CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma
One convenience of the bungalow I’d rented was that it had a dining room that easily fit six. Since Tate hadn’t stopped blowing up my phone for details, and Lucian admitted that Brommy and Sal had tagged along and were staying at the hotel as well, we invited them over for lunch, preferring the privacy of the room.
Though Tate and I could don big hats and sunglasses and often get away with not being photographed, I had no doubt that Lucian and Brommy together would instantly be noticed. The men were just too good looking not to cause a stir. And while I had no idea how big a hockey town LA truly was, enough people already had recognized Lucian for me to know they’d do it here too. Throw Sal, with his bold flash, into that mix, and we might as well have pointed a neon sign toward our party.
“Can I just say, thank God,” Tate murmured to me as I poured her some champagne from the bar cart set up in the corner of the room. “I thought I might get a text saying you’d gotten back together with Greg.”
“Ew.” I wrinkled my nose. “I can’t believe you thought that. Do you know me at all?”
She made a self-deprecating face. “I know, I know. But people do stupid things all the time.” She glanced at Lucian, who, despite not cooking the meal, was setting up our plates with his typical fierce attention to detail. “That, over there, is the best choice I’ve seen you make outside of your career.”
Heat suffused my cheeks, but I raised my own glass slightly, and we did a covert glass tap.
“Is this a private girl huddle, or can anyone join?” Sal asked, appearing at my side. He was wearing an authentic olive-green zoot suit with a cherry-red polka-dot tie. The outfit had so impressed Tate that, upon meeting him, she’d pressed a hand to her chest and exclaimed, “Be still my Chicana heart.”
It had cemented an instant friendship.
I handed him a glass. “I don’t know. Tell me more about this dress I’m getting first.”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “I was a sneak, I know! And I wouldn’t have done it for just anyone, but poor Luc looked so pathetic.” He smirked at Lucian, whose head had jerked up on hearing his name, and he glanced our way. “Besides, he threatened to pound me into a Sal meat patty.”
Lucian rolled his eyes. “There were no such threats.”
“Maybe not verbal,” Sal countered, taking the champagne bottle with him to the table. “But there were glares. We all know how potent your glares can be.”
“He’s got you there,” I said with a grin, taking the seat Lucian held out for me.
Lucian grunted and sat next to me.
“Well, he looks damn content now.” Brommy neatly slid into the seat between Tate and me. “Almost as though he’s inwardly purring. I feel safe in the knowledge that I am leaving him in your capable hands, Emma.”
“Sitting across the table won’t prevent me from kicking your ass,” Lucian drawled without heat. In truth, there was a lazy air about him now. He appeared a man content, his big body loose limbed and relaxed in his chair. It was a good look on him. Even better when his gaze met mine, and a hot knowledge of what we’d done last night and this morning simmered between us.
I want it again, his gaze said.
Heat swamped me.
Soon, mine said.
A small quirk of his brow. Sooner than later, honey. Count on it.
A sound of amusement ended our nonverbal eye communication, and I turned to find Brommy watching us with a sappy grin. “Just look at him.” Brommy gestured expansively with his enormous hands. “Eye fucking and smiling like a teen who felt his first tit—” A bread roll hit his forehead dead center.
Lucian lowered his brow and gave Brommy a warning look. “Shut it, or the next one will be in your mouth.”
Brommy laughed. “Just like the Oz of old.” He wiped an imaginary tear but then threw up his hands in peace when Lucian growled. “Okay, okay, I’m shutting it.”
I hid my smile by stabbing into my salad and taking a bite. Brommy was crude, but he wasn’t wrong; Lucian did look happy. I’d done that—I’d made him smile with his eyes, made him laugh with ease. After a series of personal dejections and setbacks, that I could experience this little bit of happiness with someone who’d also suffered felt like liquid sunlight flowing through my veins.
Tate had been chatting with Sal, not really noticing us as he showed her images of outfits he’d picked up on his recent shopping trip.
“You have to take me with you the next time you go out,” Tate demanded with a pout that I knew she practiced on unsuspecting men.
“Chica, we can go today if you want. Although I might have something for you already . . .” Sal flipped through his pictures. “Here.”
Tate took the phone and squealed at the picture. “Want!”
Brommy, who’d been clearly trying to get her attention since he’d arrived, leaned over and glanced at the phone. “You’d look beautiful in that.”
Tate glanced at him, and her red mouth quirked. “I’m not sleeping with you, so don’t even try.”
Brommy merely smiled. “I’d be disappointed if sleep was involved.”
Tate did a double take, then laughed, truly amused. And I knew she was hooked. Which amazed me, because her usual inclination would be to verbally eviscerate him.
“Good Lord,” I murmured to Lucian, dipping my head in close to his, mainly because he smelled good, and I wanted to be nearer. “That might have actually worked.”
“You have no idea.” His lips touched the shell of my ear and lingered. “Years, I had to witness this.”
My mind went a bit hazy at that touch, the proximity of him. And I pulled in a breath, looking up to meet his gaze. As always, his eyes had the ability to make me weak. Make me want.
His attention focused on my mouth, and the wide expanse of his chest hitched. “Why did we invite everyone here again?”
“Because they were blowing up our phones, and we were being good friends.”
“And we would have hunted you down eventually,” Brommy put in loudly.
“He has the hearing of a bat,” I whispered to Lucian, who chuckled.
“And the reflexes of a cat,” Brommy added.
Lucian’s hand whipped up and caught a bread roll midair. I yelped, jerking in my seat; he’d moved so fast. Lucian turned and gave Brommy a smug look. “Center beats cat.”
And for one brilliant moment, I saw the full force of Oz, the great and powerful player who’d ruled his sport. He shone with it, confidence and cockiness oozing from his pores, until it occurred to him that he no longer played center. The realization crashing over him was painfully clear, from the way his expression suddenly blanked out to the tension visibly stiffening his spine.
I hurt for him. Because the agony exposed in the brief moment spoke of a man who didn’t know who he was anymore. Unheeded and unwanted came the one piece of advice my mother had given me about men when I’d first started to notice them.
Don’t try to pick up the pieces of the broken ones. You’ll never be able to set them back to the way they were again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emma