Page 37 of Things We Left Behind

He looked at me as if I’d just suggested he stir his coffee with his penis.

“What do you expect me to do with that?”

“I expect you to taste it, make a face, and then tell me how revolting you think it is, even though deep down, you’ll like it so much you’ll start plotting how to order one without me noticing.”

“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 youronesip, 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 maybeunder 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? BecauseI 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.”