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)
When I head to the cabin to release Roger a few minutes later, I have to agree Damon’s right. The elation and joy part isn’t there, but I have managed to get a guy spread-eagled and naked on a bed and begging me to join him.
He’s half mast, and I want to rig up a white flag in surrender.
Looks like I’m actually going to confront this. “Um.” I’m already sweating. “Roger, we need to talk . . .”
Roger takes my spluttering apologies like a champ, albeit a blushing one. When he’s dressed again, he perches on the end of the blanket that I will have to dry clean. “Which you is the real you? The commanding one or . . .” He waves a nebulous hand at me bouncing from foot to foot and combing shaky fingers through my hair.
“Which me will make you glad we didn’t . . .” I make an equally vague gesture towards the bed.
“Good answer.”
We chat surprisingly easily after that, and when we’re docked back at the pier, I’m escorting him off the boat totally agreeing he can host his friend’s birthday party on board my yacht at the end of the month.
“Will we be able to use the yacht?” I ask when it’s our turn to head home.
Damon casts a look towards sheep-shaped clouds and blue skies, and walks towards the beach.
I duck to the ice-cream stand and buy him his green flavours, which I’ve noticed he prefers. Mint choc chip and goodie gum drop it is.
“What a mix,” a deep voice purrs next to me.
“Call me a culinary genius,” I murmur, and turn—
I almost drop the ice cream. Before me, grinning under a mop of ginger hair, is Scott, the other guy whose profile piqued my interest. I don’t exactly believe in fate and serendipity, but this seems scarily providential. The universe giving me an explanation why it didn’t feel right with Roger. I was yet to meet Scott.
“Culinary genius, eh?”
Damon shakes his head and bites into his mint-choc-goodie-gum-drop cone. “Two minutes out of my sight.”
We trek towards the bach via the beach, each step sinking into the sand. “It’s less a date than it is . . . an audition.” I’d given him a line-by-line account of my moment with Scott, including my weird impulse to say I could cook. I’d just . . . wanted to keep him interested?
Damon sighs. “I’ve seen you burn canned spaghetti.”
“Only the bottom part of the can.”
He gives me a look, and I raise my arms. “You’re right, you’re right. I got carried away.”
Damon pauses and turns to the glittering ocean. He looks like he wants to say something, his eyes squinting into the distance, but then he turns and continues the trek to the bach. “I’m gonna help out the lifeguard.”
As soon as we’re inside, he heads to his room to change and I do the same. Three minutes later we pass in the living room, him in swim shorts, holding a life-float, and me in fluffy pyjamas. His eyes are less spirited than usual, and I spend a fair bit of the afternoon—while designing a pleated white cotton tuxedo shirt—wondering if the Brute arsonist has anything to do with it. Maybe there’s been more messages? Maybe Damon read one in his email, or worse, found another envelope in his bedroom? Maybe the man will break in again. Maybe he’ll resort to murder . . .
By the time evening arrives, I’ve pinned a pattern and signed up to some local self-defence lessons. Right after which, thanks to the excitement of the day and last night’s restlessness, I take a nap.
I wake up from my foetal position on the couch to my mum staring at me.
I yelp and scramble into a sitting position. “Mum, what are you doing here?”
“Can’t a mother surprise her son?” She stands from her crouch, looking the same as ever. Dyed curly hair, bright turtleneck skivvy and a denim skirt, a million bangles up one arm. It’s a wonder the jingling didn’t wake me sooner.
She turns towards the veranda door. “Good idea to get takeout, Damon. He looks terribly worn out.”
I rub my eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”
“You really should consider moving in with me, honey.” She smiles warmly and encases me in her perfumed arms. “I’d take good care of you.”
“Damon,” I call out frantically. “Please come save me.”
Mum tuts and ruffles my hair.
Behind her, Damon sweeps in, still in his swimsuit with paper-wrapped fish n’ chips under his arm.
He looks from Mum to me and I’m glad to see the delight has returned to his eyes. Even if that delight is at my expense. He finds a surface that isn’t covered in sewing patterns, sets down dinner, and heads to his room, touching my hair on his way too. Only his touch sends a bolt of electricity right through me. Something I’ve been trying to grow immune to. Something which I am definitely not yet immune to. Something that puts me in a rather uncomfortable position in front of my mother.