Page 6 of Things We Left Behind

He led me out of the sweltering room to the coat check, and in less than a minute, I found myself standing on the sidewalk in front of the funeral home, the overwhelming press of bodies, the hum of conversation left behind us. It was a bleak, wintery Wednesday. My glasses fogged up at the change in temperature. The swollen, slate-­gray clouds hung pendulously above, promising snow by the day’s end.

Dad loved snow.

“Here,” Lucian said irritably, shoving a coat at me.

He was tall, dark, and evil.

I was short, fair, and awesome.

“That’s not mine,” I said.

“It’s mine. Put it on before you freeze to death.”

“If I put it on, will you go away?” I asked.

I wanted to be alone. To catch my breath. To glare up at the clouds and tell my father I missed him, that I hated cancer, that if it snowed, I would lay on my back in it and make him a snow angel. Maybe I’d have time to let out a few of the tears I’d dammed up inside me.

“No.” He took matters into his own hands and draped the coat over my shoulders.

It was a thick, dark cashmere-­like material with a smooth satin lining. Rich. Sexy. It hung heavy on me like a weighted blanket. It smelled… Heavenly wasn’t the right word. Delectably dangerous. The man’s scent was an aphrodisiac.

“Did you eat today?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Did you eat today?” He enunciated each word with irritation.

“You don’t get to be snappy with me today, Lucifer.” But my words lacked their usual heat.

“That’s a no then.”

“Excuse us for having a breakfast of whiskey and wine.”

“Christ,” he muttered. Then he reached for me.

Rather than jumping back or karate chopping him in the throat, I stood dumbfounded. Was he making a clumsy attempt to hug me? Feel me up? “What are you doing?” I squeaked.

“Hold still,” he ordered. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his coat.

He was exactly a foot taller than me. I knew because we’d measured once. His pencil line was still in the doorway of my kitchen. Part of the history we both pretended not to acknowledge.

He produced a single cigarette and a sleek silver lighter.

Even bad habits couldn’t control Lucian Rollins. The man allowed himself one single cigarette a day. I found his self-­control annoying.

“You sure you want to use up your one smoke break now? It’s barely noon,” I pointed out.

Glaring at me, he lit the cigarette, pocketed the lighter, and then pulled out his phone. His thumbs flew over the screen before he stowed it back in his jacket. He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled blue smoke while glaring at me.

Every move was predatory, economic, and pissy.

“You don’t need to babysit me. You’ve made your appearance. You’re free to go. I’m sure you have more important things to do on a Wednesday than hang out in Knockemout,” I told him.

He eyed me over the end of his cigarette and said nothing. The man had a habit of studying me like I was fascinatingly abhorrent. Like the way I looked at garden slugs in my backyard.

I crossed my arms. “Fine. If you’re hell-­bent on staying, why did my mom say she owes you?” I asked.

He continued to stare silently at me.