“Don’t waste your time thinking about me. I don’t waste any of mine on you,” I told her.
With her gasp ringing in my ear, I disconnected the call, switched off the light, and lay in the dark hating myself.
18
Ruins of the Past
Sloane
Idragged the recycling bin up the short stretch of concrete, around Lucian’s Range Rover, and plunked it down in front of his garage door. It was a dark, damp Saturday evening.
It had been one of those days where one thing went wrong followed by everything else spiraling out of control. The computers in the library had crashed for over an hour, my shipment of paperbacks for the Valentine’s Day author signing arrived missing their covers, and I’d squeezed in a fourth blind date in hopes that BeardedByron223 would turn out to be better than my last three matches.
He was not. BeardedByron was neither bearded nor a fan of Lord Byron. He’d shown up late and drunk, and in the middle of me telling him it wasn’t going to work out, he took a phone call from his current girlfriend and told her he was at the gym.
He was so not better than the last three that I had plans to curl up tonight by the fire with the sperm bank’s website. If I couldn’t find a date with future husband potential, maybe I’d have better luck with a child.
To add to my already bad mood, I’d spent the past few days ruminating about Lucian. Lucian having dinner with my mom. Lucian texting me from bed. Lucian generously giving his employee a brand-new SUV. Lucian almost kissing me in his office. Lucian working with the FBI to take down one of the most dangerous criminals in the Mid-Atlantic region area. Lucian naked, crooking his finger at me.
That last one hit me in the shower yesterday after I spied his Range Rover in the driveway. Then again right before bed…and when I woke up…
I liked it better when I only occasionally remembered that the man existed.
We were on a never-ending roller coaster of insults, sexual awareness, bitterness, and flirtation. And it was time to put an end to it. I wanted to get off this ride so I could focus my energy on what I actually wanted…which was not Lucian Rollins.
I marched up the walkway to his front door, finger poised to jab his doorbell, when the door swung open.
“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 of Rich Guy Weekend magazine.
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 problems that 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 did not scream.”
“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.”