Sophia
Damien and I ride together on the way back. Julian elects to follow us in his truck.
For a few moments, we sit in silence. I'm finding it difficult not to stare at him. It's dusk, and we’re still rural enough that Damien has to watch out for stray deer. Convenient for me. I keep sneaking looks over while his attention is on the road.
Are you doing this, then? If the opportunity presents itself, are you going to revisit the past?
I don't know what is wrong with me. Sometime in the last week, I have evidently decided that Damien getting me fired is no longer an issue. Seeing him again, I've finally been able to let it go.
And I really want to sleep with them again.
Maybe it's because of the soon-to-happen fertility treatments. Maybe it’s an awareness that I’m running out of time. Or maybe the prospect of multiple years of celibacy has me throwing myself at the nearest available guy.
The nearest available guy? My subconscious scoffs at me. If Matthew Barnes, your last blind date, was here, would you sleep with him?
Okay, fine. I reluctantly admit that it's not any available man I want. It's these men.
I sneak another look at Damien. He's not wearing his sunglasses any longer. His left hand is on the steering wheel, and his right hand is on the gear stick, even though the car has an automatic transmission. “Are you used to driving a manual transmission car?” I guess.
“Yes. Is it that obvious?”
Only if you're paying very close attention. “My car has manual transmission as well,” I tell him. “I like stick shifts.”
It’s a perfect opening for Damien to respond with some sexual innuendo. Surely there’s enough to work with there. A quip about how I enjoy stroking a shaft, maybe? Something, anything.
But he doesn’t react. Again.
God, this is cringe-worthy. I’m being so fucking obvious, and he’s politely ignoring it. Is he even interested in me? I thought he was. When we had lunch at Taco Gus, I would have sworn that he would be quite happy to pick up where we left off.
But ever since then, he’s pulled away.
And Julian? Julian’s even more of a closed book. I have no idea what he’s thinking.
If I want them, I’m going to have to make the first move. And the thought of putting myself out there, leaving myself open to rejection, makes me want to break out into hives.
Ugh.
The insideof Damien's lake house is comfortable, cozy, and welcoming. An oversized sectional in the high-ceilinged living room faces a window offering a spectacular view of the lake. The kitchen is brightly lit, open concept, and surprisingly colorful. Buttercup yellow cabinets and a turquoise tiled backsplash provide a cheerful contrast to the stainless-steel appliances. On the other side of the room, six blue chairs surround a somewhat battered dining table.
Everything here was chosen for comfort. It’s not what I expected at all. But the moment I see it, I know that no matter where Damien lives—whether it’s Peru or Manhattan or Hong Kong or Toronto—this is his refuge. This is his home.
“You want to shower before dinner?” he asks me.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll find you a towel. Julian, you know your way around.”
Damien leads the way up a flight of stairs. Family photos line the wall. I don’t have time to take them in—he’s moving too fast for that—but one thing is obvious. The Cardenas are a good-looking family. Everyone is drop-dead gorgeous.
Nothing to feel insecure about here. Nothing at all.
The stairs end in a landing. Damien turns left and stops in front of a closed door. “Can we talk for a moment?”
He has an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. My heart starts to race. I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. “Sure?”
“At your fundraiser, you said you weren't going to sleep with me.”
“Yes,” I whisper. How could I forget that conversation? His response is etched in my memory. Do you really believe I think so little of you?