Page 94 of Boss of the Year
“This is the duke, right?”
I nodded. “Xavier’s not really a duke. I mean, he is, but for a long time, he thought he was illegitimate.”
“Like me.” Lucas scooped some more paste into his hands. “Although I don’t think my designation will ever change.”
He looked the opposite of the serious investor. His shirt was wrinkled from our efforts, bits of soy had stained the cuff of one of his sleeves, his hair looked like what Joni would called “deliciously just-fucked.”
It might have been the most attractive version of him I’d ever seen.
“What happened between your parents?” I found myself asking.
He continued working but sighed. “Mom was an experiment for my father, I think. A first love, maybe? Although if you’re experiencing a first love in your forties, then?—”
When he abruptly cut himself off, I looked up. “Then what?”
His cheeks pinked just under the stubble he’d left to grow for the day. “Well, I was going to say, then that’s a bit sad, but realized that would make me a hypocrite.”
I balked. “You’ve never been in love?”
He rolled his eyes as he threw miso back and forth between his hands like a baseball. “That can’t surprise you. I know my reputation, and I’m betting my staff knows it too.”
I couldn’t argue. All the Lyonses’ employees, as well as the guests we served over the years, had a variety of creative nicknames for the supposedly heartless Lucas Lyons.
“Come on,” he prodded. “What are your favorite jokes?”
“You asked for it,” I replied. “Let’s see…I’ve heard ‘Mr. Glacier,’ which frankly isn’t very inventive. And the ‘Ice Man’ is just plagiarizing fromTop Gun. But The Tin Man in Tom Ford is pretty good.”
Lucas scowled. “That’s just inaccurate. I never wear Tom Ford. All my suits are made by my tailor in Milan, Riccardo.”
I giggled, and he scowled even harder. “Then there’s my favorite. ‘ChâteaudeNo Feelings.’”
That earned me the deepest scowl of all, causing my laugh to bounce off the high-beamed ceilings. “You just like that one because it’s partially French.”
I held up my hands, one covered in miso paste. “I never said I was a poet.”
He scooped up a bit of miso and dabbed it on my nose and cheek.
“Ah!” I shrieked, wiping at my face with my clean(er) hand. “What are you doing?”
“That’s called payback,” Lucas replied, now grinning. “Seems appropriate for an emotionless jerk, don’t you think?”
I scooped up a bit of the salty paste myself and reached out with my finger. “Only if you can take what you dish out, sir. I grew up with five siblings. Food fights are a religion in my world.”
But before I could tap my finger to his chiseled cheek, Lucas turned his head, grabbed my wrist, and wrapped his lips around my fingertip.
I froze.
When his tongue wrapped around the end of my digit, I full-on gasped. And when he sucked, hard, I was glad to be sitting, because my knees buckled.
This wasnothinglike what Daniel had done in the kitchen, ruining my ice cream and making a predictable attempt to seduce me. This was spontaneous. Joyful. And incredibly hot.
“Lucas,” I whispered.
With one more twist of his tongue, he sucked once more, then released my hand with a pop.
“It was too good to waste,” he said, low and rough.
I nibbled a bit of the residue left on my other hand and made a face. “It’s very salty.”
