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 wish I knew for certain.
Damon and the Brute take their issues across to the dunes, out of sight. I lean back in my chair, hoping the new angle reveals them.
“. . . find it amazing that you own one.”
I redirect my gaze to Roger, smiling coyly. What do I own? Holy shit, what have I nodded and smiled to, exactly?
“Yeah,” I say. “It is. What do you think is most amazing about it?”
“That you’ll let me on it tomorrow?” He laughs, clearly delighted. Oh God. What will I let you on?
I sip my oat milk cappuccino. There is one way to clarify this: I’m sorry, I wasn’t entirely paying attention. Could you tell me what is amazing, please?
No, without the please. Tell me what’s amazing.
I smile at Roger. “Tell me . . .” I clear my throat. “Tell me . . . when works for you?”
Ten in the morning suited Roger to go out sailing.
We part ways outside the tea rooms, and then my feet have me moving towards the dunes. I don’t find Damon or the Brute there. I do find my abandoned outfit and sling it over my arm. The entire trek back to the bach, I’m torn between needing to find out what happened to Damon, and needing to find out how to sail a yacht. Unfortunately, I find no answers to either in the living room, bathroom, or Damon’s neat-as-a-pin bedroom. Fidget and Fishy also refuse to enlighten me.
I hang up my outfit, which seems increasingly likely to get worn after all, and head back to town. There is, of course, one other place Damon’s likely to be.
Through town I go . . . Up the hill . . . Down Crescent Lane . . . Until, for the second time in the space of a week, I stand in front of Damon’s new-build villa.
I spot letters in the letterbox and draw them out before heading up the path and knocking on the partially-open front door. My grip tightens on the letters and I hold my breath at clomping footsteps.
Damon swings the door wide and surveys me with a growing smile. “Come to see the interior this time?”
I gape, and then scowl. How is it one moment Damon makes me feel ridiculously exuberant and the next, he annoys the bejeesus out of me? I shake my head and hand him his letters. He takes one look, tosses one on a hallway stand, and slips the other, rolled up, into his back pocket.
I follow him through beautifully designed rooms—polished hardwood floors, ceiling mouldings, dramatic lighting. Rugs, antique furniture, a large corner sofa. An open plan living-dining-kitchen. Stained glass skylights!
“I’m surprised you didn’t stay at the tea rooms for the entirety of my non-date,” I say when I catch him observing me.
“Something came up.”
“Something blond and brutish, perhaps?”
He eyes me. “Perhaps.”
“What’s that about? Who was he?”
He doesn’t answer, just steers me by the shoulders down the hall to the master bedroom. A large bed with a mountain of pillows dominates the room, covered in an exquisite grey duvet set. I twist abruptly to Damon leaning in the doorway. Why doesn’t he answer about that guy? Is it too personal? Oh, God, that wasn’t his ex, was it? The one he was in love with?
I swallow down a heavy wave of sympathy and croak, “Your house is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s also incredibly ready to be slept in.” I give my best observing look and hope my cheekiness distracts him from stray thoughts of his ex.
He smiles softly. “Almost incredibly ready.”
“What’s missing?”
“I wonder if you can’t figure that out?”
There’s something about his voice that . . . tickles, and I’m not sure what to make of it at all. I gulp and, flustered, absorb the room. It takes me longer than it should to notice the possible hold-up. I nod vigorously. Moonlight likely floods all over the bed. “No curtains.”
Damon hums and turns out of the room. I chase through the house after him to the grassy back yard. The back of the property boasts a gabled granny flat, dark grey with white trim.
“Have you decided what you want for your curtains?” I ask.
Damon picks up a wash basket of laundered clothes. I wondered how he was keeping his stuff clean while I hogged the bach’s only clothes horse. I follow him to the washing line, hidden behind a giant feijoa tree.
He sets the basket down and glances in the direction of his home. “I’d like drapes.”
“How colourful do you want them? Bright and bold, I bet?”
Damon’s eyes flash to me. “You assume wrong, Leon. That’s not what I like.” My pulse lurches wildly, and he continues, not taking his eyes off me. “I’d like something that keeps the house warm, quiet, and comfortable.”
“Even if they’re grey and . . . thick?”