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 finish my outfit and whisk it to my bedroom to squeeze into. Outside, the sun is out and wind scuttles sand towards the bach like it’s coming to collect me. The sea sparkles like Damon’s eyes earlier: with the promise of mischief and upcoming adventure. I straighten the navy necktie and smooth out the crisp white-and-navy striped shirt, hoping my nerves aren’t making my hands too damp and that if they are, it doesn’t show on the fabric.
Damon is moving about in the next room; the scent of slightly burned toast lingers from his “quick bite to eat before escorting you to Roger.”
I may have made a mistake with this escorting to Roger.
I shimmy on a sailor’s cap, white, black with a gold emblem. It had been a bit dusty from hanging on the wall as decoration, but I got it freshened up quite well. There. I totally look like a sailing magazine has thrown me up. I march out of my room in my socks for a pair of Doc Martens that don’t quite fit, but are the best I’ve got. I should’ve thought about shoes in Foxton. Never mind. I plant one booted foot onto my sewing chair and yank at the laces.
Damon is unusually quiet, and I glance over at him in his spot on the couch. A piece of toast hangs out of his mouth, and a plateful of crumbs has slid off his thighs. It’s the stillest I’ve ever seen him.
I tie a bow, and exchange feet. This time I wrap the long laces once around my palms and pull, while sparing Damon a questioning look.
He removes the toast and hastily casts it aside with the plate. I prepare for a few remarks on my outfit. Maybe something along the lines of it being too much. But what Damon doesn’t understand is that effort counts. Also, some people find uniforms sexy.
Damon pushes to his feet and bolts to his bedroom.
Well.
Not quite the reaction I expected.
Perplexed, I finish tying my laces.
Damon returns with his shoes on. Ready to go, it seems.
“No comment on my attire?” I ask.
He prowls closer until he has my navy necktie in his grasp. He reels me in. “You’re missing something.”
He procures a pair of aviators from his back pocket and slides them onto me with a sharky grin. “If you have to do this, you may as well go all out.”
I wish the sunglasses would dull that bloody smile. “Let’s go.”
A short hike later, I’m atop nearby sand dunes. The height offers me a great view of the main street. The salon Damon sent my ex to; the Four Square; the pub at one end, and the tea rooms at the other.
Sand whips around me as I jog towards my date with Roger. Damon is close. He doesn’t hurry; his long stride keeps up with me easily.
I spot a man walking towards the tea rooms. Thirty-something. Baggy t-shirt, bright neon shorts, barefoot.
I call out to him, quickening my trot, and tumble over tussock. I hit the grassy sand with a hard thunk that has me biting my tongue. The door to the tea rooms opens and the man disappears inside. At least he didn’t hear me and turn to see . . . this.
I groan into some gritty tussock, and groan again at the shadow falling over me. “Not a great start,” Damon murmurs, hands groping at my biceps and coming around my chest to help me to my knees. He’s dropped to his, smirking as he dusts off my new shirt. He fiddles with my necktie, flicking himself with sand.
The necktie feels . . . heavier. Along with my shirt. My cap is somewhere down the other side of the dune, my aviators askew. I slump onto my arse. “I’m ridiculous.” I wait a few beats. “A nice guy would lie and say no, no you’re not.”
“I think you should go into your date however you feel most comfortable.”
Roger went in barefoot. I think . . . I think I might be wearing a tad too much? I think I’d be more comfortable with . . .
I gnaw on my lip and drag my eyes over Damon. Every time he breathes in, I glimpse the contours of his chest muscles. “Can I have your shirt? Please?”
“That’s not gonna work.”
I jerk my gaze to his hazel one. “Why not? You go shirtless all the time. We could swap, though mine will be a squeeze on you—”
“I meant, all those ‘pleases’ won’t work.” He nods pointedly towards the tea rooms where my date awaits.
I nod, flush, and remove my neck tie. My striped shirt. “Give me yours.”
He takes his time peeling his off and handing it over. “Do you think he can see us?”
Shoot. I dive into his shirt. It’s big on me, and soft, and still warm. It smells incredible—