Julian has madea roasted chicken with couscous and wilted spinach. The couscous has roasted pistachios and plump raisins, and it is delicious. I turn into a glutton.
“How’s your week going?” Damien asks Julian as I inhale the food.
“Hell.”
I look up at that. “What's going on?”
Julian sighs. “It's Francisco Flores. This is the first time I'm writing a script, and I thought he would be more helpful. But so far, he isn't being very cooperative.”
I frown. Julian mentioned Flores on Saturday. “Hang on. That’s the Hollywood screenwriter, isn’t it? If he’s the expert, why are you writing the script?”
Damien leans forward. “I thought Flores was supposed to write the first draft, not you,” he says, his voice sharp.
Julian shrugs. “I thought he was too, but I guess Donovan changed his mind. Flores wanted me to write the first draft, which was okay, and he said he’d be available as a resource.” He exhales in frustration. “But he’s not. All week, his only feedback is that it’s not working. It’s annoying.”
“Why aren’t you doing something about it?” Damien says bluntly.
“What am I supposed to do? Whine to Shaun that the mean Hollywood screenwriter is making me do my homework, and I don’t like it?”
Shaun’s his agent. “Why wouldn’t you complain to your agent?” I ask, staring at the dish of couscous, wondering if I’d appear greedy beyond belief if I eat a fourth helping. “I’m not a writer, but isn't your agent supposed to be your advocate in these matters? If you don't tell him you're having a hard time, how will he know?”
Julian heaps a spoonful of the grain on my plate with a smile. “I don't want to be high maintenance,” he says. “Yes, Flores is rubbing me the wrong way, but I don't know if I have a right to be irritated. Maybe this is all about my injured pride.”
Damien stares at his friend with exasperation. “Julian, nobody in their right mind would call you a complainer. I’m honestly shocked you’re even talking about your problems. You usually do a great job pretending they don’t exist.”
Julian rolls his eyes. “Please,” he scoffs. “As if I'm the only one doing that. How many work calls did you take this week? Or have you lost count?” He turns to me. “Damien’s supposed to be on vacation.”
“You are?” I blink in confusion. “Wait, haven’t you been working the entire time?”
“I didn’t work on Saturday,” Damien replies.
“Saturday is the weekend.”
He winces. “I’ve taken steps to reduce my workload,” he says. “Pissing off half the leadership team in the process, but that’s to be expected.” Unlike the two of us, he’s drinking wine. He drains the rest of his glass and pours himself another. “Enough about my problems.” He turns to me. The full force of his attention washes over me. “How are things with you, Sophia?”
“You saw me yesterday,” I point out.
He laughs softly. “I did, yes. We didn’t really get a chance to talk.”
How are things with me? Let’s see. I've been trying to decide what I'm going to do about my fertility treatment. Trying to sort out what this relationship means and what it could be. I’m supposed to select a sperm donor and be tracking my cycle. I've started doing the latter, but not the former.
It’s so tempting to just lay it all out there, but something holds me back. “I don't lead as interesting a life as the two of you,” I murmur.
“I beg to differ,” Julian replies with an amused smile. “You were at a sex club yesterday. That seems pretty interesting to me.”
“True,” I say, keeping a straight face. “You’ll never guess what happened to me there. Two guys tied me up.”
“Tell me more,” Damien says silkily. His eyes have gone dark. Suddenly, the couscous isn’t the most important thing on my mind.
“They made me beg for my orgasms,” I whisper. Underneath my dress, my nipples harden to aching points.
Damien opens his mouth to say something, but his phone rings. He glances down at the display, mutters a curse under his breath, and swipes the call to voicemail. “My mother,” he explains in response to my questioning look. “Tomas must have told her about the changes I’m making.”
Before the phone rang, he was seconds away from burying his face in my pussy. Now, he’s tense. His shoulders are squared, and his jaw is set. I put my hand on his. “Are you okay?” I ask softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I expect him to say something light and flippant. Instead, he sighs heavily. “My father and mother founded the Cardenas Group forty years ago,” he says. “It’s a multi-billion-dollar corporation, yet they ran it like a family company. Every decision was made by either my mother or my father. Only family could be trusted. My father believed that if he wanted something done right, he needed to do it himself.”
I listen without interrupting.