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 startle.
“I can read you like a favourite book. Swallow that. To prevent sea sickness.”
I shudder at the none-too-fond memory of emptying my guts overboard and knock back the pill.
“Right,” I say, setting the empty glass on the kitchen island and pocketing a butter knife. Time to be Leon 2.0 again. “This is the last time I do something so stupid.”
Damon fishes the butter knife out of my pocket with a fond head-shake. “No more watching pirate shows. Troy called and said the food is ready to be picked up. Guests will be arriving soon.” He pats my arse and whispers in my ear. “Let’s go get ‘em, tailor.”
The borrowed yacht bobs on sparkly blue waters, and Damon and I are the first on board. He does a check the boat is fit while I scurry around setting up party snacks and drinks. It’s not long before Scott arrives, tugging Roger’s hand to lead the way, and . . . of course, it makes sense. I should have considered the possibility they know one another. They’re both organising the same birthday party, after all!
They stop in front of me, faces flushed and grinning. They look . . . cosy. Plus they’re still holding hands. “Leon!” Scott says, “This looks great. You’ve dressed up for the gig.”
Roger turns flushing cheeks towards me. “You always dress the part.”
Scott nudges Roger. “Oh look, the birthday boy is coming.”
Over their shoulders I glimpse a familiar figure and jump. What a small town. The birthday boy climbs aboard, hugs his two mates, and nods to me. “How’s it going?”
I gape at Carter.
Heavy footsteps march my way, and Damon throws an arm around my shoulders and slays all three men with a glare. I’m not gonna lie, there’s more than a little possessiveness there. And it does something to me.
I turn to hazel eyes and a tight jaw, the others a blur of conversing colour. And I think . . . I’m not a cook. All these delicious nibbles are down to Troy, not me. I’m not a ship’s captain either, that’s all Damon. And I definitely don’t want to surf. Leon 2.0 is a fraud. A man who doesn’t exist. And that’s . . . all okay.
In the distance, more party comers step onto the pier, Hercules Morse and Jumping Jack among them.
I look from Carter to Scott to Roger.
“Actually . . .”—deep breath—“none of this food is my doing—it’s all Troy down at the tea rooms. If you ever need a caterer pop in there and see if he can help.” Damon swings his head my way. “Damon and I are just here to set it all up and make sure everything goes smoothly. Oh, and to drive the boat. Which isn’t mine, by the way, so don’t get too messy.”
Damon rubs my back, soothing my shaky limbs.
“The real me is an introvert who loves to sew and stay in my pyjamas all day. I burn canned spaghetti and get myself into fixes to avoid unpleasant confrontations. The real me loves this maddening, beautiful, cheeky extrovert.” I turn to look at him. There’s pride in his eyes and his smile is so soft. “Say you’re a catch.”
“I’m a catch.”
I roll my eyes. “No, say: you’re a catch.”
He leans in and kisses me. “You’re a catch, Leon.”
Epilogue
I’m tying the knot—of a silk bow tie I designed myself. A hot-pink bow tie that’s being rather fiddlesome. I undo it and start over. Damon will be here any second.
As if summoned by my thoughts alone, the man himself saunters through the living room door with a cool, heavy gait that I can feel vibrate through the floorboards. That might even be making the water in the fishbowl ripple. He spots me and halts. He’s all dressed up in a (personally) tailored suit, looking dashing as hell, but it’s his eyes dancing as he takes me in.
His smile slides onto his face like this is the best sight he’s seen all day, all week, all year.
The bow tie isn’t even perfect, yet.
He swaggers across the room and leans against a mannequin propped close to my sewing corner, megaphone dangling from one hand.
I hurry to fix the bow tie just right even though I know it’ll be ripped off me in about a minute. Unless he makes me keep it on while he wickedly does me on the couch . . .
I chew on my lip. As third anniversaries go, that would be pretty great.
His gaze sweeps lovingly down my birthday suit and lingers on the bow tie. “You’re all kinds of surprising.”
“I really wanted to try the design. It’s silk. Hand stitched.”
“Stunning, for sure. Doubt we’d be let into the restaurant, though.”
I smile hopefully at Damon. He is, after all, the king of sexy seductions. “We have time.”
His laugh surrounds us and the bow tie gets rather . . . tight.