I didn’t make the conscious decision to let him guide me out of the receiving line. But there I was, moving along like an obedient golden retriever.
Naomi and Lina were halfway out of their seats, looking concerned. But I shook my head. I could handle this.
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.
“Lucian.”
“Sloane.” He rasped my name like a warning. And despite the icy fingers of cold trailing up my spine, I felt something warm and dangerous uncurling inside me.
“Do you have to be so obnoxious all the time?” I asked.
“I don’t want to fight with you today. Not here.”
In a humiliating turn of events, my eyes instantaneously welled with hot tears.
Another dizzying wave of grief crashed into me, and I fought to push it back.
“There won’t be any new stories,” I murmured.
“What?” he snapped.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“You said there won’t be any new stories,” he prompted.
“I was talking to myself. I’ll never have another new memory of my dad.” To my undying embarrassment, my voice broke.
“Fuck,” Lucian muttered. “Sit down.”
I was so busy trying not to show my worst enemy my sloppy tears that I barely registered him shoving me none too gently to the curb. His hands rummaged through the coat pockets again, and a handkerchief appeared in front of my face.
I hesitated.
“If you use my coat to wipe your nose, I’ll make you buy me a new one, and you can’t afford it,” he warned, brandishing the handkerchief.
I snatched it out of his hand.
He sat next to me, careful to keep several inches between us.
“I don’t want to hear you whining about getting dirt on your fancy suit,” I grumbled then noisily blew my nose in his ridiculous handkerchief. Who carried reusable snot rags with them these days?
“I’ll try to control myself,” he said mildly.
We sat in silence as I did my best to get myself back under control. I tilted my head and looked up at the heavy clouds, willing the tears to dry up. Lucian was the last person on earth I wanted to see me vulnerable.
“You could have distracted me with a nice, normal fight, you know,” I accused.
On a sigh, he exhaled another cloud of smoke. “Fine. It was stupid and selfish of you not to eat this morning. Now your mother is inside worrying about you, making a bad day even worse for her. Your sister and friends are concerned you’re not handling things. And I’m out here making sure you don’t pass out so they can keep grieving.”
My spine straightened. “Thanks so much for your concern.”
“You have one job today. Hold your mother up. Support her. Share her grief. Do whatever it takes to be what she needs today. You lost your dad, but she lost her partner. You can mourn your own way later. But today is about her, and making her worry about you is fucking selfish.”
“You are such an ass, Lucifer.” An astute, not exactly wrong ass.
“Get your shit together, Pixie.”
The old nickname did the trick, blocking out the unrelenting sadness with a feisty bout of fury. “You are the most arrogant, opinionated—”
A dented pickup truck with Knockemout Diner decals on the doors screeched to a stop in front of us, and Lucian handed me his cigarette.
He rose as the window rolled down.
“Here you go, Mr. Rollins.” Bean Taylor, the scrawny, frenetic manager of the diner leaned out and handed Lucian a paper bag. Bean spent all day every day eating deep-fried diner delights and never gained an ounce. The second a salad touched his lips, he packed on the pounds.
Lucian handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, man! Real sorry to hear about your dad, Sloane,” he called out the window.
I smiled weakly. “Thanks, Bean.”
“Gotta get back. I left the wife in charge, and she burns the hash browns.”
He drove off, and Lucian dropped the bag in my lap.