Page 191 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

SOPHIA

I 've gone out on a lot of first dates. Sometimes, the guy I’m with turns out to be a decent human being, and we agree to go out again. But more often than not, the opposite happens.

Three minutes into dinner, I’ve realized that tonight’s date is going to be a complete bust.

So far, Matthew Barnes has:

Insisted we go out for dinner instead of grabbing a coffee like I suggested.

Picked the restaurant without soliciting my opinion.

Both things have me a little on edge. I don’t like high-handed men. But as I sit down, I caution myself to keep an open mind. Maybe Matthew’s not good at this. Maybe he’s just nervous.

Then the waitress shows up, and Matthew proceeds to order for me.

“I’ll have the seafood platter,” he says. “Don’t stint on the lobster. And Sophia will have the steak. Medium-rare.”

Umm, what?

He turns to me. “It’s very good here,” he says smugly. “You’ll love it. You’re not on a diet, are you? Tell me you’re not the sort of girl that only eats salad.”

My mouth falls open. This is wrong on so many levels that I’m at a complete loss for words, and by the time I remember to speak, the waitress is gone. Short of running after her, I’m stuck eating a steak that I neither want nor can afford.

Also, not to be petty about it, but I like my steak well-done. Sorry if that offends the red meat purists out there, but medium-rare is only a step up from raw, and ugh.

As far as I can tell, Matthew is roughly the same age as me. How does one live in today’s society and think it’s acceptable to order for someone on a first date?

Disqualified.

I met Matthew at the grocery store, and we struck up a conversation in the cereal aisle. He looked helpless. “I can’t find the Grape Nuts,” he said. “I’ve walked up and down this aisle three times. Am I losing my mind?”

He looked charmingly frazzled. I laughed and found them for him. We commiserated at the sheer number of brands of cereal available for sale. Then he asked me out. “Don't worry,” he added. “The cereal is for my niece. I'm single.”

Most of the guys I go out with I’ve met online. I’ve never been asked out in the grocery store—is that even a thing? I was confused and flattered in equal measure. I wouldn’t have said yes, but the last three online dates were complete busts, and I thought I’d try something different.

So much for that.

Our meals arrive. I don’t want to be the person who sends my food back, so I grit my teeth and nibble at the undercooked steak.

Matthew doesn’t notice and spends the next twenty minutes talking about himself.

I learn about his construction business.

How clever he is because he can write off his new truck as a business expense.

I’m treated to a step-by-step replay of his last golf round.

“I could have turned pro,” he brags. “But I focused on my business, and it’s paid off. Big-time.”

Yes, I get it, Matthew. You are very rich. Yay for you.

At the half-hour mark, he finally asks me about myself. “What do you do, Sophia?”

“I’m the Director of Outreach at the Highfield Community Health Center,” I reply. “Do you know it? We offer low-cost healthcare to people that don’t have insurance and have to pay out-of-pocket for services.”

“Community healthcare?” Matthew’s face turns red. “I bet my tax dollars pay for it. Everyone wants a handout nowadays. Why don't they just get a job?”

I count to ten in my head. I’ve heard a variation of this argument more times than I can count, and I have a lot of practice keeping my cool. “Many jobs don’t offer healthcare,” I reply calmly. “A lot of corporations keep people part-time so they don't have to put them on their benefits plan.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Fast food,” I respond. “Retail. Waitstaff. Our waitress tonight is unlikely to have healthcare.” The electricians and plumbers that work for Matthew’s company probably don’t have benefits either.

He’s already mentioned that he classifies them as independent contractors.

But in the interests of diplomacy, I don’t point that out.

“If our waitress wanted a better job, she should have gone to college.”

There are several things I could say about that.

I could point out that student debt is at an all-time high.

I could tell him that having a college degree is no guarantee of finding a decent job.

I could talk about jobs that require advanced degrees but pay like crap. Social workers. School teachers.

But none of that will get through because Matthew is convinced about his rightness, and it’s not my job to teach him empathy.

