Page 22 of The Charade

"Sounds fun."

"Not really, but I guess it taught us about manual labor."

"Ah yes, manual labor." He strummed his long fingers on the black steering wheel as he pulled onto the cobblestone path that led toward the gates at the front of the school. "Now that’s something I'm familiar with."

"You'refamiliar with manual labor?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He narrowed his eyes, as if offended by my question. "You don't think people who have a staff that take care of their vehicles have ever had to work with their hands?"

I pressed my lips together, wondering how to backtrack so the next forty-five minutes with him wouldn't be completely awkward. "I didn't mean to say it like that."

"Then, what did you mean?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Um…" I tried to think, but the way he was looking at me like he was ready to dissect every word I said in order to point out my flawed thinking was making it hard to concentrate.

When I didn't say anything, he said, "I may not have had the same car-washing and Saturday-chores experience as you did growing up, but just because my last name is Hastings doesn't mean I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth."

"Your parents liked using gold silverware instead?" I asked, mostly joking because I didn't really know what else to say after apparently offending the guy.

I'd hoped he'd laugh at my joke, but instead he just said, "I have a lot of nice things in my life right now, sure, but that has definitely not always been the case."

I waited for him to continue, to explain what he meant since none of it made much sense to me at the moment. But he didn't.

So I tried to focus on the soft, pop music playing on the radio instead and told myself not to assume I knew anything about this obviously very touchy guy.

It took about five minutes for us to drive from the school's grounds to the sign that said,Welcome to Eden Falls, Connecticut. Population 29,000.

My mom had driven us straight from home to the school the day before, so I hadn't seen any part of the town yet.

There were rows and rows of trees along the road as we entered the city limits, and then various buildings started popping up here and there.

"Do you like Italian or Mexican food?" Carter broke the silence that had fallen over us after we'd passed by a few streets lined with colorfully painted houses that looked like they'd been built in the early 1900's.

"I'm good with either," I said.

"Good."

And then we were quiet again.

Why had I agreed to come to lunch with Carter? This was sooo awkward.

We drove a little farther down the main road until Carter switched on the blinker and pulled along the curb in front of a weathered brick building with a big sign that read, The Italian Amigos, in red and green lettering.

I did a double take at the sign, wondering if I'd read the restaurant name correctly the first time. "Is this place actually called, The Italian Amigos?"

"It is," he said, a slow smile lifting his lips as he put his truck in park, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Butamigosis a Spanish word, isn't it?"

"Sí, señorita," he said, apparently deciding to answer me in Spanish.

"So the name of the restaurant translates into The Italian Friends?" I asked, confused.

Did the owners thinkamigoswas an Italian word and not Spanish?

The building looked old enough to have been around way before the Internet had made translating words in other languages as easy as a simple Google search, but surely someone would have told the owners about the naming mistake before they'd done everything to set it up.

"Just come inside," Carter said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door. "You'll understand it better once you see the menu."

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