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“I’ll just have the club sandwich,” I mutter, trying desperately to not appear as flustered as I feel.
“And you, Cullen?” Sunny asks.
“I’m not that hungry.”
Sunny seems like she’ll argue with him about that but, thankfully, Cullen gets a call. I scoot out of the bench so he can leave to answer it. Must be important because his eyebrows are knitting and he sounds a bit gruff when he puts the phone to his ear and speaks to whoever’s on the other side.
“So Nardi,” Sunny makes conversation, “where exactly in Belize are you from?”
“I’m from Cayo,” I answer by rote, but my eyes are on Cullen. Is it because I’m sitting or has he always been that ridiculously tall?
“I’m from the south,” Sunny says proudly. “My mother’s Mayan and my dad is black. It’s actually a really sweet love story. The elders didn’t want my dad to marry my mom, but he moved to the village and even promised to take on mom’s last name so the line of Quetzals would continue.”
“That’s really cool,” I say blankly.
A girl two tables down stops in the middle of her conversation and is watching Cullen too. She’s even swinging her head around to continue ogling while he makes his way to the door.
What’s she looking at? His weird beanie? His shapeless T-shirt and jeans? Ronan Cullen doesn’t deserve the kind of neck-twisting gymnastics that girl is performing.
Sunny continues, “Ididn’t keep that tradition going. But maybe I should have.” She laughs and leans into her husband’s shoulder.
A gentle, besotted smile crosses Darrel Hastings’ lips. “If you really want it, I’ll change my name to Quetzal tomorrow.”
Sunny snorts. “Micheal and Bailey Quetzal does have a nice ring to it. Oh, those are our boys,” she tells me, her expression softening. “We have two sons, one’s in middle school and the other’s in junior high.”
“My little brother’s around your youngest’s age,” I say, trying to focus on the conversation.
“Really? What school does he go to?”
“Galilei Newton.”
Sunny’s jaw drops. “Isn’t that the school for the kids with insanely high IQs? That’s amazing. He must be a genius.”
The waitress arrives with our food and I grab a French fry. “He’s a littletoomuch of a genius.”
“What do you mean?” Sunny asks.
“He recently hacked into somewhere he shouldn’t have.” I squirm in discomfort. “I don’t understand what he did or how he did it, but that’s kind of been our relationship since he came to live with me. We exist in two completely different worlds.”
“Totally get that. I can’t tear Micheal away from his video games.”
Sunny’s husband leans forward. “Your brother is interested in programming?”
“Yes.” I pour ketchup on the side of my plate.
“By chance,” his green eyes stray to Cullen, who’s standing outside on his phone, “did he hack into Cullen’s company?”
Feeling exposed, I cough.
Sunny yanks a string of napkins from the dispenser and offers it to me. “Nardi, are you alright?”
“Yeah.” I choke out.
“Darrel, you made her nervous. This is why I told you to stop analysing everyone we meet.” Sunny frowns apologetically. “My husband is a neuropsychiatrist. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“A neuropsychiatrist? Like a therapist?” I say hoarsely, still recovering from my earlier coughing spell.
Darrel Hastings dips his chin.