“God, that was corny as fuck.”
I roll my eyes and place my palms against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath my fingers. With a decisive shove, I push him back and hop down from the counter. The marble floor is cold against my feet as I quickly grab the spatula and rescue the eggs before they burn completely.
“Sit,” I command, pointing to one of the barstools with my spatula. “If you’re going to be annoying, you can at least be annoying over there.”
Surprisingly, he complies, sliding onto the stool with that infuriating grace he has. I turn my attention back to breakfast, working quickly to assemble something edible. The eggs are slightly overcooked, but not ruined. I slice an English muffin, pop it in the toaster, and arrange the bacon on a paper towel.
I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, tracking my movements like a predator. It makes my skin prickle with awareness, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
When the muffin pops up, I slather it with butter, pile on the eggs and bacon, and slap the two halves together. The whole process takes maybe two minutes, and I’m acutely aware of how girlfriendy this feels. I might break out in hives.
I shove the sandwich at him, nearly hitting him in the chest with it. “Here, damn it. And don’t say I never made you anything. Now get out of my sight.”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way I rarely hear from him. Then he does something that completely throws me off balance—he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks, Little Sinner,” he murmurs against my hair before taking the food and walking toward the door.
I stand frozen in the kitchen, watching him go. It’s only when I hear the front door close that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. The pressure that’s been building in my chest since I woke up in his bed finally eases, like someone’s loosened a vise around my ribs.
What the fuck was that?
Chapter 27
Seraphina
The stupid fucking toothpaste cap is missing again, and I swear to god it’s a metaphor for my entire situationship with Lucien. Something small that shouldn’t matter but drives me absolutely insane, because who the fuck just leaves the cap off and lets the toothpaste dry out? A psychopath, that’s who.
“Lucien!” I yell, knowing he can hear me even from his office down the hall. “Where’s the goddamn toothpaste cap?”
No response. Of course.
I stomp down the hallway in nothing but his St. Augustine Athletics t-shirt, which hits mid-thigh and smells like him. The door to his office is cracked open, and I can see him hunched over his laptop, phone pressed to his ear. He’s wearing glasses—the ones he refuses to wear in public because they “ruin his image” or some bullshit. They make him look like a hot junior professor, which only pisses me off more.
He glances up when I appear in the doorway, those green eyes flicking over my bare legs before returning to his screen. He holds up one finger in the universal “wait a minute” gesture that makes me want to bite it off.
“Yes, I understand the implications,” he says into the phone, his voice that carefully controlled baritone he uses for business. “But they won’t back down on this, and frankly, neither will I.”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. The toothpaste cap seems trivial now that I’m watching him work. There’s something fascinating about seeing Lucien in his element. He’s not just an arrogant basketball player with a God complex. He’s the fucking heir to The Sinners of Black Crown, groomed since birth to command and control.
“We’ll discuss it at the meeting tomorrow,” he concludes, ending the call with a tap of his finger. He sets the phone down deliberately, then removes his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“What’s so urgent that you’re interrupting my call?” he asks, not looking up.
“The toothpaste cap,” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculous but too stubborn to back down. “You left it off again.”
Now he does look at me, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way that makes my stomach flip. “And this couldn’t wait because...?”
“Because it’s the third time this week,” I snap. “It’s not that hard to screw a cap back on.”
“Is this really about toothpaste, Seraphina?” He leans back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating eyes. “Or is this about something else?”
I hate how he does that—cuts straight through my bullshit to the heart of things. It’s been weeks of fucking and fighting and this weird domestic arrangement, and he can read me better than anyone ever has and that's annoying the shit out of me.
“Yes, it’s about the fucking toothpaste,” I lie, crossing my arms tighter. “And no, it’s not about anything else.”
“Fine.” He puts his glasses back on and returns to his laptop. “I’ll try to remember next time.”
I stand there for a moment, feeling stupid and dismissed. This is what we do—argue about small things because the big things are too complicated to touch. I’m about to turn and leave when he speaks again without looking up.
