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 roll my eyes and laugh, and we sit ourselves at the end of the wharf, legs hanging towards the water below, an entire ocean to the right and rows of old-fashioned sailboats to our left. Seagulls squawk overhead and waves lap against pylons.
The letter Damon rolled into his back pocket is falling out and I catch it. Just his name, scrawled over it. No address. No postage.
Hand delivered.
I pass it to Damon and he takes it, sighing. He pops the last part of his ice-cream cone into his mouth, and rips the letter in two.
“What? Why?”
He continues shredding it into tiny pieces and drops them into the ocean.
I won’t lie. There’s a part of me that wants to dive in after them so I can piece it together and understand what could have made Damon do that.
I stare at him looking down at the water, his lips in a grimace.
The hand-delivered letter, the blond dude outside the tea rooms . . . “Is your ex stalking you? Has he finally come to his senses and seen how amazing you are and wants you back?”
Damon whips his gaze to mine. He breathes in and out, twice, and looks towards the boats. “This has nothing to do with Mark.”
“That letter had no postage.”
“That letter was not from my ex.”
“Who, then?”
Damon pauses. “The person who burned down my house.”
“Damon,” I whisper, making sure no one is around to overhear us. “What’s going on?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t tell you that. It’s better for everyone if as few people know as possible.”
Oh God, is Damon under some sort of threat? Is there some dangerous person out there who might strike again?
My eyes widen. “Will they burn the bach down with us in it?”
Damon snorts. “What?”
“I always thought it would be you killing me, but maybe it’s someone else and I’ll end up collateral.”
“Jesus, Leon. No one will be killing anyone.”
I bring to mind the image of the blond brute. I’d thought he was the ex. But the anger Damon showed . . . far more likely he’s the arsonist.
I wish I’d paid more attention to his appearance. “Who was that guy you yelled at?”
“Sorry. I can’t talk about it.”
If he can’t, I’ll have to ask Troy later. Maybe hunt around lampposts for any Wanted signs with Dude’s face on it. At the very least, I need to figure out his connection to Damon and just how much of a threat he is. He’d looked big, hadn’t he? Just as big as Damon. A mean machine. A lethal one?
I gnaw my bottom lip. I’m a wee, tiny, little bit concerned for Damon Conroy. This isn’t some negligible threat. Hardly anything to laugh at. His house was burned down. Damon may be in danger. Him and all those he cares about. Like Fidget. And he’s totally taken with Fishy too. I’ve heard him sweet-talk the fishbowl, promising all kinds of things about not separating them, that they’ll both move into his home once it’s done.
Nothing can be allowed to hurt them. Damon must look after himself. Be prepared. “You should sleep with the shovel.”
A rising brow.
“I’d protect you myself, but apparently I’d end up decapitated.”
“Better you sleep next to me, then,” he says, eyes sparkling. “I’ll wield the shovel for the both of us.”
I glower at him. “I’m being serious. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
He slings a warm arm around my shoulders and presses his head to mine. A nipping kiss hits my cheekbone. “Shall we get into the basics of sailing? Or do you have anything else on your mind?”
Just murder and medication. “Nope, nothing else on my mind at all.”
“Then let’s start with some terminology. Mate, for instance . . .”
Chapter Nine
After a night sleeping with one eye open, I tiredly eat, shave, cut myself shaving, and stumble into my sailor outfit. Dabbing my bleeding chin, I meet a chipper Damon on the veranda rearing to go. He’s in a beautiful linen shirt folded up his forearms, teal shorts, and brown boat shoes.
“Moved the yacht for ease of embarking. We’re good to go.” He studies me, a slow sweep from captain’s hat to aviators to Doc Martens. I’m committed to every stripe of the outfit today. He takes his time coming back up and settles on my cut and the wayward curls spilling over my forehead. “Rough sleep?”
“Imagination got the better of me . . . mate.” I say it with a wink, like it’s no big deal that I popped by to visit Troy yesterday, and at my mention of the Brute his face turned ashen. Like it hasn’t been plaguing my mind that Troy never wants to see the man’s face in town again. Like I’m not a tad frustrated that Tommy ran out of his bed and there was no more chance to talk about it.