“So?”
He rubs his chin, trying for casual.
“If I tell you about Tristan, will you tell me about Lucas?”
I snort. “Not a chance.”
He groans, throwing his head back against the seat.
“You’re no fun.” He mutters.
“You do realize Tristan is thirty-two, right?” I say, voice even.
His head jerks toward me, eyes sparking with mischief.
“Ha. You realize you’re turning thirty next year, right? And look at you, moon-eyed over a kid. What is he, twenty? Practically a baby.”
I cut him a cold look, voice dropping.
“Call him a baby again. Go on. I dare you.”
His smirk widens at my tone, though he lifts his hands like he’s surrendering.
“Hey, I’m just saying—you can’t throw Tristan’s age in my face when you’ve got almost the same gap with your precious Lucas.”
“So what,” I say, raising a brow at him, “are you actually involved with Tristan, or are you just delusional?”
He shrugs, eyes sliding away to the window. It’s the smallest tell, but I catch it. I always catch it.
My lips twitch, betraying the smile I fight back.
“You know…” I say slowly, savoring it, “ that he’s getting back with Jake, right?”
His head snaps toward me so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.
“What?!”
***
I finally drop Maksim off at the hotel. He takes his time getting out, still trying to pry into my business, but I slam the door shut before he can get another word in. He has this strange love for hotels—like the mansion isn’t enough, like an apartment would suffocate him.
The drive to my favorite Japanese restaurant is exactly quiet. A relief. No chatter, no noise, just the hum of the engine and my own thoughts. Inside, the staff greets me with the kind of familiarity that borders on routine. They know me and what I always order.
Normally, I wouldn’t even glance at the menu. But tonight, I hesitate.
Lucas.
He’s at my place.
And for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what the hell another person likes. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care. But the thought unsettles me, not because he didn’t tell me, but because I never asked.
The irritation sharpens in my chest, so I do the only thing that makes sense—I order everything. Spider roll, California roll, sashimi, tempura, miso soup, and sauces. Excessive, maybe. But Lucas eats like he hasn’t been fed properly in years. I like that about him. His appetite feels… honest.
By the time I get home and the elevator doors slide shut behind me, I can already smell the food bleeding through the paper bags. But when I step into the open living room, a frown cuts across my face.
It’s too quiet. My place is always quiet, but tonight, the silence feels wrong. I set the takeout on the counter and check the den upstairs. Empty. The cinema and guest rooms. Empty. My jaw tightens as I head back down, irritation coiling tighter in my chest. Then I notice the balcony door is ajar.
Cold air brushes against me as I step outside, scanning the space. Nothing. Until I round the corner by the pool.
