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)
“Shades of silver and layered.”
I shake off a shiver and cast my eyes elsewhere.
“Will you make them for me?” Damon asks.
I toss out a laugh. “I suppose this will help me get rid of all that temptation sooner?”
Damon raises a brow.
I blurt, “I’d love to design your curtains. I’ll make sure they keep the sun out.”
“While you are good at veiling things, I’d want them open during the day.” Damon pegs his shirt in place and plucks another item from his basket. “Why did you follow me here?”
“Other than turnabout being fair play?” We share traces of smiles. “Actually, I came to ask a favour.”
Damon pegs his pants and glances at me to continue.
“I need a yacht.”
He pauses and slowly rises from the basket. “Should I ask why?”
“Probably not.” Breezes ruffle his clothes; I grab the black t-shirt I sewed up for him from the basket and hang it out. We play peek-a-boo between sleeves and boxers. “You know everyone. Can you borrow one for me?”
“Sounds like things are getting out of hand?”
“Your fault.”
“Mine?”
I pop a peg on some decidedly hot boxers and peer from under the crotch. “You were prancing around the windows being extremely diverting.”
“Diverting?”
“Wipe the smile, Damon. I was suddenly humming and yessing questions I wasn’t paying attention to. And now I need a yacht.”
He cocks his head. “Why didn’t you correct yourself?”
“I got myself into this mess, and I will get as messy as I have to not to confront anyone.”
“I’m starting to understand the eighty bottles of milk.”
“Please find me a yacht?”
“I could, but no matter how many sailor outfits you make, you won’t be able to captain it.”
“You could.”
“I’m invited on your date as well?” Damon rubs his jaw, possibly hiding a smirk.
“We’re to leave at ten, by the way. Will you be our captain pretending you’re my co-captain?”
“Mate.”
I hang up the last piece of clothing, waiting for him to continue. “Take all the time you need to think it over, co-cappy.”
He sighs. “You definitely need a mate.”
“You’re my mate,” I murmur. “Roommates at the very least.”
Damon eyes me strangely, then grabs my wrist and hauls me through layers of damp clothes until I’m standing before him and his deeply pensive gaze. He fingers a short curl at my temple. Opens his mouth to say something and shuts it again.
“Damon?”
He snaps out of his concentration and lets me go. “I have a friend who owns a yacht. He lets me sail on occasion. I’ll ask.”
“Excellent. I guess I’ll head to the pier and research . . . terminologies and stuff.”
“And stuff? You’ll talk to local captains?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“All right, Leon. Give me five and I’ll go with you.”
Damon locks up and ten minutes later we’re strolling down the pier, pointing out all the places we used to hang out as kids, and then where we met as adults. The spot on the shore where I asked him to give me CPR. The infamous public changing rooms where I stole his clothes.
The sun beams down warmly. I could almost call the moment perfectly relaxing.
Damon sneaks off to the ice-cream caravan and comes back with something mint-looking for him and a juicy for me. He sneakily bows to suck on my frozen orange juice and his gaze lingers on mine as he pulls back.
“If you say anything about how good it tastes, I will smoosh your cone onto your face.” And possibly cream my pants before that.
“Damon, dear.”
We pivot towards the multiple voices calling Damon’s name. A cluster of older women led by cane-wielding Martha approaches, and one by one they smother Damon in hugs. Martha keeps him tight at her side, arm looped around his, as the others rib him for calling out the wrong number at bingo last time.
Two of the crowd cast curious glances my way and whisper to one another, and I continue to stare blatantly at the conundrum before me. This Damon . . . This side of him . . .
I vigorously suck my juicy.
Playboy. Playboy. Playboy.
Martha commands Damon to look after himself and leads the others away.
They shrink down the pier, and Damon plays catch up with his dribbling ice cream. If I weren’t intolerant, I’d lean in and help him out.
“Damn,” he murmurs. “I’ll get a sorbet next time.”
“Damon!” How does he always know what I’m thinking? I grumble, throw my rubbish in a nearby bin, and stride towards the boats tied up in rows.
A fisherman tying rope around a metal . . . thing greets Damon with a nod and a friendly word.
“Everyone loves you,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Maybe I should be more like you.”
“Or you could just like me.”
“You won’t stop until my boxers are around my ankles, will you?”
A tantalising lick of vanilla. “I can’t deny that would be a treat.”