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 have no illusions that’s how it would actually be.
After being crushed by the love of his life, Damon probably won’t let himself fall in love again. But his Persian rug will see many a man’s back, and please God, let me have enough self-respect that mine won’t be one of them.
I rub my brow and sneak back to the bach before Damon knows I’m gone.
Over a cup of chai tea, I investigate the profile photos I took. Two seem like solid candidates.
I take another look at the blurry photo of my first choice. Roger. Works at a pet store in Foxton. He’s into all things sea and sailing, and open for something serious.
Sounds promising. I’ll just need to design . . . myself. Specifically clothes that make me look like I’m into sailing and have a functioning understanding of all things . . . boats.
Eagerly, I rummage through the sacks of fabric I brought with me. For the last few years, I volunteered as a costume designer for my local theatre. This shouldn’t be too difficult.
One thorough search of my stash later, I’m rubbing my hands together at the prospect of shopping. A trip to Foxton for some white and navy wool blends is in order. Who would’ve thought this Leon 2.0 mission would be so much fun?
“What are you humming about?” Damon says, schlepping sand inside with him as he strolls in. His hair is wet and sticking to his face like he’s about to partake in a seaside photoshoot. Especially with his wetsuit half off . . .
I’m starting to suspect he’s doing this on purpose. He may as well wink-wink, nod-nod.
I stubbornly return my gaze to the mess I’ve created and find my phone under some folds of silk.
“I looked though all the dating profiles and there are a few real standouts.”
“Show me.”
He crosses over, hesitates at all the fabric, and jumps into the clear patch of floorboard with me. It brings us close, almost last-night-at-the-library close, and I suspect by the grin on his face he knows it. He bows his head to mine and I breathe in salty damp fringed with a warmth that is a wee bit intoxicating. I rivet my focus to my phone and flick through my top two picks.
“That’s it? Where’s my profile?”
I roll my eyes.
He takes my phone and scowls at the screen.
“They sound nice,” I say, “and I think I can pull off what they want as an ultimate partner.”
Damon swipes between Roger and Scott. He grimace-scowls.
“Hopefully I won’t need a second option if everything with Roger works out.”
“Confident.”
“Determined.” I jump out of my supply mess and leave Damon frowning into space while I take off my banana-monkey themed pyjamas and jump into restricting jeans, a t-shirt, and a knitted jersey. When I return, Damon’s still half-naked and staring into space. His focus sharpens on me and he takes in my attire with a pout. “No more monkeys and erect bananas?”
“Damon!”
Damon eyes me searching my mess and chanting for my keys like they’ll hear me and start jingling their whereabouts. “Where are you going?”
“Foxton.”
“What’s making you so giddy about Foxton?”
“Three things. Fabrics, the pet store, and walking around without worrying Karl will jump out at me.”
“Spotted him outside the bach, did you?”
“Lurking outside the tea rooms.”
“Wait, when were you in town?”
I have not thought this through. “Oh, um. Just stretched my legs for a bit.”
He looks at me for a long while. “Where did you walk?”
“Oh . . . about.”
Damon starts peeling off his wetsuit, humming, like he can see right through me. He smiles. “My house is pretty, isn’t it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, I promised Troy I’d pick up some groceries. Can we hit Foxton together?”
I pause, glance at rounded, firm buttocks, and totally look away . . . “You’re helping out my cousin?”
“Stop sounding so incredulous.” He stomps out of the wetsuit, tosses it over his arm, and his pert arse disappears into his room.
“Still weird that you’re friends,” I call after him.
“He’s a very practical, even-tempered guy with a dry sense of humour I find very entertaining.”
“He’s married, Damon.”
A barking laugh. “Not quite my type.”
“What is your type?”
He pops his head around his doorframe. “Cute and . . . crazy, apparently.” He waggles his brows.
I snort. “Quit that. You’ve a smorgasbord to choose from in town. What about that rich grumpy guy next door to Troy?” I find my keys and snap them up triumphantly. “Do you know what he needs, or do we need to swing past the tea rooms?”
The tea rooms are busy this time of the morning; poor Hailey looks shagged from all the work, running around and working the counter while a patron complains loudly that her cappuccino has dribbled over the rim and she’ll need a new one.