Page 40

He groans, squinting against the light. “Yeah. Barely. Kind of wish I wasn’t.” He drops into the chair opposite me, rubbing at his temples like it’ll erase the headache.

“Coffee?” I offer.

He shakes his head weakly. “I think I’m still drunk.”

“Hm,” I mutter, taking a sip of mine.

He sighs, checking his phone. “My dad’s already on my case. He’s pissed I left work early yesterday.

“Are you going in today?”

“Yeah.” He leans back in the chair with a nervous laugh he tries real hard to restrain. “Need to be at the office in about an hour.” There’s no urgency in his tone as he strolls towards the fridge, squinting as he yanks it open. The engine’s rumble leaks into the kitchen, a low monotone that fills the space we haven’t bothered to fill with too many words. He grabs a carton of orange juice and downs it in one go. Then groans. Pressing the carton of juice against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “Shit, my brain is liquefying. I swear.”

“You want breakfast?” I slide off the stool, because the alternative is watching him implode.

He flicks a limp hand. “No. I’ll order something. Something awful with enough grease to resurrect me.” But I’m already opening the fridge.

“Right,” I state unbothered. “I’ll make something greasy enough to help but not grotesque enough to finish you off.” Waiting for Lucas to order, for the food to arrive, and then for him to eat will take forever. I’d rather make breakfast myself and have him drive me to Nine Rounds to pick up my bike right away.

I waste no time navigating my way through his kitchen like I've done countless times.

Lucas slumps against the counter, still pressing the carton to his head. “You make a pretty housewife.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t shove you out of the moving car last night.” I scoff.

A weak laugh escapes him, followed by another pained groan. “Yeah. Yeah, fair.”

Butter hits the pan with a sharp hiss as the kitchen fills with the scent of sizzling fat and bacon. For a minute, all I hear are the pops and crackles, the hum of the fridge and the scrape of metal against the skillet. It’s almost clinical in its own way.

Then Lucas breaks it.

“Adrian… about Phantom Productions… I’m sorry.”

I don’t bother turning. “You’ve apologized excessively last night.” And I’m tired of hearing it, honestly.

“Shit, I did? Well, it’s not enough.” His voice dips, softer, stripped of all the usual theatrics. “I need you to know I wasn’t trying to screw you over. I thought… if people saw what shaped you, they’d understand your art better. Appreciate it more.”

I peer over my shoulder at him, watching the way his eyes dilate and search for a resting place. Again, he is looking everywhere except at me. I know a liar when I see one. His antics are old, and I know he wanted me to get that gig for selfish reasons.

I turn around abruptly, sliding the plate of eggs and bacon toward him, grab two forks, and pass him one. He blinks at the food like it’s a sacred offering, salivating. “This looks delicious. Hell. Maybe I should get drunk more often.”

He takes a bite before disturbing the silence again. “This is better than anything I could’ve ordered,” he says around a mouthful.

“I know.”

Fortunately, the rest of the meal passes without a word. Lucas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after demolishing breakfast and shoots me a look that should’ve come with a warning label.

“So,” he starts, life spilling back in, “who was that guy you were sparring with yesterday? The one you were…” He waves his fork in the air, searching for the right sinful verb. “You know?”

I don’t look up right away. I finish my already cold coffee instead, let the mug settle back onto the table before answering. “My trainer.”

He blinks, arching a brow. “Your trainer.”

“Yeah.”

I shrug, small and ever-so economical. The motion costs nothing. “I needed a place to work off some energy. He runs the boxing gym, The Nine Rounds.” Internally, I note the way Lucas’s curiosity sharpens instead of fading. Wrong answer. Or maybe just incomplete. Either way, the guy’s face lights up like a firecracker, and I can see the mountain of speculations swimming behind his eyes. I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms loosely over my chest. “If you’re about to ask if we’re sleeping together, the answer’s no.”

“I wasn’t—”