: Chapter 16

Crunchy Soup and Bad First Dates

Sloane

Massimo was a fraud. Instead of the six-­foot-­tall, glasses-­wearing, gourmet cook hobbyist with a love of popular thriller authors, I was seated across the table from a five-­foot-­four man-­child who had just ordered buttered noodles because marinara was “yucky.”

“My mom makes the best buttered noodles. So if you wanna get with this,” he said, gesturing at his sweater that looked as if it had been intimate with a Weedwacker, “you better learn how to melt that butter just right.”

My God. What had I done to deserve this karma? All I wanted to do was meet a nice, hot guy, have kids, and get a woman out of prison. Was that too much to ask? At least the restaurant was nice. It was part café, part Italian restaurant, part wine bar with checkered tablecloths and the comforting smells of garlic and espresso. If I didn’t have to drive all the way back to Knockemout, I would have been ordering the largest glass of pinot grigio they had.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “So you said you’re a Grisham fan. Did you read his latest?”

“Who?”

“Grisham. John Grisham,” I prompted.

He was squinting at me through bloodshot eyes.

“The famous legal thriller writer. You said A Time to Kill was one of your favorites.”

“Ohhh!” he said a little too loudly. “That was actually my mom. I don’t like to like…you know. Communicate? So she writes all my texts and emails for me. Sometimes she even impersonates me on the phone.”

“I don’t know you well enough to know if you’re joking,” I said.

He flailed his arms at the server. “Hey, man! I know we, like, just ordered some food, but I’m starving. Is there any way I could get, like, two baskets of bread? Oh, and some fried mushrooms. And you know what? Throw in a bowl of soup. But not, like, something mushy. I like crunchy soup.”

The server’s gaze slid to me.

“We met online,” I explained.

“Got it,” he said to me, then turned back to Massimo. “I’ll be back with your bread, mushrooms, and crunchy soup.”

“Cool, man. Thanks.”

The server disappeared, and I was left alone with the very hungry, red-­eyed mama’s boy.

“Are you high?” I asked.

“You know it. Twenty-­four seven, baby. Livin’ the blaze life. Relaxin’ with the reefer. Sparkin’ up Saturday.”

“It’s Wednesday.” I wanted to stand up and walk out, but I had actual concerns about what damage he would inflict on himself and others without any adult supervision.

“It’s cool, baby. It don’t matter what day it is because you’re hot and I’ve got buttered noodles coming.” He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a half-­eaten brownie. “You wanna share the rest of this edible?”

“No, I don’t. Did you drive here, and if so, do you remember hitting any people-­shaped objects?”

His giggle was so high-­pitched I almost didn’t hear the buzzing of my phone in my bag. I pounced on it, grateful that Stef was calling me early with his fake emergency.

But it wasn’t a call from Stef. It was a text. From Lucian.

Lucian: Is Massimo husband material?

Massimo put his chin in his hands. “Oh, hey, listen. I, like, forgot my wallet, and my mom totally withheld my allowance this week because I accidentally set the basement on fire. You don’t mind picking up the tab, do you? Oh, and I need you to drive me home.”

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have even replied to Lucian’s text, let alone allowed the man the tiniest glimpse into my personal life. But this was an emergency.

Me: He’s not even adult material. Thinking about setting a fire in the ladies’ restroom and making a run for it. I’m not going to survive until Stef’s fake emergency.

Lucian: Where are you?

My heart skipped a beat.

Me: Vino Italiano. Why?

Lucian: Stay there.

Stay there? As in stay here with Massimo the Mooch?

I glanced up from my phone. “Is your real name Massimo?”

He let out another guffaw. “Nah. It’s actually Eugene. You can call me Euge. You know. Pronounced like the Pittsburgh ‘huge’? Mom thought I’d get more chicks as a Massimo.”

“Your crunchy soup, sir,” the server said, setting down a bowl of soup filled with at least nine packs of crushed-­up saltines.

“Cool, man. I’ll make sure this pretty lady with the awesome rack tips well. What’s your name again?” he asked me. “S Loan?”

“Oh my God. Okay, that’s it,” I said, throwing my napkin down on the table.

“If you’re going to punch him, can you try not to get any blood on the tablecloth?” the server asked me. “The last couple that sat here was on a blind date too, and she dumped an entire bottle of wine over his head. I’m out of fresh linens.”

The bell on the door jingled, and in strode Lucian Rollins, looking just as beautiful as he had when I left him less than an hour ago.

Every woman in the place, including the lesbian couple and the ninety-­second birthday attendees in the corner, stopped what they were doing and stared.

I too fell under his spell as he swept toward me. His eyes were all silver fire. His mouth was pressed in that mean, firm line that made women vie for a smile. His coat today was charcoal gray and billowed behind him like a superhero cape. His trousers were a lighter gray and fit extremely well in the crotch. I hadn’t noticed that at the prison.

