, very good.”