Page 2 of A Simple Reminder

A man in his fifties strides toward me, his suit sharp but understated. He extends his hand, and I quickly swipe mine on my pants one last time before shaking his.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say with a polite smile. “You must be the one in charge. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I have so many ideas to show you. We can start with?—”

His brows furrow. “No, that’s not me. I’m Parker, head of the construction team. Come with me. I’ll take you to Mr. Ayoub.”

Ayoub?

That’s strange. Leora never mentioned Lucas flying in for this, and earlier, she specifically said she didn’t know if I’d ever met the person in charge. A flicker of unease ripples through me as I follow Parker down the hall, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor.

When the grand double doors creak open, revealing what I can only assume is the head office, I immediately notice the room is cloaked in shadows. The heavy mahogany desk dominates the space, but it’s not Lucas behind it.

Instead, a tall, broad man stands near the desk, his figure partially obscured by the light streaming through the windows. He’s wearing a leather jacket—a far cry from the crisp suits I expected—and his hair is cut close to his scalp, almost a buzzcut.

Then I see the smirk. That infuriating, self-assured smirk. An all too familiar shiver races down my spine while my back stiffens.

“Hi, Sunshine.”

My breath catches as recognition slams into me like a freight train.

It’s Liam.

Lucas’s brother.

My ex-boyfriend.

TWO

SOPHIE

TEN YEARS AGO

“What do you mean? I’m on the list!” I shout after ten minutes of trying to get into one of Barcelona’s most popular clubs. It’s not that I’m lying; according to my classmate, Valentina, I’m supposed to be on the list. She’s inside waiting for me right this second, but she’s not picking up her phone for a reason. Which is a problem.

“No hablo inglés, Señorita,” the bouncer says dismissively, his large frame looming over me.

“You just spoke English to the girls in front of me a few minutes ago,Señor,” I retort, refusing to back down. I’m getting into this club!

“No. Hablo. Ingles.” He leans closer to punctuate every word, quite aggressive if you ask me, but I still stand my ground because I need to get in. I need to make friends. After moving here to study, the first month has sucked—bigtime.

People barely speak to me. It might be because I don’t speak any Spanish, but it might also be because I joined the class two weeks later than the rest. They’ve all formed their cliques, and I’m left on the outside looking in. However, this morning, Valentina—one of the more popular girls at my university—asked if I wanted to join her, Miranda, and Carmen tonight. Her invitation felt like a lifeline in the sea of isolation that has become my reality.

Valentina is sweet, and I’m desperate, so I said yes. If I get accepted by the popular girls,especiallyCarmen, I’ll be set for the semester. Yet, there’s a nagging doubt in my mind, wondering if this newfound acceptance is too good to be true. Why would they want to hang out with me? I shake it off. Sometimes, people can be friendly for the sake of being nice.

I ran through every store on Paseo de Gracia to find the perfect outfit. My pick for the night is a cute black miniskirt paired with a baby blue fitted, off-the-shoulder top that perfectly matches my eyes, if I say so myself. The mini skirt has just the right amount of flounce to make it fun and flirty, while the top reveals a hint of my collarbone and shoulders, adding a touch of elegance to the overall look. As an above-average tall girl, standing around 5’7 without heels, the miniskirt accentuates my long legs, exuding confidence and power with every step. But I didn’t stop at that. I completed the outfit with a pair of beautiful strappy, high-heeled sandals, elongating my legs even further.

This brings me to my current humiliating situation: attempting to converse in Spanish to gain entry into a club surrounded by the rich kids of this city, many of whom I’ll be seeing in class next Monday.

Embarrassment washes over me like a tidal wave.What if I don’t get in?That means I’ll have to turn around and walk away in front of all these people. I’ll be the laughingstock of the class, the girl who couldn’t even get past the bouncer. I’ll kiss having friends goodbye.

“Y-Yo on el list,” I stammer, using my hands to gesture toward myself and then the list. But it's futile, and my hope of entering the exclusive venue is fading even faster.

“Porfa,” I plead one last time, a hint of desperation in my voice this time. But before the bouncer can decide my fate, a tall stranger emerges from behind him, casting a long shadow on the dimly lit street.

“Ella está conmigo,” he says, his voice dark and commanding, sending a shiver down my spine.

My breath catches as I glance up at him, taken aback by his striking presence. He’s almost a head taller than the bouncer, his frame effortlessly dominating the space between us. A confident smirk tugs at his lips, but the calm intensity in his eyes holds me captive.

My pulse quickens, and I realize I’m gripping my bag a little too tightly. The bouncer hesitates, his eyes flicking between me and the stranger as if weighing whether to challenge him. Finally, he steps aside, motioning for me to enter.

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