Page 113 of Things We Left Behind
“What?” Lucian demanded.
He was missing a jacket, tie, and shoes but was still dressed in tailored trousers and an Oxford with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His socks were a fancy plaid pattern. He looked like he’d just strolled off the pages ofRich Guy Weekendmagazine.
He also looked annoyed, tired, and obnoxiously sexy. A woman who didn’t know what a pain in the ass he was would have been tempted to shoo him back inside with promises of hot, homemade soup and a night of forgetting his troubles.
But Lucian Rollins didn’t deserve homemade soup.
“I’m sure you’re used to having your butler drag your trash bins back inside in the city, but around here, we do it ourselves,” I announced.
“Why would I need a butler when I have an overbearing neighbor who can’t seem to remember to put on a fucking coat?” he shot back.
“I don’t think you should be working with the FBI,” I snapped, going with the first item on my mental list of problemsthat I had with him. Well, the first problem that didn’t involve my inconvenient physical attraction to him.
With an eye roll, he reached out, fisted his hand in the front of my sweatshirt, and pulled me inside.
“Excuse me! Didn’t anyone ever tell you kidnapping women on your doorstep is rude?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you screaming shrewishly about private business in public places is dangerous?”
I stuffed my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “I’ll give you the shrewish part, but I didnotscream.”
“How generous of you.”
“I stand by my statement,” I said, looking around.
The TV in the living room was on to some kind of financial news report. There was an empty bowl and an open laptop on the ottoman. Flames danced cozily in the fireplace. Yet the room still managed to feel somber, lonely even. Gray walls, gray couch, scratchy-looking ivory pillows. It felt soulless. Except for the music.
I frowned. “Is that Shania Twain?”
Swearing under his breath, Lucian hit a button on his phone and the music stopped. “We’re not discussing the FBI, Anthony Hugo, or my personal business. So unless there’s another topic you’d care to yell at me about, you can show yourself out.”
I blew out a breath. “Thank you for the referral to the attorney,” I said. “I had a call with her yesterday and sent her everything I had on Mary Louise.”
“So you came to yell at meandthank me?” he asked, sounding slightly less irritated.
I shrugged. “I’m a complicated woman.”
“Noted. Now, if you’re done shrewing, I’d like to enjoy my house without you in it.”
“I don’t think that’s a word. And I’m not leaving until you hear me out. I’ve been thinking about this a lot—”
He smirked. “You’ve been thinking about me? Shouldn’t you be too busy finding Mr. Right to give me a passing thought?”
I glared at him. “I’ve got a big brain, Lucifer. There’s room for lots of stuff up there.”
“Have you found him?” he asked.
I didn’t quite suppress the shudder that rolled up my spine as my recent dating shenanigans tap-danced onto center stage in my mind.
“Not yet,” I said with forced positivity. “I didn’t come to talk about my dating life.”
“Then why did you come?” he pressed, looking vaguely amused.
“To yell at you about the trash bins. Weren’t you listening?”
“You’ve been on how many dates and still haven’t found a suitable candidate?” he asked.
My eyes narrowed. “Listen, Rollins, this isn’t hiring an employee to fetch you coffee and smoothies made from the blood of puppies. Finding your life partner should be…” Disheartening? Physically painful? Excruciatingly depressing? “Challenging,” I said out loud.
