“Why?”
“Because you sent my mom to the spa with her friends when she needed to be reminded that she could grieve and laugh. Because you stayed here to suffer through a breakfast neither one of us wanted just to make her happy. So take your one sip, because that’s all I’m willing to share, and then we can go back to ignoring each other.”
To my surprise, Lucian took the mug. He raised it to eye level and examined it as if he were a scientist and the hot chocolate was some yet-to-be-discovered member of the spider family.
I tried not to focus on the way his lips closed over the tip of the straw. The way his throat worked over his single swallow. But I did notice the fact that his grimace came half a second too late. “Revolting,” he said, sliding the mug back to me. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
He picked up his coffee but didn’t drink. Because maybe under his fifty-million-dollar suit jacket and his rich guy beard, he was just a little human after all.
I should have opened a new straw. Should have made a show of avoiding putting my mouth anywhere near where his had been. But I didn’t. Instead, I plucked it out of the drink, reinserted it on the opposite side of the mug, and closed my lips over the spot his had occupied mere moments ago.
Warm, sugary goodness hit my tongue with just the slightest hint of crunch from the sprinkles.
I wrapped my hands around the mug and closed my eyes to prolong this tiny pocket of perfection.
When I opened them again, I found Lucian’s eyes on me, his expression…complicated.
“What?” I asked, releasing the straw.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me like it’s not nothing.”
“I’m looking at you and counting down the seconds until this meal is over.”
And just like that, we were back on an even keel. “Bite me, Lucifer.”
He pulled out his phone and ignored me while I scanned the breakfast crowd.
The diner was hopping as usual midmorning. The patrons were mostly retirees with a few horse farm folks and, of course, the usual biker crew mixed in for good measure. Knockemout was a unique melting pot of old equestrian money, freedom-seeking outlaws, and burnt-out, middle-aged Beltway bandits.
I felt the weight of Lucian’s gaze on me and pointedly refused to meet it.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m sure you have better things to do,” I said finally.
“I do. But I’m not going to be the one to disappoint your mother today,” my surly table mate said.
My glare should have incinerated him. “Does it take more or less energy to be an asshole every second of the day? Because I can’t figure out if it’s your natural setting or if you have to put actual effort into it.”
“Does it matter?”
“We used to get along.” I don’t know why I said it. We had a tacit agreement never to discuss that time in our lives.
His gaze slid to my right wrist peeking out of my sleeve.
I wanted to hide my hand in my lap but stubbornly kept it in plain sight on the table.
“We didn’t know any better then,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re irritating,” he shot back.
I gripped my straw like it was a weapon capable of stabbing.
“Careful, Pixie. We have an audience.”
The nickname had me flinching.
I managed to tear my gaze away from his stupidly beautiful face and glanced around us. There were more than a few sets of eyes glued to our table. I couldn’t blame them. It was part of town lore that Lucian and I couldn’t tolerate each other. Seeing us “enjoying” a meal alone together had probably already ignited the gossip chain. Any one of those people would have no qualms about reporting back to my mother.
I carefully returned the straw to its whipped cream home base. “Look. Since you’re too stubborn to leave and you’re not inclined to tell me why you and my mother are besties, let’s find some topic of conversation that we can both agree on to get through this interminable breakfast. How do you feel about…the weather?”
“The weather?” he repeated.
“Yes. Can we agree that there appears to be weather outside?”
“Yes, Sloane. We can agree that there is weather.”
His tone was so condescending I wanted to take the ketchup squeeze bottle from the stainless-steel carrier and empty it all over him.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Fine. I’m sure we can agree that you dress like a deranged teenager.”
“Better than a moody undertaker,” I shot back.
His lips quirked, and then his expression smoothed into its baseline of irritated boredom.
The bell on the diner door jingled, and Wylie Ogden lumbered in.
Conversations cut off as gazes swung away from us to Wylie.
Lucian didn’t move a muscle, but I still felt a chill descend on the table.
I hadn’t seen much of the former police chief since the incident when Tate Dilton, an ex-cop gone rogue, teamed up with Duncan Hugo, the mobster’s son, to shoot Nash Morgan. Wylie, whose long reign as chief of police was marked with good ol’ boy cronyism, had been friends with the disgraced officer but redeemed himself when he shot and killed Dilton. My opinion of Wylie had risen several points after that. I’d even almost smiled at him the one time I’d seen him in the grocery store.
The former police chief’s gaze landed on our table. He froze, except for the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, which moved up and down, then he made an abrupt about-face to find a seat at the opposite end of the diner counter.
Lucian’s cool gaze remained glued to the man.
I felt something. Something that seemed suspiciously like guilt, which made me defensive.
“You know, if you had told me everything, I wouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted as if he were telling a toddler to stop trying to put their finger in an electrical outlet.
“I’m just saying—”
“Leave it alone, Sloane.”
That was what we did. We left things alone. The only acknowledgment of our shared past was the bitter aftertaste that colored every interaction.
Neither one of us was going to forgive or forget. We would just continue pretending it didn’t still eat away at us.
“Here’s your breakfast,” Bean said loudly. He slid steaming plates onto the table with forced cheer and then oh so casually slid both butter knives into his apron pocket.
7
The Evil Corporate Empire
Lucian
Rollins Consulting offices occupied the top floor of a postmodern building on G Street in DC’s central business district. The proximity to the White House meant that the street in front of the building was regularly closed for the motorcades of visiting dignitaries.
The elevator doors opened to sleek marble, stately gold lettering, and a dragon.
Petula “Thou Shalt Not Pass” Reubena took her role as gatekeeper seriously. No one got past her unless expressly authorized. I’d once found her performing a bag search on my own mother when she’d come to meet me for a rare lunch.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Petula said, rising from her chair to stand at attention. She’d had a long, decorated army career and after one month of retirement had decided she wasn’t cut out for a life of leisure.
She dressed like someone’s wealthy grandmother, and while she did indeed have three grandchildren of her own, Petula spent her spare time rock climbing. This information was gleaned from the extensive background check all employees were subject to. She had never once commented on her personal life and had a low tolerance for anyone else who did.
“Good afternoon, Petula. Any emergencies while I was gone?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said briskly.
I held the glass door for her, and Petula marched ahead of me, rattling off the day’s schedule.