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Summary
He’s wearing a white polo shirt that hugs his soft, round torso and his surprisingly solid biceps and a pair of dark blue shorts that show off muscular calves. His skin is warmly brown, smooth and perfect. Fuck Laszlo, anyway, Nandor says silently. He knew exactly what he was doing to send this boy here.
“Laszlo Cravensworth asked me to come by. D-Did I get the day wrong?” A gentle wind stirs his dark, glossy curls at his temples and finally, Nandor stirs, too, sitting up and back against the cushions.
Nandor smiles at him. “You didn’t get the wrong day. I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
At once, the boy looks distressed. “I’m sorry. Should we do this another day?”
“No, no. Please. Have a seat.” Nandor clicks the TV off and half turns toward him. “Your name is?”
“Guillermo. Guillermo de la Cruz.” He offers Nandor his hand and Nandor takes it. Guillermo’s handshake is firm and confident and a little zip of electricity goes up Nandor’s arm.