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)
Hailey tightens her ponytail and nods. “Coming up.”
“Do we have a few minutes?” Damon asks me.
I nod; he leaves me at a bar stool, rounds the counter, and dons an apron. “What’ve we got?”
I use the time to mentally go over my Roger-related plan, and quickly abandon those musings to watch how easily Damon slides into this job. He and Hailey are in perfect sync as they clear the backlog. She smiles at him like he’s her saviour, a faint blush on her cheeks. He’s a jack of all trades. A doer. Totally at ease communicating with all sorts of people. Extroverted for sure. My total opposite.
“Where’s Troy?” Damon asks, and Hailey sighs.
“Doctor maybe? Kid was sick last night, and his wife’s still not back from her work trip.”
“Long bloody work trip,” Damon mutters.
“I’m good now. Sit,” Hailey urges him. “I’ll sneak you some ginger slice.”
“My fave. But I’ve got one more coffee to make first.”
He makes another cappuccino and sets it before me with a wink, then Hailey smuggles him his ginger slice, biting her lip on a smile. I guess I’m not the only one still captivated by Damon Conroy..
“We’ve arrived,” comes a voice, and we twist on our stools to an exhausted Troy carrying his kid on his back.
He halts beside me and starts sliding Tommy to the floor. “Could you guys do me a solid?”
Shopping with a toddler is something else.
I look away one second, and then I’m shrieking for an ambulance until I realise Tommy is not covered in blood, but has upended an entire bottle of tomato sauce over his head. I crush him against my chest, so relieved I don’t care he’s staining my knitwear.
Fellow customers glance our way. Some are shaking their head. Then Damon comes sprinting around the aisle with a sack of flour over each shoulder. We must look a sight—Tommy has curled his arms around my neck and smudged tomato onto my cheek too.
Damon laughs and in minutes has called someone to deal with the mess, found wet wipes and used them on the both of us, and herded us towards the checkout. While he investigates the kids’ magazines with Tommy on his hip, I swipe my card to pay for Troy’s groceries.
After the supermarket, I drive us eagerly to sewing nirvana—which happens to be a few stores down from the pet store where Roger works.
Damon heads in first with Tommy, freshly redressed. I’ve stripped out of my jersey and am rounding my car in a t-shirt that says “I Wish I Were in Pyjamas”. Probably not the sexiest t-shirt to wear to get a guy’s number.
Something I still haven’t figured out how to do, exactly. Damon will have ideas. Hell, he’ll probably write me up a script, which I’ll promptly forget so no point giving him any more fodder to tease me with.
The fabric store is one large carpeted room with hundreds of rolls of fabric, tables for measuring and cutting, and threads and bobbins and every other knick-knack a tailor could wish for.
It would’ve been the highlight of my day if I hadn’t, moments before stepping inside, spotted my ex striding down the street, waving for my attention.
How the hell has he tracked me down here?
Across the room, Damon and Tommy are checking out funky flannel prints while I’m scanning the store, sizing up which roll of fabric I can wrap myself into.
A flash of movement at the door has me sinking under the measuring table. Shit, shit, shit. As soon as he moves into the store proper, he’ll spot me. I have to move. I crawl under the table, clearing a path through loose threads and offcuts, and come out on the other side with a frayed measuring tape trapped between my thighs. I tug it free and—
Black boots, tight black jeans, and shadow. I look up with a wan smile at Damon and Tommy blinking down at me.
“Lookie what we’ve found here.”
Tommy points at me and laughs.
“Leon?” The voice is coming from my left; I cringe and glance at my ex striding purposefully towards us. “Are you hiding from me?”
I laugh. “From you, never.” I tug the hems of Damon’s jeans and run the measuring tape up his inseam.
Damon sucks in his breath and drops Tommy to his feet, pointing him to the flannel. “Choose your favourite.”
Tommy sits himself before a shelf of doggy prints and orange teddy bears, and Damon glares down at me and my hand somewhat frozen to the underside of his denim-clad balls. This is rather a reversal. I flash him a please-play-along grimace and hurriedly measure down the other leg.
Karl plants himself beside us, and I acknowledge him casually. Like I’m cool with him there, like I’m not drowning in mantras, in his voice telling me I’m boring . . . “Couple more measurements, and I’ll know how much fabric we’ll need. Hey, Karl—what the—” My gaze whips back to the bowl cut atop Karl’s head. I hadn’t noticed in the street, but up close . . . “New style?”