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.”
