Chapter 16
I walk into the building, which looks more like a warehouse from the outside, with a knot in my throat.
I know I have no right. Lucifer was never anything more than a protector to me, except in my stupid, delusional mind.
The men who got out of the cars escort me all the way to the elevator, which looks more like a freight lift. If I wasn’t absolutely sure who was waiting for me—the man I’ve placed my blind faith in—I might even think I was being kidnapped.
The elevator jerks to a stop, and the doors, which open horizontally, split in opposite directions—one rising, the other lowering.
Seconds later, they shut again. When the men don’t reappear beside me, I understand they’re gone.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t to lose my breath when I see him standing in front of me.
I’m a specialist in this man. I loved him in secret for ten years—nearly half my life—so it takes me only a few seconds to scan him from head to toe.
Bare feet, huge. Low-slung jeans that cling sinfully to his thighs. A plain white T-shirt stretched across his chest, not in that obvious, bought-a-size-too-small way to show off muscles, but because his body is just that solid.
I avoid his eyes on purpose, and needing something to do with my hands, I take two steps out of the elevator and pull the phone he sent me out of my purse.
But what now? Do I hand it back to him?
No. I stay stuck, hypnotized by the sight of his tattooed arms. Several of the tattoos are new to me. But then again, what do I really know about him, besides scattered memories from the past?
The thought pulls me back to reality. I’m twenty-six, and I promised myself that if nothing changed between us, if something real didn’t happen, I’d move on. A drunk orgasm doesn’t count. And let’s not forget the fact that he vanished from my world for an entire month.
“Hi. Here. Thanks for letting me borrow this,” I blurt, still avoiding eye contact.
Wake up, Jackie. He’s just a man. Gorgeous and sexy as hell—seriously, he probably is from hell, because no one should be allowed to look that good—but still, just a man.
“It wasn’t a loan. You should keep it. We’ll need to stay in touch.”
I finally look up and notice a new scar on his temple. My first instinct is to step forward and touch it, but I hold myself back.
“Really?” I ask, not understanding.
“Yeah. We have a lot to talk about, Jackie. Come in.”
I try to process his words, but everything dissolves when our eyes lock for the first time since I arrived.
I open my mouth, wanting to say something—anything—that doesn’t make me sound like some dumb teenager trapped in her first crush, but my lips are dry and I have to wet them with my tongue before I can speak.
I see his eyes drop to my mouth, and when they meet mine again, I feel physically off-balance, like my legs might give out at any second.
Don’t you dare, Jackie Alston. One fainting spell per lifetime is enough.
Lucifer’s eyes are one of a kind. They’ve always made butterflies flutter in my stomach, because he looks at you like he sees everything. It’s like no one else exists on the planet—but it’s not entirely pleasant. It’s as if he can see straight through to your secrets.
I’ve noticed that people like him, quiet people, are observers. They don’t stay silent out of laziness or disinterest. They’re often more attuned to the world than the ones who never stop talking.
I force myself to break the spell. One I’m sure he never even meant to cast in the first place.
“What do we need to talk about?”
“You won’t find out if you don’t come in.”
“Uh… right. Of course.”
I move diagonally, trying to avoid brushing against him, and nearly have a heart attack when he grabs me by the elbow.
“Jackie.”
Dear God, there should be a law against this man speaking.
Or smiling.
Or looking at me.
“Your place is beautiful,” I say, looking over his shoulder, determined to hang on to a shred of dignity.
The decor is minimalistic but stunning. It screams rich bachelor. Everything’s black—furniture, upholstery.
There aren’t any paintings, but there are sculptures scattered throughout.
“But I’m guessing you hated the outside.”
I look down at my feet and nod.
“How’d you know?”
“Because if I remember right, you always dreamed of a house with a huge backyard when you got married. Ideally near the beach.”
I stare at him, stunned. Not just because he seems to be trying to make conversation, but because he’s absolutely right. My brother used to laugh when I said, as a kid, that I’d marry a millionaire who’d buy me a private island.
“An island, actually,” I say, remembering the fairy tale dreams I had of meeting Prince Charming. “But I’ve changed.”
His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and when they meet mine again, there’s a flicker of fire in that midnight blue.
“Are you going to give me a tour?” I ask.
“I’m not a great host. Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable? I’d ask if you want a drink, but last time we saw each other, you passed out at my feet.”
“A gentleman would never throw that in my face.”
He walks toward the kitchen—open-concept, with no walls separating it from the living room—and I watch him open a brushed stainless steel Viking fridge that I know costs around twenty-five grand. He pulls out a bottle of sparkling water and grabs two glasses from the cabinet.
“We lost touch for a long time, Jackie. I know it might be weird for you to see how much my finances have changed, and maybe you’re assuming a few things about me.
So, just to clarify: I’m not a gentleman.
I remember the last time we saw each other.
You came on my thigh so hard your body gave out. Or a blackout might be more accurate?”