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)
Karl narrows his eyes. “Have your laugh, Leon. I suppose he sent me to that salon on purpose?”
“He is Damon,” I say.
“The hair is karma,” Damon adds. “And the right person sent you there.”
Damon’s support is a warm, ticklish thing. I make a note to thank him later and push to my feet. Karl looks as preppy as ever in a dark shirt and dinner jacket over yellow pants. “How did you track me down?”
“I glimpsed you leaving the tea rooms. The owner was nice enough to tell me you were headed to Foxton.”
“Troy,” I groan.
“That’s the one. I figured you might hit the fabric store; I’ve been pacing the street for the last twenty minutes.”
Predictable gleams in his eye, and I suppose I can’t ignore the facts. I am indeed in a fabric store.
“Let’s make this short and to the point,” I say. Plead? Beg?
“Something we can agree on.” He whips a roll of paper from his pocket, hands it over, and pats his other pockets for a pen. I scan the document. As discussed, he wants full ownership of the villa. Legally, he’d be entitled to more and I know I should sign and be done with it, but he’s smiling, and—“I won’t be signing anything without my lawyer looking over it.”
“You know I’m being generous, right?”
Damon steps closer, and I smile stiffly at Karl. “Oh, yes. Extremely generous.”
He narrows his eyes. “I understand this isn’t easy.” He slips on a smile. “I’m coming back up this way soon. How about we meet over dinner and sign then?”
“Looking forward to it,” I say between tight teeth.
Karl straightens the lapels of his dinner jacket and glances from me to Damon to Tommy and back again. “I’d say have fun playing family, but I doubt you’re doing anything quite that exciting.”
He twists on his heels and saunters out.
Damon scowls after him and pulls me in; I sink into his embrace and groan against his shoulder. “I wish I was doing something that exciting.”
Quiet laughter rumbles through him and into me. “Ah, Leon. I think—”
Tommy squees with delight and we swivel to him happily pulling dog-print flannel from the shelf.
“I think,” I say, finishing his sentence, “I have some kickarse tiny pyjamas to make.”
I strap a giggling Tommy into his carseat. Karl’s little visit . . . I feel like I’m losing all control over my life, and there’s nothing, not a single thing I can do about any of it. Except . . .
Instead of sliding in behind the wheel, I leave Tommy and Damon and take my excess sadness and frustration to the pet store. Kittens mewl from behind a low fence and I’m softened for three seconds before I recall Mum telling me it’s okay to be alone like uncle Merlin. Mevil? Melvin?
I could get some cats.
Live with her.
I spy Roger bowed over a clipboard behind the counter, square my shoulders, and make my way over.
Five minutes later, I slide back into my car and hand Damon a plastic bag with a fish swimming frantically in it.
He raises a brow.
“I also have a date next Friday.”
Chapter Seven
Over the next week, Damon tries to discover how exactly I got Roger to agree to a date. I keep flushing and fobbing him off, but I suspect he’s teasing to keep me from hulking-out in frustration at all the lawyer-property stuff. I’ve spoken with my lawyer and the last thing I want is to fight anything. I want a clean and fast cut out of this mess so I never have to see or speak to Karl again.
I hold up a C card for Fidget and Fishy. Between the two of them, I hope they’ll learn to spell Damon’s initials.
Watching me from his prone position on the couch, Damon switches on his megaphone. “Not going to murder you, Leon.”
I keep holding up the K card, insistent. “You’re not slowly killing me with your habit of lounging around naked?”
He looks down at himself. “I have boxers on.”
I shake my head and slip Damon’s initial into the pocket of my astronaut-themed pyjamas—the same flannel as Tommy’s after he pleaded that I have a matching pair. We babysat in the bach last night, and I’ve been wearing them since. Bits of thread from my current sewing project cover my lap. I pick them off and turn my seat back to fix the last details of my outfit.
I crick my neck and roll my shoulders. I’ve got this. I can do this.
“You’re anxious about your date this afternoon?”
Anxious, yes. And also . . .
“It’s not exactly a date.” I groan and rest my head against the sewing machine. “He’s meeting me to discuss aquarium options.”
Damon swings his legs to the floor and sits. I expect mockery, but there’s none of that in his expression. He nods.