“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.”