"How old are you?" "How old do you think I am?" "Early forties?" "Fifty-two." My brows raise in surprise. "You don't seem like a normal fifty-year-old." His chuckle is robust and deep, and he brushes his free hand down his beard. "How old are you?" he asks. I debate lying as I take a sip of cognac, but figure there’s no harm in him knowing my age. "Twenty-one."