It’s not like I’m going to see him again.

I’m thirty-five, and I want a child. My biological clock makes me ruthless.

I don’t want Matthew Barnes to be the father of my child—perish the thought—which means I can cut him loose.

“Let’s change the subject,” I suggest mildly. “Did your niece like the cereal you got her?”

Twenty minutes into the meal, I can’t take it anymore. I excuse myself to go to the washroom and call my brother Andre. “I need to get out of here,” I tell him. “Can you call me in ten minutes with an emergency?”

He laughs into the phone. “Grocery store guy not working out?”

“You have no idea.”

“I thought you found him charming.”

“First impressions can be misleading.” So misleading. “Actually, on second thought, don’t wait ten minutes. Call me in five.”

“That bad? No worries, Soph. I’ve got you.”

True to his word, Andre calls me five minutes later. “My brother,” I say to Matthew. “Sorry, I have to take this.” I pick up the call. “Hey, Andre. What’s up?”

“Soph,” he says, his voice loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We have an emergency here. Your cat is projectile vomiting all over the house. She hisses at me when I get close to her. Where are you? You have to get back home.”

I struggle not to laugh. Andre is absolutely brilliant. He sounds at the end of his tether. If I really had a cat, I would be panicking.

I’m not as good an actor as he is. “Oh no,” I exclaim, a little too loudly. What would a concerned pet owner say next? “Poor Foofoo. Call the vet. Her phone number is on the refrigerator door. Tell her I’ll be bringing Foofoo in.”

Matthew can hear the conversation, of course; Andre hadn’t kept his voice down. He makes a face. “You have a cat?”

“I have three,” I lie shamelessly, getting to my feet and digging in my purse for money.

The damn steak was sixty bucks, and I’ve barely eaten a quarter of it.

I should get a box—Andre might want it. “There’s Foofoo, Mimi, and Sir Farts-A-Lot.

” Matthew’s expression indicates that he thinks I’m a crazy cat lady, and I lean into the stereotype.

“Foofoo has a sensitive stomach, the poor dear. She does like steak, though. Maybe I’ll take the rest to her. ”

“You’re taking your cat a T-bone?”

His expression is priceless. I love it. “Nothing’s too good for my little monster,” I tell him, putting four twenty-dollar bills on the table. I pick up my plate and look around for our waitress. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

Andre is in the backyard when I get home. I kick off my heels and join him there. “How bad was it?” he asks with a grin.

“I thought it was bad when he ordered for me, but then he said that everyone wants a handout these days, and that was worse.”

“Sounds like a winner.” My brother drinks some of his beer. “What did you get?”

“A steak. I barely ate any of it. The leftovers are in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, Soph. You hungry? You want me to cook you something?”

Andre is a chef. He’s usually at work on a Friday night, but he’s been at home for the last couple of days getting over a stomach bug. He rarely cooks at home, so if he’s offering to make me something, he must be chomping at the bit to get back to his kitchen.

“Nah, I’ll just make myself a sandwich.” I steal his bottle of beer and take a swig. “Four awful dates in a row.”

“It happens. What’s the big deal?”

I give him an annoyed glance. It’s dark in the backyard, and my glare bounces off Andre. “Really? We’re doing this again? I’m thirty-five. I want to have a baby. I’m already considered someone of advanced maternal age. I don’t have time to waste.”

My brother shakes his head. “You know, for a supposedly smart person, you’re being pretty dumb. Getting pregnant isn’t the only way to have a child, as you should know. ”

“I’m not going to adopt. Papa and Dad didn’t have the easiest time of it.

” That’s putting it mildly. They couldn’t legally adopt us because they were a gay couple.

As for my birth mother. . . The kindest thing I can say about her is that she was troubled.

She would show up outside our house, drunk and loud and belligerent, demanding that my fathers give her money.

I spent a large part of my childhood terrified that she’d take me away from my home.

