All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(7)

Now that Lauren considered the matter, Lucifer and Alex had probably been separated at birth somehow, genetic incompatibilities notwithstanding. He clearly wanted attention, and he was willing to nudge conversational items off the figurative coffee table whenever she didn’t give him enough of it.

Also, he was gorgeous and sleek and intelligent and entertaining as hell. Not that she ever intended to tell him that, or dignify his provocative remarks with answers.

He might have offered to lend her money—which was both flattering and insulting, as well as horrifying—but she didn’t trust him.

Maybe all his friendliness was sincere.

Or maybe he was hoping she’d become less vigilant about enforcing Ron’s rules, or looking for information to use against her at some future date. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been fooled by faux friendliness. Also, he was her job, not her buddy, and she didn’t intend to confuse the two.

Which was why, after he’d had a post-workout shower and they’d been seated in the hotel’s near-deserted restaurant for a late dinner, she was using her mouth and tongue for eating. Nothing else, other than giving her order and responding briefly to direct questions.

His response: the human version of yowling.

“C’mon, Lauren.” He was slumped in the carved-wood chair, looking extremely put out. “Why wouldn’t we go tandem skydiving over the Hollywood Hills, once we get back home? Wouldn’t that be a priceless bonding experience?”

Her acrophobic butt would be bonded to the airplane seat, she’d give him that much.

“Nope.” She finished the final bite of her seafood paella with a sigh of satisfaction, trying not to notice how the rich red of the restaurant’s curtains set off his gleaming hair and gray eyes.

He glowered at her. “Spoilsport.”

For five entire minutes, as he teased free the last morsels of his grilled whole trout, blessed silence descended over their meal.

Then he leaned forward and peered at her from across the table, his gray eyes sharp. “Is this a Napoleon thing? You’re short, so you want control?” He gave a little hitch of his shoulder and grinned. “No, I suppose you’re not attempting to conquer continents. Just the concept of joy.”

If he intended to hurt her with his mockery, he was failing. But she didn’t actually think he was trying to hurt her.

Other than that lone angry swipe at their first meeting, his words didn’t seem to contain any actual maliciousness. Just sharp-edged humor and boredom and restless intellect and desire for human connection.

She wouldn’t venture so far as to call him delightful. But if he was an asshole, he certainly wasn’t among the worst she’d ever met.

That conclusion reached, she couldn’t help herself. She just … couldn’t.

“Not the concept of joy.” She laid her napkin beside her plate, her tone bone dry. “Only your particular expression of it.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” It was almost a purr, breathy and seductive. He sprawled back in his chair like an indolent prince, lacing his long fingers over his flat belly. “She speaks at last. And while doing so, almost—but not quite—tells a joke. Brava, Nanny Clegg.”

His faded blue tee had ridden up with his movement, exposing a sliver of skin above his low-slung jeans. The candlelight gilded that crescent of flesh, drawing her unwilling gaze.

Given its somewhat remote location, the hotel wasn’t especially fancy, but she’d changed into a dark green swing dress for dinner anyway. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, though, even with that golden sliver of belly visible, he appeared more put-together than her. Black eye or no black eye.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think the two of them were entirely different species.

“She has her moments.” Her tongue had become untethered, and she could only blame the glass of excellent red wine she’d consumed with dinner. “That said, she’s not certain why you’re referring to her in the third person.”

Her resolution to remain silent was melting away as fast as the candle wax, evidently.

“We prefer first person plural? Like royalty?” He waved his hand primly, as if greeting his adoring subjects. “Very well. We’re willing to acquiesce to Her Highness’s demands.”

“We prefer normal human interaction,” she said quellingly. “Second-person singular should suffice.”

His hoot of laughter made their server look over from polishing glasses at the bar. “If you prefer normal human interaction, I haven’t seen any sign of it yet.”

She raised her brows. “And you consider your level of chattiness normal?”

“Yes, yes, I’m clearly the oddity at this table.” He rolled his eyes. “As opposed to a woman who’s convincingly imitated statuary all day.”

Again, she could have sworn there was something more than mere mockery in his voice. Something like … loneliness?

She swept a glance around the room, looking for anyone else who might be affiliated with Gods of the Gates. But apart from an older couple at the bar speaking rapid Spanish to one another—locals, she presumed—the place was empty. And yes, it was late, but it wasn’t that late.

“You said most of the cast members are gone already. But what about the crew? Where are they?” During her past three days on the set, she’d spotted hundreds of behind-the-scenes workers, but where they went after hours, she had no clue. “And where are the actors who haven’t left yet?”