Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

“Right.”

“I’m well aware you only do the casual thing, so let’s be casual about this. If it happens again . . .” If it happened again, I’d have to power up my forcefield in advance. That way, it wouldn’t feel so full of holes the way it did now. “Then it happens again. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”

“Right,” he said. “The casual thing.”

“Right,” I replied.

“Right. Can you stop saying casual?” he asked.

“Can you stop saying right?”

Despite him being the other side of the door, I could feel his grin between my thighs.

“Whatever you say, Hartford. So if we’re not going to talk about . . . last night, do you want to talk about work?”

I’d love to chat through the whole Merdon and Calmation thing, but it would have to wait until everything was out in the open. Then I’d pin him down and make him give me input into my plan. “Not really. There are things brewing I might want to talk to you about in a few weeks, but not now.”

“How’s the leg?”

I lifted it out of the water, watching as the water slid from my decade-old scar. “It’s okay. I think it will always be my weak spot, you know?”

“We all have them.” I heard his head fall back onto the bathroom door.

“Weak spots?” I asked.

“Yes. And scars.”

“But not you. Isn’t Joshua Luca completely flawless? Super successful, pussy magnet billionaire.”

“Pussy magnet?” I could hear his smile in his words and for a split second I wanted to tell him to come in and join me in this perfectly warm water. To show me what weak spots and scars he had, and offer to wash them all away.

“Where are your scars, Joshua?”

Silence settled between us like the steam on the mirrors. We were at a crossroads in our relationship—he could make some quip about his bone never having broken, or we could dive deeper.

“I’m not sure I have scars exactly. But I’m not flawless either.”

“Really? Tell me something you’re not good at. Something you’ve failed at. Something you want but can’t have?”

“I’ve had my share of challenges. Work is . . .” He paused, and I imagined him doing some mental gymnastics about what he should say. “I suppose Diana breaking things off was a low point.”

Diana. Was she the woman he’d wanted to marry? I remember there being a lot of phone calls and hushed conversations around the time of the wedding, but I didn’t recall any specific details. I supposed I’d assumed it had been Joshua’s decision.

“Looking back, it was completely the right thing for both of us. We were far too young and didn’t have a clue what we were doing.”

“Do you still miss her?”

“No, I don’t think I ever did. I just wish she’d told me rather than just not turn up to the ceremony, you know?”

I sat bolt upright and water sloshed over the sides of the bath. I’d had no idea he’d been jilted. I’d been deep in my I-don’t-want-to-hear-about-Joshua phase at the time, which seemed to have lasted about ten years. “That must have been rough.” I wanted to get out and comfort him, but the last time the subject had come up, while we were baking, he’d shut me down. I couldn’t help but think that the only reason he’d opened up now was because there was a closed door between us.

“Yeah. I suppose I had life planned out in a certain direction and all of a sudden . . .”

Plans changed.

I knew that feeling.

“Did it happen before you set up Luca Brands?”

“Yeah, just before.”

“So you channeled all your energy into creating a successful business.”

“I suppose.”

It made sense. It also explained why Joshua didn’t get serious with anyone, although I wasn’t sure he saw it as clearly as I did. His scars were well hidden and after all this time, unlikely to heal. Without a marriage, Joshua had wedded a casual-relationship lifestyle, and I needed to respect his boundaries. I could keep my forcefield fully charged, keep the feelings that always managed to rage out-of-hand for him in check. It was the only way to let myself have more of what we’d shared last night—and every moment I spent with him, it became clearer that more of Joshua was what I wanted.

Twenty-One

Joshua

It was a normal Sunday night get-together with my five closest friends. As I looked around, I was reminded how these guys had been here for me. When I’d first started my business, these nights in the pub had been invaluable for brainstorming ideas or discussing problems. And before that, when my engagement ended, these guys kept me sane. Stopped me drinking and helped me channel my hurt, anger, and frustration into my business—and the tennis court, of course. These men were the reason I’d gotten through. Since my conversation with Hartford through the bathroom door, my brain hadn’t switched off, and I couldn’t quite figure out why. I needed to talk it out.