“So what?” Andre’s teeth flash in the dark. “They didn’t let it stop them.”

Andre is ten years younger than me. He wasn’t around for the worst of it.

I think I’ve healed okay from the trauma, but I’m absolutely determined not to go the adoption route.

I’m not being rational, I know, but when I have a child—if I have a child—nobody will ever be able to threaten me the way Denise had threatened my fathers.

I’ve tensed up. He reads the set of my shoulders and lets it go. “Okay, fine. No adoption. What about artificial stuff?”

“Are you talking about a sperm donor?”

“Yes,” he says. “Your timeline is tight, right? You’re thirty-five. You’ll have to meet someone and get pregnant almost immediately if you want to have a baby before you’re forty.” I look up in surprise, and Andre says, “I do listen when you talk.”

“I know you do. It’s just. . .” I don’t know why I’ve never thought of going the donor route. “I don’t know. It’s expensive, for one. And I’ll be a single parent.”

“Your baby will have two grandfathers, three uncles, and an aunt who will dote on her.”

I can’t help smiling at the enthusiasm in his voice. “You think I’ll have a girl?” Andre makes it sound like it’s real, this baby, not a dream that gets more out of reach with each passing day.

“Either is good,” Andre says diplomatically. “If it’s a boy, I’ll teach him to play basketball, and if it’s a girl?—”

“Let’s not stereotype my unborn child. You’ll teach her to play basketball, too.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Soph.”

There’s something to his idea. Before starting every date, I tell myself to have low expectations, but my brain doesn’t always cooperate.

If a guy has a great dating profile, I get hopeful.

When it turns out that he’s not forty-five like his profile says, but sixty, I get angry.

I started the ‘Find a Partner ASAP’ project a year ago, and ever since then, my emotions have been on a non-stop roller coaster ride.

If I went the donor insemination route, I could stop the endless parade of first dates. I could just breathe .

“Thanks, Andre.” I get to my feet. “I better turn in. Busy day tomorrow.”

“You’re working on Saturday? Again?”

“You sound like Papa,” I tease. “It’s the fundraiser tomorrow, you idiot. Why do you remember my dating stories and not my work ones?”

“Siri, find me a polite way to tell Sophia her work stories are boring.”

I smother my laughter and punch his arm.

“I can’t believe you’ve forgotten how stressed I was a couple of weeks ago.

Our landlord wanted to sell the building, remember?

And then, out of the blue, Xavier Leforte called and offered to help.

I told him we needed two million dollars to buy our building outright, and he didn’t even blink. ”

“Xavier Leforte, the sex club guy?”

I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know about Club M?” I ask severely. I don’t want my baby brother mixed up with that crowd. Not after what happened to me.

Ten years later, my palms still sweat when I think of the aftermath of my first and only threesome.

I’d been working at a hospital in Pennsylvania in those days.

A small team of us—Riley, Nia, George, Jaime, Beckham, and me—had been in an early-career, rotational development program.

Somehow, the hospital administrator, Florence Caldwell found out about Damien and me.

My heart still races when I remember the way Mrs. Caldwell’s lips thinned.

“A reprehensible error in judgment,” she’d said.

And then she’d fired me.

“I could ask you the same question,” Andre replies. “But I won’t because I don’t want to think about my big sister having sex.”

“Is that why you’re pushing the IVF route?” I quip. “I’m heading in. Night, bro.”

I grab his empty bottle, toss it in the recycle bin, and head upstairs to bed, forsaking the sandwich in favor of sleep.

My dreams that night are tangled. Damien Cardenas makes an appearance, as does Julian Kincaid.

They’re the men I slept with at Xavier Leforte’s sex club.

I’ve tried not to think about them for years, but there they are again, popping up in my subconscious.

But I also dream about a baby girl. I’m holding her in my arms and smiling down at this tiny miracle, and we’re surrounded by my beaming family.

When I wake up, my decision is made. No more bad first dates. No more untrustworthy guys. Donor sperm it is.