“Man, these guys make a good crunchy soup,” Euge said through a mouthful of saltines.

“Huh?” I said, not bothering to tear my eyes away from Lucian.

“Sloane,” he greeted me with that gravelly rasp.

“Hi.”

Euge turned and found himself face-­to-­crotch with Lucian.

“Your pants look expensive,” Euge announced to the entire restaurant.

Lucian shot me a smirk.

“Don’t you smirk at me. Apparently his mother made his profile.”

“Dude, I’m kinda in the middle of something with Rackety Ann here. We’re vibing.”

“Rackety Ann?” Lucian repeated.

“He’s talking about her chest,” the server offered helpfully.

Lucian rolled his eyes and clenched his teeth. He reached out and grabbed Euge by the collar and hauled him out of his seat.

“Don’t get blood on the tablecloth,” I warned.

“We’re just going to take a little walk,” Lucian promised. He looked at me. “Stay.”

With flaming cheeks, I watched him march Euge out the door like a puppet. The rest of the diners were riveted. I was debating texting Lina and Naomi when the woman at the table next to me leaned over.

“Girl, I don’t know what’s happening right now, but I’m a nurse and if you don’t go home with Tall, Dark, and Tight Crotch, I’m gonna check you for head trauma.”

The man next to her nodded. “I’m her husband, and even I think Suit Guy is fucking hot.”

“Noted,” I said.

A minute later, Lucian returned alone, looking moderately cheerful.

He pulled out Euge’s chair and sat.

I bit my lip. “Did you crumple him up and throw him in the gutter?”

“I arranged for my driver to take your date home in my car.”

I covered my face with my hands and groaned.

“I took the liberty of canceling the stoned gentleman’s noodles and brought you this,” the server said.

I dropped my hands to see him handing Lucian a menu and a bottle of wine.

Lucian thanked him and the man scampered off, obviously thrilled by the lack of bloodshed.

“That was the worst first date in the history of first dates,” I said.

“You’d be surprised,” Lucian said.

“Oh, please. You don’t date. You pick up a rich-­guy-­trophy-­girlfriend takeout menu and place an order. This is different. This is humiliating and a total waste of time.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, looking amused. “Also, where can I get a copy of the rich-­guy-­trophy-­girlfriend takeout menu?”

“Don’t be funny or nice. I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not pitying you, Pixie. I’m enjoying your misery.”

“Well, you’re doing it too nicely. Be meaner.”

“Fine. You should have walked out the door thirty seconds after your introduction. What were you thinking?”

“I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt…and I was really hungry.”

“What a coincidence. So am I.”

“Are you seriously planning to have lunch with me right now?” I asked.

He closed the menu. “Yes. But rest assured, it’s not the company I’m interested in. It’s the chicken piccata.”

The server reappeared with two wineglasses and took Lucian’s order while he poured us each a glass.

I accepted my wine and leaned back in my chair. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but thank you for riding to my rescue…twice today.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. You said that without wincing.”

“I was wincing on the inside.”

Was Lucian Rollins flirting with me? Or was he just being human, and it was so far from his usual icy devil asshat routine that even the most benign polite gesture felt like it was sexually charged?

“Then you’re welcome,” he said.

I tipped my glass toward him. He raised his at me.

“Okay. Enough of this being nice to each other. It makes my skin crawl,” I said with a shudder.

Lucian chuckled and I nearly fumbled my glass. Clearly I had tumbled into an alternate reality, like Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami. Was this a new world where Lucian Rollins and I got along?

“Agreed,” he said.

“So, about Mary Louise. If I talk to her son and her story checks out, what would the next step be…hypothetically?” I asked.

“You’d need to hire an attorney with experience in cases like this. Someone who has the time to dedicate and a good rapport with both judges and juries. They’d need to build a team of associates, paralegals, and interns.”

“You’re saying I need a team of unicorns.”

“And don’t forget about the money. Appeals are expensive.”

“We’re sitting on a pretty nice nest egg,” I bragged.

“If it’s less than a seven-­figure nest egg, I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said.

I sputtered into my wine, narrowly avoiding a spill. “A million dollars?”

“Depending on how long the appeal process lasts, it could be more.”

“Are you fucking around?”

His eyes locked on mine. “I never fuck around about money.”

“Shit.” I put down the wine and picked up my water. “Shit.”

“I could be persuaded to—­”

“No!” I said.

“Definitely a concussion,” the woman at the table next to us stage-­whispered to her husband.

“He’s, like, beautiful and handsome at the same time,” her husband whispered back.

“Why wouldn’t you take money when it’s offered, Sloane?”

