Page 199 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

SOPHIA

I ’m working on more thank-you notes when Donna comes into my office and tells me there's a construction worker to see me.

“A construction worker?” I repeat, puzzled. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding her head emphatically. “Absolutely. He’s covered in dust. He’s really hot, though, so that’s okay.” She gives me a curious look. “I didn't know that you were in the middle of renovations again. And isn't your brother a contractor? Is he too busy to do the work himself?”

“I’m not renovating anything,” I reply. “We’re done with the house.” Donna met Simon at last year’s office holiday party, so that can’t be who it is. I get to my feet to investigate.

Waiting in the lobby is literally the last person I expect to see. Julian Kincaid.

“Julian?” He’s wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt and faded jeans, both liberally sprinkled with construction dust. Black-rimmed glasses cover his face. He looks dirty and disheveled and unbearably attractive. Donna called him hot, and she was not wrong.

He gives me a small smile. “Sorry to show up without calling,” he says as if the last time we spoke wasn't ten years ago. “I was driving by the health center, and I thought I'd see if you wanted to grab lunch.”

At the fundraiser, he hadn't even said hello. Why this visit, why now?

Donna's gaze is boring into my back. Everyone is going to be talking about this. I just know it. The last time my personal life became a topic of discussion, I got fired. But Patricia is not Mrs. Caldwell, and I’ve just raised three million dollars for the health center.

I doubt the same thing will happen here, but I still hate the idea of being the topic of gossip.

“Sure,” I respond. “That sounds good. Let me grab my bag.”

We walk into the parking lot. Julian looks down at his clothes ruefully. “I did not plan this very well,” he says, his lips tilting up in a wry smile. “I’m really not dressed to eat inside. Is it okay if we grab sandwiches and eat at the park?”

It's a beautiful September day. Not too hot, not too muggy, not a single bug in sight. I would've worked through lunch and missed this glorious weather if Julian hadn't shown up. “The park sounds amazing.”

“I don't want to get dirt on your upholstery. Shall we take my car?”

We get into Julian’s truck and drive to Mama Lauro’s, one of my favorite Italian restaurants.

They do a brisk takeout business, so we order sandwiches and bottles of water.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at the park and claim an empty picnic bench.

I unwrap my eggplant parmesan sandwich and bite into it.

It’s delicious. Mama Lauro’s always hits the spot.

“This is way better than the instant noodle bowl I was planning to eat.”

“I was going to eat the apple in my refrigerator,” he says. “And some cheese, which might or might not have been moldy.” He makes a face. “I should really go grocery shopping.”

“Do you live in Highfield?” I blurt out. “Last time we talked, you lived in New York.”

“I moved back just after Christmas.”

Eight months ago. Highfield isn’t a big town; it’s a glorified village. I’m surprised I haven’t run into him before.

“How did the fundraiser go?” he asks. “Did you raise enough money to buy your building?”

Seeing Damien and Julian at the fundraiser had been one hell of a shock.

I’m feeling some of that same confusion now.

Why did Julian invite me to lunch? They’re not supposed to be here, either of them.

In the last year and a half, Highfield has become my hometown.

My brothers and I bought a home here, one we’ve spent a lot of time renovating.

My life has a rhythm to it that I like. Go to work.

Work out at the kickboxing gym in the evenings.

I cook Mondays and Wednesdays; Simon cooks Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Andre doesn’t cook—he does enough of that at work—but he is in charge of clean-up.

I block off Fridays for date night in a quest to find a guy before the time on my biological clock runs out.

Saturday is the farmer’s market, and Sunday is family dinner.

It doesn’t sound very adventurous, and it isn’t. But I’m not looking for adventure—that’s what I’ve told myself. I’m looking to settle down and start a family of my own.

Damien Cardenas and Julian Kincaid are two rocks thrown into my placid pond. Waves ripple from the point of contact, disrupting everything.

“Yes, we did.” Julian's name had been on the list of people who donated items to the auction. He offered up signed first edition copies of some of his comics. They had sold for a surprisingly large sum of money. “Official thank-you notes are in the mail, but thank you for your help.” Did that sound grudging and churlish? I didn’t mean it to.

