THE WRONG BROTHER
Her eyes dart toward me, then to the man sitting beside her.
“Charlotte,” she says quickly, standing to hug me. “You came.”
“Of course,” I murmur, glancing at the stranger across the table. “You didn’t say we were expecting company.”
He stands, offering a polite smile. He’s tall, early thirties, maybe, dressed in a dark jacket and crisp white shirt. There’s something oddly familiar about his eyes, a quiet, assessing kind of calm that feels too practiced.
“Hi, Charlotte,” he says. “I’m Larry."
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