8
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.