Because it was his. Because he’d hurt me. Because I’d hurt him. Because the last time our lives had gotten tangled up, neither of us had ever recovered.

“Because I said so.” It was too bad Massimo turned out to be a big, stoned phony, because I was clearly ready to become a parent.

“Still unnecessarily stubborn, I see,” he said.

“I think we’ve both proven on multiple occasions that we can’t work together.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t take my money to do something good.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” I said. “We don’t trust each other enough for money to change hands.”

“And whose fault is that?” he asked quietly.

“I think we both played a role.”

Our meals arrived, and we stared down at the plates before us.

Lucian heaved a sigh. “Let’s table this discussion for another time. I rarely get a Wednesday afternoon off, and I’d prefer to enjoy it.”

I picked up my fork. “Don’t you already own half of the Eastern Seaboard? How much money do you need before you can afford to start taking afternoons off?”

“You’re awfully judgmental for someone who agreed to a date with a man-­boy called Euge.”

“Ugh. Naomi and Lina are going to have a field day with this,” I grumbled. Though it was hard to be grumpy with a plate full of ravioli.

“What are friends for if not making fun of us when we’re at our worst?” he philosophized.

“It’s not that. Well, not only that. They’re so smug about their happily ever afters.”

“So are Knox and Nash,” Lucian agreed. “It’s annoying.”

“When I meet my future husband, I’m going to have some dignity. I’m not going to get caught making out in public. And I certainly won’t be shoving the joys of monogamy down the throats of my single friends,” I said, plowing my way through the first pillowy, cheese-­stuffed ravioli.

Though come to think of it, almost all my friends were in committed relationships. I frowned and chewed. When the hell had that happened? The endless parade of bridal showers, weddings, and baby showers had punctuated the past several years of my professional march toward library domination.

“I was supposed to meet Knox at Honky Tonk two weeks ago. I got there early and found Mr. and Mrs. Morgan climbing out of his pickup truck wearing only half their clothes,” Lucian said as he pulled a piece of bread in half.

I hid my laugh behind my napkin.

“I FaceTimed Lina from a store to ask her opinion on a jacket. She answered the phone from the shower. I got an eyeful of Nash Junior in the background.”

Lucian shook his head. “For future reference, when you’re on a date, you should refrain from discussing other men’s penises.”

I choked out a laugh. “Wow. Wednesday Afternoon Lucian could almost pass for human.”

His lips curved up ever so slightly. “If you spread that around, I’ll deny it.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.

My statement had the effect of a record scratch. Lucian went very still, his eyes boring into mine, telling me what I already knew.

He had trusted me. Once. Just like I’d trusted him. Neither one of us had any intention of making the same mistake again.

I cleared my throat and focused on my plate.

Lucian sliced through a delicate piece of chicken with surgical precision. “Why are you so intent on finding a husband? Why now?”

“Can’t we just talk about the weather or something?” I asked.

“It’s cold,” he retorted. “Why are you hunting a husband like it’s a sport?”

“Because I’ve spent so much time on my career I’m freaking out at how little time I have left to start a family.”

“And you need a family because?”

Normally, I’d have no problem calling him an inhuman robot monster with a wallet where his heart should be. However, I was keenly aware that we’d grown up in very different homes. He wasn’t asking to be an asshole—­well, not only to be an asshole. The man across from me genuinely didn’t understand the purpose a family served.

“Because I’ve always wanted one. I always assumed I’d have one. I want what my parents had. I want to give my mom grandkids who are so excited to see her they smash their sticky little faces up against the windows just to watch for her car. I want a house full of people.”

He grimaced and helped himself to a sip of wine. “That sounds horrible.”

“Which part?”

“Mostly the sticky part. But also the house full of people.” He shuddered.

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s definitely not for everyone. But I’m Team Sticky Face. I love spending time with Chloe and Waylay and watching them awkwardly turn into slightly less feral, more hormonal people.”

We ate in silence for a few moments, which gave me plenty of time to spiral mentally. I could not believe I was sharing a meal with Lucian Rollins. He made eating sexy. No one in the real world could do that. Everyone looked like idiots trying to cram food into their faces. But not Lucian. The way he held his fork and knife. The way he never seemed to get anything stuck between his teeth. The way his lips parted just enough for the fork to pass between them…

“You know, it’s not too late for you,” I said, interrupting my stupid train of thought. “You could start a family.”

“Or I could keep doing what I’ve been doing.”

“And what have you been doing?” I asked, trying to dislodge a piece of parsley with my tongue.

“Exactly what I want, when I want.”

“You sound like an overgrown toddler,” I pointed out.

“At least I don’t dress like a teenager who shops at yard sales,” he teased.

