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)
“I need a rat removed from under my oven,” someone else calls out.
“I need to be tucked into bed.”
Damon growls against my ear. “I’ll need a back rub after all this.”
So much for owing him back rubs. The gals go all-out on their requests, and the next week all Damon’s after-work time goes to delegating granny chores to me while he sips tea from china cups and twiddles his fingers in a minxy-arse wave my direction.
When I try to call him out on it, he tells Tiff/Gretchen/Holly/Marg he pulled his back working that day, and that I am the most amazing boyfriend ever for looking after him so good.
Which makes it impossible to continue my huff, and makes Damon even more incredible in their eyes. The way he so lovingly appreciates all my hard work! Honestly. Then to come home afterwards to him trying to offer me back rubs.
“You did all the hard work. Really, it’s only fair if I give you a good rubdown.”
The unabashed delight in his eyes.
I glare at him and stomp off to bed, wedging a pillow between us. The crafty bastard. He truly thinks I’m always a couple of chores away from giving in; letting those hands glide through oil over my tight muscles: shoulders, arms, lower back, arse . . .
I squirm and turn on my side—only to see the outline of his smirk—scowl, and flip onto my back.
I have a trick to cool myself off in these situations. Works every time. I close my eyes and see Troy on the bench outside the tea rooms. I see the flicker of worry shadowing his brows. I hear his words. Remember it’s not real. He gives everything to everyone.
“What are you thinking?” Damon props himself up on an arm. He’s shirtless, as always.
“Nothing.” I pause. “Just the weekend. Karl tomorrow. Pretending to be captain and caterer on Sunday.”
“I’ll be there every step of the way.” How does he go so seamlessly from cheeky to sincere? “Troy said he’ll make extra pastries for us, and I have the boat booked for the day. Please tell me you’ll dress up?”
“You don’t think the stripes were completely overkill?”
“Absolutely.” A pause. “I love it.”
“Will you consider wearing a matching outfit?”
“Oh, far too late to make me one now.”
I smirk. “What if I already whipped something up?”
He groans, but there’s total acceptance in it. Without a doubt, he and I will look like a right pair.
He leans in and kisses my temple. “Anything, Leon. Whatever you need.”
I swallow. “I want to do something for you in return.”
“That should be hard.”
I roll my eyes. No matter how straight-faced he tries to say it, the innuendo is perfectly clear.
He taps my nose with his finger, musing. “Where is your cave button? I found it the first time we kissed. You pressed it yourself the second time we got sexy. Why has it disappeared?” His eyes are soft and quietly curious. Like he truly wants to understand how I could have very little willpower before, and now all the willpower in the world.
The difference is . . . I knew this could be nothing, then. Now . . .
My smile is shaky. “I discovered I get off on torturing you.”
He laughs, and I turn on my side and clench the sheets.
Now, I want it to be something.
Chapter Fifteen
Damon’s still in bed, and since I couldn’t sleep at all, it made sense to get up and move. I finish mopping up the floors, vigorously pushing the mop up and down in view of our fish.
I send them a firm shake of my head. How did this happen? When did this happen?
Three weeks ago I was teaching Fidget and Fishy how to spell Damon’s name. Now . . . I don’t even know where the letters are.
Oh fuuuuck. Does this mean I have to declare my feelings? Possibly face the biggest rejection of my life?
This is all . . . “This is not supposed to happen.”
“What’s not supposed to happen?” A wet towel thwamps over my shoulder and I spin to Damon fresh from the shower, shaven, and in his usual weekend attire: delightful jeans and the softest t-shirt. His eyes are bright despite not having had his coffee yet, and his hair is damp and resistant to gravity.
His eyebrow quirks, and I jerk a finger to the floor. “That was not supposed to happen.”
“What exactly am I looking at?”
“You don’t see it? I scrubbed so hard I wore a mark onto the floorboard.”
“I’ll have to drop to my knees to inspect the situation, I think.”
He starts to bend and I have a handful of his shirt, keeping him on his feet.
“You all right, babe?”
That ‘babe’ hits me in all my tender places and I pretty much want to shrink and dive into the fishbowl with my finned mates.