Page 32 of Mutual Desire

On my way baby.

But as he turned the key, the car refused to start.

Of fucking course.

“Shit.”

Damien slammed his palm against the steering wheel in frustration. He got out, opened the hood, and began muttering a string of swear words. He had no idea what he was looking for or what to touch. While he knew more about computers, biology and chemistry than the average person but when it came to cars and mechanics, he was completely clueless.

It felt like karma was definitely getting back at Damien for lying—not just to Craig, but to Nick as well.I totally deserve what's happening to me.

A small silver lining emerged from his car trouble: his lie now carried some weight. Since his car refused to cooperate, leaving it stranded in the parking lot overnight provided the perfect excuse to tell Craig that the car was still at the garage. He picked up his phone and opened the Uber app. Just as he was about to confirm his ride, he noticed a luxurious white SUV rolling in his direction. His heart jumped.

The SUV passed by but stopped a few steps away. When the rear passenger door opened, a man emerged. Damien’s heart sank as he recognized the figure stepping out—Nabokov.You've got to be fucking kidding me, man.

As Nabokov began walking toward him, their eyes locked in a fraction of a second. Damien hurriedly shut his phone and stuffed it into his pocket, turning quickly back to his car and leaning in, pretending to scrutinize the mechanical interior of the car. But he could feel Nabokov approaching—that magnetic pull he couldn't shake off.

Damien realized too late that he was giving Nabokov a nice view of his butt. An excellent view.

“Need help?” Nabokov's voice echoed behind him.

Damien hesitated. He wanted to act as if he hadn't seen Nabokov emerge from the SUV, but after the brief eye contact, it was impossible.If only I was blind and had earphones on…

“No,” Damien replied without turning, his exaggerated attention still on the engine of his car.

“Sure?”

Suddenly irritated, Damien felt as though Nabokov was internally mocking his predicament. He hated the idea of needing help, especially from someone like Nabokov. Forcing himself to mask his annoyance, he turned to see Nabokov standing there, as impeccable as ever.

Nabokov was dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit that fit him flawlessly, accentuating his tall, athletic frame. The crisp white dress shirt beneath had the top two buttons casually undone, revealing just a hint of his collarbone. A slim black leather belt matched his polished Italian shoes, which seemed to gleam even in the dim lighting of the parking garage. Over his arm hung a lightweight black trench coat, and in his other hand, he carried his laptop like it weighed nothing. Hishair was neatly styled, and a subtle fragrance of cedar and spice lingered in the air surrounding him. His expression was unreadable, but his piercing gray eyes held Damien's gaze with an unsettling intensity.

“I've never been so sure in my life,” Damien shot back, managing a condescending smile.He quickly redirected his gaze to the engine, his heart racing as he fought the urge to confront Nabokov further. Yet standing this close to him made Damien feel strangely exposed, his defenses momentarily faltering.

“Eventually, it must be exhausting to have so much pride.”

Damien blinked, taken aback. Was Nabokov really throwing that at him? He took a moment before reluctantly facing him, raising an eyebrow.“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, trying to keep his tone cool.

Nabokov remained unmoved, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.“Well, from what I see, you clearly need help, but you persist in proving otherwise for some reason.”

Damien let out a sharp laugh, trying to mask his vulnerability. “No, I know I need help. But I already have people for that—I don’t need yours,” he retorted harshly.

“Ah! Really? Where are they? Are they hiding under one of the cars in the parking lot?” Nabokov asked, his expression as neutral as his voice.

A sharp smile appeared on Damien's face. “Very funny. You clearly chose the wrong profession. You should be a stand-up comedian.”

Nabokov shrugged slightly, putting a hand in his gray pants pocket, a relaxed demeanor that made Damien’s skin prickle.“I’m simply offering my help.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Damien replied sarcastically. “But I have people who can help me.”

Nabokov raised an eyebrow, looking barely convinced.

“I could call my boy—my friend to pick me up,” Damien added, bitterness lacing his words, as if he needed to justify himself.

“So, you’d rather disturb your friend, who surely has better things to do, instead of just accepting my help?”

Damien glared defiantly at Nabokov.What an arrogant jerk. He was about to tell Nabokov and his offer to fuck off when an idea hit him. This was the perfect opportunity to discuss Nick's software and try to get a positive answer.

He swallowed his pride, clenching his teeth. “Okay. I accept your generous help, Mr. Nabokov,” he responded, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.

---