Before I could take offense and then tell him I’d taken offense, I heard a faint buzzing noise.

He reached inside his jacket and produced his phone to frown at the screen. “Excuse me a moment,” he said as if I were some business associate he had to be polite to. “What?” he answered.

I didn’t like when people couldn’t be bothered with a greeting. How hard was it to say “Hi” or “Hello”? Or “Lucifer’s phone, Satan speaking.” My dad used to answer every call to the house with a boisterous “Yellow?”

Lucian’s frown deepened. “I see. When?”

I almost felt bad for whoever was on the other end of the call, because whatever they were saying was not making him happy. He looked as if he’d just won the World Championship Glaring Contest and was pissed off about it.

“Where?” His tone was clipped. He looked over my head at some unknown spot, still frowning. “Fine. Get me in.”

He hung up, still looking grumpy as hell.

“Problem?” I asked.

“You could say that.” He picked up his knife and fork again. This time when he cut a bite of chicken, it was with controlled violence.

“Let me guess. The trophy girlfriend you ordered isn’t available?”

“Close. The man who sold Duncan Hugo the list of law enforcement officers just turned up dead.”

My fork dropped with a clatter. “What happened to him? Who was he?”

“A low-­level independent contractor criminal. His body was dumped in the Potomac. He was shot twice in the head.”

“Why are you getting calls about that?” I asked, my blood running cold.

“Because someone ordered a hit on my friend.” His voice was colder than the polar ice caps before global warming.

“Duncan Hugo is behind bars, and Tate Dilton is dead,” I reminded him.

“Anthony Hugo is the one who commissioned that list, and he’s still out there operating his business.”

“Lucian, you can’t just decide to go head to head with a mob boss or whatever the appropriate terminology is.”

“As it happens, I’m uniquely suited to do exactly that,” he said, picking up his wine.

“The FBI is investigating him. You don’t need to go make yourself a target.”

“It almost sounds like you care, Pixie.”

“Lucian, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“What can you do that the FBI can’t?” I asked.

“For one, I can expedite things. My team isn’t overworked and understaffed. We have the capabilities to find the right thread to pull on and point the FBI in that direction.” He looked at me, eyes narrowing. “I already regret telling you this.”

“What is Anthony Hugo going to do when he finds out that you’re helping the FBI build a case against him?”

“Become irritated?”

“Don’t play the blasé butthead with me. This guy is dangerous. There’s a three-­part docuseries about him on YouTube that was never finished because the channel owners died in a mysterious house fire.”

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself,” he insisted.

Now, maybe. But there had been a time when he hadn’t been. When he’d been too busy protecting others to worry about himself. Old habits died hard, especially when the habit holder was a stubborn pain in the ass.

“His organization is rumored to be directly linked to a South American drug cartel, and his right-­hand henchman is serving a life sentence for brutally murdering a federal witness and his family.” My voice was getting higher pitched by the syllable.

“Someone’s done her homework,” he said, sounding not the least bit concerned.

“Of course I did. Nash is my friend, and Anthony Hugo is still out there walking around.”

“Then you understand why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“But what if he comes after you?” I pressed.

He looked up at me, his eyes flat and cold. “I’ll be ready.”

If we were friends, I could argue with him. I could make him listen to reason. But we weren’t. There was nothing I could do to make him take my opinion seriously. Nothing I could do to change his mind.

I suddenly wasn’t very hungry anymore. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to talk about any of the precautions you’re taking,” I prodded.

“I don’t suppose I am.”

“Is he going to go after Nash again?”

Lucian sighed and put down his utensils. “I didn’t come here to talk about this.”

“Well, tough shit. Because you’re here, and we are talking about this.”

“All signs point to Hugo focusing on business as usual.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I’m watching him. The FBI is watching him. His enemies are probably watching him to see if they can take advantage. It would be incredibly stupid of him to make a move right now. And Anthony Hugo might be many things, but he isn’t stupid. Nash, Lina, Naomi, Waylay, they’re all safe.”

I crossed my arms. “Are they all safe because Nash and Knox are taking precautions that the rest of us aren’t aware of?” Naomi and Lina would not be pleased when I told them. Of course, telling them would require me confessing to the worst first date of my entire life.

Lucian raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know why I bother asking you to trust me to handle this. You’ve never done anything I wanted you to do before.”

He was baiting me, distracting me. Trying to guide me away from my pointed questions with a pat on the head and a “look at something shiny” redirection.

“I just don’t understand what you can do that a law enforcement agency can’t.”

“I have the budget and resources and technology the government wishes it had. I’m simply sharing some of my toys. By the way,” he said, buttering a piece of bread, “you’ll need to drive me home since I loaned my car and driver to your date.”

“Did you at least bring your wallet?” I asked, picking up my fork again.