Page 102 of Things We Left Behind

“Because I’ve always wanted one. I always assumed I’d have one. I want what my parents had. I want to give my mom grandkids who are so excited to see her they smash their sticky little faces up against the windows just to watch for her car. I want a house full of people.”

He grimaced and helped himself to a sip of wine. “That sounds horrible.”

“Which part?”

“Mostly the sticky part. But also the house full of people.” He shuddered.

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s definitely not for everyone. But I’m Team Sticky Face. I love spending time with Chloe and Waylay and watching them awkwardly turn into slightly less feral, more hormonal people.”

We ate in silence for a few moments, which gave me plenty of time to spiral mentally. I could not believe I was sharing a meal with Lucian Rollins. He made eating sexy. No one in the real world could do that. Everyone looked like idiots trying to cram food into their faces. But not Lucian. The way he held his fork and knife. The way he never seemed to get anything stuck between his teeth. The way his lips parted just enough for the fork to pass between them…

“You know, it’s not too late for you,” I said, interrupting my stupid train of thought. “You could start a family.”

“Or I could keep doing what I’ve been doing.”

“And what have you been doing?” I asked, trying to dislodge a piece of parsley with my tongue.

“Exactly what I want, when I want.”

“You sound like an overgrown toddler,” I pointed out.

“At least I don’t dress like a teenager who shops at yard sales,” he teased.

Before I could take offense and then tell him I’d taken offense, I heard a faint buzzing noise.

He reached inside his jacket and produced his phone to frown at the screen. “Excuse me a moment,” he said as if I were some business associate he had to be polite to. “What?” he answered.

I didn’t like when people couldn’t be bothered with a greeting. How hard was it to say “Hi” or “Hello”? Or “Lucifer’s phone, Satan speaking.” My dad used to answer every call to the house with a boisterous “Yellow?”

Lucian’s frown deepened. “I see. When?”

I almost felt bad for whoever was on the other end of the call, because whatever they were saying was not making him happy. He looked as if he’d just won the World Championship Glaring Contest and was pissed off about it.

“Where?” His tone was clipped. He looked over my head at some unknown spot, still frowning. “Fine. Get me in.”

He hung up, still looking grumpy as hell.

“Problem?” I asked.

“You could say that.” He picked up his knife and fork again. This time when he cut a bite of chicken, it was with controlled violence.

“Let me guess. The trophy girlfriend you ordered isn’t available?”

“Close. The man who sold Duncan Hugo the list of law enforcement officers just turned up dead.”

My fork dropped with a clatter. “What happened to him? Who was he?”

“A low-­level independent contractor criminal. His body was dumped in the Potomac. He was shot twice in the head.”

“Why are you getting calls about that?” I asked, my blood running cold.

“Because someone ordered a hit on my friend.” His voice was colder than the polar ice caps before global warming.

“Duncan Hugo is behind bars, and Tate Dilton is dead,” I reminded him.

“Anthony Hugo is the one who commissioned that list, and he’s still out there operating his business.”

“Lucian, you can’t just decide to go head to head with a mob boss or whatever the appropriate terminology is.”