I just don’t know what he’s doing here. Or, as a matter of fact, what I’m doing here.

“It was nothing,” he replies. “My publisher sends me thirty copies of every print edition. They just sit around in boxes in my office, gathering dust. It was the least I could do.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate it. We needed to raise two million dollars, and I didn’t think it was a target we’d reach, but we did.”

“Is that what they wanted for your building?” He shakes his head. “I can't believe it. It was vacant for six years before you guys moved in. Real estate around here has gone crazy.”

Are we going to make small talk for the duration of this meal? I have to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out, Why did you invite me for lunch? Why didn't you say hello at the fundraiser?

But I don't know Julian. Not at all. We had a one-night stand ten years ago. Any sense of connection I feel toward him—a connection I’ve always felt—is an illusion.

“You're probably wondering why I invited you to lunch.”

It's as if he read my mind. Spooky. “A little bit, yeah.”

He takes off his glasses, sets them on the table, and rubs his eyes. “I owe you an apology,” he says. “I should have tried harder to contact you back then.”

The sun beams down on us, but the air is ever so slightly cool. The warmth is pleasant, not oppressive. My sandwich is delicious. But at Julian’s words, my sense of pleasure evaporates.

“Let me guess,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “Damien told you that my phone got disconnected, and you’re here because you feel sorry for me. You don't owe me an apology, Julian. There’s nothing to forgive. We slept together one night. We don't owe each other anything.”

“Is that what you think?” His gaze holds mine.

His eyes are vividly blue. “That's certainly what I told myself when I couldn’t reach you.

That we didn't owe each other anything. But it's not true.” He leans forward. “That night was special,” he says quietly. “It meant something to me. We might not have spoken any promises out loud, but we didn’t have to. Our bodies knew the truth.”

I stop breathing and stare at him, hypnotized by the raw edge of sincerity in his voice.

Our bodies knew the truth. He’s hit the nail on the head.

That's why I’ve spent ten years feeling betrayed.

Because I thought the three of us really had something.

That's why, ten years later, I'm still angry with Damien. And why I was hurt that Julian didn’t talk to me at the fundraiser.

That's why I'm here, having lunch with him.

And that’s why I’ve agreed to teach Damien how to be a better person. Three times a week. As if I don’t have anything else to do.

I'm a puppet, and these men hold my strings.

My emotions are too tangled, too close to the surface. I don’t know how to respond. “Let's change the topic.”

He looks like he's going to protest, and then he nods. “Of course. What would you like to talk about?”

I gesture at his clothes. “Are you building something?”

“I’m renovating a conservatory.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, my parents liked to be pretentious. They were diehard Anglophiles. It’s a large greenhouse. I spent the morning pulling broken tile from the floor.”

“Ugh.” I've been there, and it’s no fun whatsoever. “That's messy, dusty work.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “That sounds like the voice of experience.”

“My brothers and I bought a house when I moved to Highfield. The only reason we could afford it was because it was a wreck. We spent most of last year working on it.” I have another question for him. “You kept in touch with Damien. Are you guys still friends?”

“Yes.” He gives me an amused look. “I hear you're going to teach him how to be a better person.”

“Evidently.” I can’t hide my disgruntlement. “Three times a week for the next month. I don’t understand it. Damien Cardenas doesn’t need me to teach him anything. What’s his deal, anyway?”

He laughs out loud. “Is that a rhetorical question, or are you pumping me for information about my best friend?” He takes another bite of his meatball sub, and a big glob of marinara sauce lands on his T-shirt. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he swears. “I like this T-shirt.”

“It’ll come out in the wash if you rinse it out right away. Trust me, I know. I've had my share of marinara accidents at Mama Lauro’s.”

He eyes the bottle of water next to him. “It’s worth a shot.”

And then he pulls his T-shirt over his head, and his naked chest comes into view.

Oh. My. God.

My mouth goes dry.

