“Speaking of ghosts,” he finally said in a low voice. “Who is Greg?”

I winced, my body tensing.

“I know you didn’t want to talk about it before. And you can tell me to shut it now, if you want.” Concern lined his hard face as his gaze moved over mine. “But the way your friends rallied around you makes me worry. Did this guy hurt you?”

Perhaps it was because I’d told him my dad hit, or maybe it was simply Lucian’s nature to look out for people, but his concern about me ever being hurt warmed my fluttering insides.

“Not physically.” I sighed. “Greg Summerland was my ex.”

The bed jolted. “The quarterback?”

“Yes.” I really hated that Greg was a hero to so many. I sincerely hoped Lucian wasn’t a fan. But he sounded more surprised than awed. I supposed that made sense, since he was a pro athlete as well.

“When I was axed—literally—from the show, I went home to cry on his shoulder and found him screwing a nineteen-year-old girl on my living room floor.”

“Ouch.”

“It didn’t look very comfortable on the knees.”

“Em.” His voice touched me like a caress. I didn’t want sympathy. Not about stupid Greg and his wandering dick.

“What should I say? It was a blow. But I think I should have felt more than rage. He should have broken my heart. But it feels fairly intact.”

Lucian thought it over before speaking. “Good point.”

“I think so,” I said with some cheek.

He started to smile, but then his expression clouded. “Greg is a star athlete.”

“I am aware.”

“I didn’t realize you were familiar with the life.”

“The life being all the craziness of rabid fans and the never-ending travel and practice schedules, you mean?”

“Yeah, that.” He didn’t sound very pleased.

“It isn’t as though it was much different from my life.”

He was silent for a second. “No, I guess not.”

Lucian sounded so disgruntled I fought a smile. But my good humor crumpled. “I guess I thought he was above the whole skirt-chasing aspect that I’d heard so much about. At least, he claimed that wasn’t him when we started going out.”

“He left you with a bad impression of us, didn’t he?”

“Us?” I asked.

“Pro athletes.”

The flutters in my belly started up again, inexplicably strong. I curled into the feeling, half pressing myself to the bed. “Are you trying to tell me something, honey pie?”

He huffed a slight laugh but didn’t smile. “Not all of us are like that, Em.”

The flutters moved to my chest. “I know.”

An adorable grunt was his reply. I was tempted to push and ask him why it mattered so much that I didn’t swear off all athletes. But I didn’t have the courage. Not when any possible rejection would level me. This man had hugged me close, held me up when I was low and feeling sorry for myself. He’d danced in the dark with me like it meant everything. I wanted it to mean everything, and that was my weakness.

He was quiet for a moment before speaking with clear reluctance. “You never asked about Cassandra.”

“I figured that if you wanted to tell me about her, you would.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “That your way of saying I should have minded my own business about Greg the moron?”

“Moron, huh?”

“If he screwed around on you, he was.”

I laughed. “Yes, he was. And no, I’m not upset you asked.”

His nod was perfunctory, as though he wasn’t fully listening, and his gaze slid away. “When Cassandra found out I was retiring, she left. Put the ring on the front hall table and bolted.”

Oh, Lucian.

My entire body squeezed with pain for him. “That moron.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, and he made a grunt of agreement. Less tense now, he turned his head back my way. “She wants to be an actress.”

Oh, the irony.

“You say that like it’s a four-letter word.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t think it’s a four-letter word. It’s seven.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I can count the letters. I’m sure.”

“I’m talking about the way you sneered at actress like it meant dirt. But it’s good to know you can count up to seven.”

“You make me crazy; you know that?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I have no idea why you would.” There was a surprising lightness in his voice. The idea that grumpy-ass Lucian Osmond was flirting with me again sent little bubbles of anticipation through my veins.

“At least I have an effect on you. That’s much better than indifference.”

He grunted, low and disgruntled. Silence fell in a curtain between us, growing thicker, more potent. I bit my lip, waiting, refusing to crack. And then:

“You think I’m indifferent to you?”

“We’ve already established that you aren’t.”

He grunted again. “Em . . .”

“Lucian.”

I could practically feel him vibrating with annoyance and the struggle of whether to pursue the issue. He huffed out an aggrieved breath. “Completely crazy.”