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)
Hazel eyes connect with mine, the gleam in them softened, sincere. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t like, Leon.”
My throat feels thick. I stand and dust fish ‘n chip crumbs off my pyjamas. “Be that as it may, I don’t need help finding a guy. I need help impressing one.”
“Scott?”
I nod. “You’re talented at everything, how are you at baking?”
Damon rises from his chair and crosses to me in two lazy strides. The air thickens and my breathing shallows. “Jack of all trades, master of none.”
He reaches behind me. I gulp in his glorious scent, and he pulls back holding a cookbook. The pages fan open between us. “What do we want? Quiche? Carrot cake?”
I frown.
“Or we could try spinach onion rolls and blueberry muffins. Leon?”
I snap my attention to him. “How about Jack of all trades, master of them all?”
Damon snaps the cookbook shut and laughs derisively.
I growl. “You lifesave people, build houses and school halls, work in the tea rooms—making the best coffee I’ve ever had, by the way—sail yachts, surf, play bingo—”
“I have an attention deficit disorder! I’m all over the place. I only just manage on medication.”
Flustered heat climbs up my throat, cheeks. Is that why he does so much all the time? Why he volunteers alongside work and rebuilding his own place and is generally full of boundless energy?
Is that why his parents found him too much? Why Martha adopted him? Why he’s happy here, where people accept him?
My voice rises. “I don’t know what that’s like for you, but I see everything you do, and I find it amazing.”
His voice matches mine. “You know what I find incredible? Watching you sit for hours at a time, whole days, over that sewing machine. Such concentration. Such dedicated passion. It’s like you’re transported to another world. You’re happy, and it’s magical. You are amazing.” His chest heaves.
Energetic currents crackle through me and I yell, “You know actual lyrics to songs!”
He yells too, “You hum like an angel!”
“You tell people what you really think!”
“You have passive-aggression down to an art form!”
“Well . . . you . . . you saved my life.”
“You begged me to give you CPR.”
“You didn’t give it to me!”
A phone goes off, slicing the taut air between us. Damon’s. He stares at me, catching his breath, then twists sharply and answers. “Troy, what’s up?”
I sag against the bookshelf and stare at Damon pacing the living area, or rather, picking his way around my patterns.
“Your aunt will be sad to miss you. But we’d love to look after Tommy. What time? Will Hailey need help in the tea rooms?”
At the mention of tea rooms, eureka! Breathlessly—I still haven’t recovered from our argument—I lunge and grab Damon’s phone. “Troy?”
“Leon,” Troy says, Kipper yipping in the background. “You survived the yacht.”
“Thanks to a master of all trades.” I don’t look at Damon, but I feel the intensity of his gaze prickling my skin. “I’ll help Hailey in the tea rooms.”
“Have you ever worked in food service before?”
“I’ll have you know, I once got invited to audition as a caterer.”
“You keep surprising me, Leon. Sure, help Hailey. I’m not sure how much I can pay you.”
“How about paying me in pastries?” I offer, to which Troy gets curious and agrees while Damon dons his shoes, finds mine, steers me firmly to the couch, slips them on me, and tucks in the hems of my flannel pants.
I try to find the energy to continue our argument, but I shake my head and laugh instead. “Think anyone’ll care I’m in pyjamas?”
“We’re raiding the tea room pantry. You can wear whatever you like.”
“This feels weirdly liberating.”
Damon slides his hands along my thighs and pushes himself to his feet. He grabs the megaphone off the shelf and presses the trigger. “Ready when you are.”
Chapter Ten
Off the tea room pantry is a walk-in fridge, stuffed with fresh produce and large containers of butter and jams. One cabinet holds frozen goods, including the next day’s croissants, buns, pastries, all ready to be slipped into the oven.
Damon helps me bag mini savoury tarts and a tray of ginger-fudge slice. Then he sets our bounty aside and steers me around the counter to a table by the windows.
I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing and he presses a finger to my lips. “Wait.”
He leaves me and the coffee machine steams to life.
The main store is dark, the only light coming from behind the counter. There’s something thrilling about sitting in the dark, looking out at sand dunes and the distant ocean glowing under a full moon. Listening to Damon fluffing about in the background. But when I turn to look at him my gaze catches on the neatly-stacked parcels of savouries and slice that pretty much encompass the full extent of my culinary non-ability, and I force my mind back to task. Somehow, I need to become knowledgeable about cookery things before sunrise. I pull out my phone to research cookery things.