Muscles. So many muscles. Julian is a writer. His job involves lots of sitting. He has no business having a body like this, with sleekly defined biceps and sculpted abs. It’s impossible not to ogle, and I can’t even be mad at him for taking off his shirt. I suggested it.

I try hard not to drool as he pours the bottle of water on the sauce stain. I fail abjectly.

He wrings the shirt out and lays it flat at the end of the table to dry. Then he sits down again. “I'm sorry,” he says politely as if he hasn’t set my every nerve on fire with his almost nakedness. “Where were we? Oh, right. You were interrogating me about my best friend.”

“I wasn't,” I deny. “Okay fine, I was a little. But you don't have to tell me anything. I don’t mean to put you in an awkward situation.”

He chuckles. “Damien's a big boy who can take care of himself. You want to know what his deal is? Here's what you need to know about Damien Cardenas. He's a compulsive workaholic who doesn’t know how to take a break. Saturday night, after the fundraiser, he had a two a.m. conference call. It didn’t even strike Damien that it’s not normal.”

Ha. I knew Damien was lying about his idle rich comment. “Why?”

“Why is he a workaholic? Because underneath that flippant, devil-may-care exterior, he has a very strong sense of duty.

He is the oldest child. It was always expected that he would take over the family company.

Everything he's done in his life has been in keeping with that goal. He went to business school. He joined a management consulting company to round out his experience. After a six-year stint there, he went to work for the Cardenas Group and made his way up the ranks.”

I think about the phone that will not stop ringing. “And that includes two a.m. calls?”

“It wasn’t always this bad,” Julian replies.

“His father died, and his mother remarried. She’s the majority shareholder.

She made her husband Tomas the CEO. Maybe she thought it would make Damien's life easier? I don’t know.

But Tomas Valera doesn't know a damn thing about running a conglomerate. Damien runs around, covering for him. Fixing his mistakes.”

“Why doesn’t he just tell his mother?”

“He’ll tell you that’s a waste of time. His mother has a stubborn streak, and she’s going to do what she’s going to do. But the real reason is that he likes Tomas and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Damn it. It's easy for me to hate the version of Damien Cardenas that got me fired. It’s easy to hate the man who buys a house in Highfield without batting an eye. Who keeps a brand new SUV in a town where he doesn’t even live because renting would be too much hassle.

But that's not the whole picture. The Damien that Julian knows is a lot more nuanced.

I don't like it.

It would be significantly more convenient for me to keep hating Damien.

Significantly easier if I didn’t feel connected to Julian.

It would be much better for my peace of mind if I wasn't turned on at the sight of Julian sitting in front of me, biting into his sandwich with obvious relish. Much healthier if I wasn’t still attracted to Damien.

Donna stops me when I get back from lunch. “Who was that?” she asks, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“A friend,” I say curtly.

She doesn’t take the hint. “Back-to-back lunches with two hot guys. Some people have all the luck. Which one do you fancy, Sophia?”

“Seriously?”

She takes a look at my annoyed expression and raises her hand. “No need to get offended. It's just a joke.”

“Do I look like I'm laughing?” I don't care if I'm being a bitch. People gossiped about me once before, and I lost my job. I am never going to let that happen again.

But Donna’s question lingers in my mind all afternoon.

Which one of them do I fancy?

The answer has always been both.

And that's the real problem.

Just as I’m leaving for the day, my phone rings. It’s not Damien. Not that I was waiting for his call or anything.

It’s a number I don’t recognize. I answer, and a woman asks, “Hello, is this Sophia Thorsen?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Laura from the Collins Fertility Clinic,” she says. “I'm just calling to confirm your appointment with Dr. Hernandez at one o'clock tomorrow.”

The reminder is the cold bucket of water my libido needs.

I’m not twenty-five any longer. I’m a grown woman who is getting older every day.

Already, I’m considered to be of advanced maternal age.

Every year I delay, it becomes harder for me to get pregnant.

The risk of pregnancy loss increases. The odds of fetal chromosome abnormalities are higher.

I don’t have time for Julian and Damien. I have goals for my life.

And those goals don't involve getting swept up in their net again.

“Yes,” I reply. “I'll be there.”