Page 114 of Things We Left Behind

He crossed his arms and leaned against the cased opening to the living room. “Elaborate.”

“I’m not discussing my dating life with you.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure them not calling you back is a them thing and not a you thing.”

“It’s not them ghosting me! Well, except for that one guy. But that was more literal ghosting. Do you even know what ghosting is?”

“I work with a twenty-­two-­year-­old who insists on talking all the time about things I don’t care about. Not only do I know what ghosting is, I could name all the Kardashians if pressed.”

“Is she okay? Holly, I mean.”

“She’s fine,” he said curtly.

“I was thinking about it. Have you considered that the men who chased her—­”

“Back to the ghosting,” he insisted.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Those cool gray eyes went shrewd. “I’ll give you an entire Stucky’s soft pretzel if you tell me.”

I scoffed. “You can’t just bribe me with food.”

That was a lie. Stucky’s pretzels were the size of my face and irresistibly flaky.

“It’s cinnamon and sugar…with caramel sauce,” he added.

Dammit.My favorite. I glared at him. He stared back. The staring contest lasted until my stomach growled like a damn traitor. I’d missed lunch during the computer fiasco and hadn’t gotten around to dinner yet.

“Fine,” I conceded. “But I’m only telling you because you’ll hear about it anyway in our weird little incestuous group of big mouths.”

Stef, Naomi, and Lina had already been thoroughly entertained by the story.

“I’m all ears,” Lucian said.

“Uh-­uh. First I wanna see the pretzel.”

A hint of amusement played across his lips. I wondered how he kept his beard trimmed so neatly. Did he have a special razor, or did he have a beard guy who came to his house every other day?

“Come on then,” he said, heading in the direction of the kitchen, his socked feet making no noise as he walked.

I had a feeling I was going to regret this, but at least I’d get a pretzel out of it.

Just like the living room, the kitchen and dining area were ruthlessly clean. As if the rooms had just been sanitized or were only staged to make it look as if someone lived there. I wondered what the inside of his refrigerator looked like. Would I find expired jars of mustard like in everyone else’s kitchen, or would there be more ruthless sterility? Did vegetables dare rot in Lucian’s crisper drawer?

He flipped the lid on a pink bakery box and angled it my way.

My mouth watered.

There was only one pretzel.

“Even though you’re you and I’m me, I can’t take your last pretzel. Why do you even have this? Don’t you subsist on a diet of egg whites and unicorn hoof?” The man took discipline to a whole new, annoying level.

“I’m willing to part with it in exchange for the story of the man who ghosted Sloane Walton.”

“You make it sound like a children’s book.”

“You’re stalling,” he said, getting a plate out of the cabinet.