Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“There’s a spare office. You can have it.” He gestures to my unorganised mess.
I cut off a thread, fold fabric over the back of an armchair, and move into the kitchen. “I had a designated sewing room in my villa. I spent so much time in there, I barely saw the rest of the house. Maybe it’s why Karl and I didn’t make it. Things were better in the bach, so . . .”
Damon’s exhaustion disappears into a grin. He feeds Fidget and Fishy on the book shelf and watches me move about in the kitchen. “That’s almost a declaration.”
I halt, can opener in hand. “What?”
He waves it away, smile reflecting in the glass of the fishbowl. “Use the living room to your heart’s content.”
He sinks onto the couch and turns on the TV. He seems purposeful as he flicks through the channels. He settles on a wedding planning program, and winks at me. None-too-subtly. I roll my eyes.
“Research, babe.”
“I’m sure Karl won’t make us sit an examination. A kiss should do it and that ring—oh.”
Damon touches the finger that used to have thread around it. “Had to remove it on site. Are you disappointed?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Damon.”
“I’ll get us real ones. You know, we could invite Karl to stay, put him on an air mattress in the room next to ours and—”
“Not having sex with you.”
A sigh. “I suppose we could fake some wall-banging.”
I roll my eyes, pick up a tray, and set it down on the coffee table in front of him. “Since I’m here, the least I could do is make dinner.”
He drops his gaze to the tray and his eyes crinkle. He pulls my finger and I fold onto the couch. His laughter puffs against my cheek. “Don’t ever change.”
He picks up his heated canned spaghetti and digs in.
Morning light floods through the curtain-less windows and the scent of toasting bread sneaks up my nostrils, telling me it’s finally time to stop pressing snooze on Damon’s phone.
I roll out of his exquisitely perfect bed and prepare for the bite of cold floorboards only to find a pair of fluffy slippers waiting for me. They’re too big, but the sheepskin inside is a hug around my soles as I schlepp towards breakfast.
Damon is dressed and ready for another day on the construction site. He palms two pills, pops them into his mouth, and washes them back with orange juice. He pushes a plate of toast and another orange juice my way. “Okay, I have to head. Let me know how much the fabric will be. I’ll pay for your time as well, of course.”
I wave that off. “Don’t worry about it.”
He pauses. “What you’re doing is work, Leon.”
There’s something about the measured way he says this, holding my gaze, that makes me feel . . . validated? Karl always thought sewing was a hobby. But Damon’s insistence that it’s work energises me.
“You’re doing me a favour with Karl,” I say. “We can call it even.”
“No, we can’t.”
I pinch a piece of toast and lift it, frowning. “I’m rich enough, remember?”
“Karl may have expected you to pay for everything, but I am not him.”
No. No, he is not. “What if I like being generous?”
“Donate to your heart’s content.”
“What if I want to be generous to you?”
He leans forward, so close his mouth grazes the other side of my toast. “You can be generous in other ways. You have been generous in other ways. Don’t forget I lived in your bach for the better part of a year.”
“That was all Mum.”
“You could’ve chucked me out when you arrived.”
“I tried.”
He smirks. “You didn’t try that hard.”
Our gazes hold, sparks of electricity thrumming between us. I wonder, when this chase and capture game between us is over, if we can stay friends. There’s a lot I like about Damon, and a lot more I’d like to discover. Maybe we could start up a book club and be as close as he is with Troy. His gaze dips to my mouth and my hand holding the toast shakes.
I give his nose a quick bop with the toast. “I’ll bill you for the curtains.”
His smile is swift, and he pulls away, satisfied.
My phone buzzes from where I left it charging near my sewing machine. I dive across the room for it. A notification; reminder about—“Oh crap.”
I glance over at Damon, who’s waiting for me to explain.
“I have to be at the town hall in fifteen minutes. I forgot I signed up for self-defence.”
“Self-defence?”
“It’s better than taking a shovel to bed? Or a butter knife to a sword fight?”
A laugh. “I’ll walk you then.”
I have nothing to wear. My spandex pants are at the bach, and the jeans I have here are tight on a fairly motionless day.
Damon finds a pair of his tracksuit pants. “These have a drawstring.”