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)
With an invigorated grin, I rub my hands together and set to work.
Damon emerges—stretching his arms over his head, all the muscle flexing as he yawns—as I’m putting the finishing stitches on his apron. “Best sleep I’ve had in forever.”
My phone makes a racket against the wooden floor where I’d abandoned it. I scoop it up and swear. “Crap. Shoot.” I toss Damon his apron and grab mine. “We’ve got to go. Now.”
“Thought our date was at ten-thirty?”
I jog to the freezer where we placed our finger food selection. “Scott’s asking where I am. Must’ve got our wires crossed.”
“Who ever thought nine thirty on a Sunday was a good idea?”
I grab my keys and an armful of Damon and pull him out the door and into my car.
“I’m wearing boxers,” he says, amused. “You’re in cum-covered pyjamas.”
Shit. I’m letting nerves and anxiety get the better of me. I drop my apron and the food in his lap and race back inside. Clothes. Clothes. I gather things in an armful and race back out, yelping a hello to my mum on the way.
“Where are you running off to, Leon?”
“I’m late! For a very important date.”
I shut the driver’s door and start the engine.
“Guess that makes me Alice following you to a tea party.”
I fling an arm behind his seat and reverse some rubber onto the road. “Bite me.”
“It’s ‘Eat Me’.” Damon picks through the clothes dumped on him. He lifts a shirt. “And I’ll have to if I want to shrink into this shirt.”
“That one’s for me.” I glance at him. “I want you to shove it over my head at the stop sign.”
“First you’ll need to strip.”
I glance down. “Dammit.”
“Don’t worry.” Damon reaches under my arms and plucks open the buttons. “I’m a pro at this.”
I shake my head and laugh, hoping it hides the sudden shiver when his fingers comb over my chest, my stomach, my bellybutton . . . He peels the fabric back, fingers skimming my skin again—
Damon, the devil, is grinning.
So much for him getting me out of his system. Maybe he needs to fuck me proper before that happens? Oh, God. I’m gonna have to regain my self-control. We can’t do it again. I’m looking for more than mindless fun and shameless flirting. I’m looking for . . . Scott!
Another sexy slide of those calloused fingers over my nipple. “You’re doing it on purpose!”
“What?” he says, unable to keep a straight bloody face.
“I can’t show up to my audition with . . .” I glance down at my rather aroused crotch.
Laughter. “Alice could drink you?”
“Fairly sure any attempt at drinking will only make it grow.”
“Shall we find out?”
What a minxy grin! I can’t help a laugh and emphatically shake my head. “My dick is out of bounds. Please put those clothes on.”
He pouts and starts wriggling out of his boxers.
I do a double take. “What are you doing?”
“Not wearing the same underwear twice in a row.”
“I didn’t bring you a fresh pair. Can’t you, I don’t know, turn them inside out?”
He kicks them off his ankles and starts pulling on his jeans. “I’ll go commando.”
Oh crikey. “Stop sign,” I say, and Damon pops my t-shirt over my neck. I fish my arms through the sleeves, and continue driving.
“Say, Leon?”
“Hmm?”
“Your jeans—”
“I’ll shove them on as soon as we park. You take in the food.”
“Um . . .”
I glance at him as he shakes out my jeans. Except, the denim is rather short and slightly flared. And that would be because it’s my mum’s skirt.
I want to cry. I have an emergency sewing kit in my car, but it’s not designed to convert skirts to shorts. Going back to the bach will make me so late I’d be better not coming. But yesterday at the pier . . . there’d been something serendipitous about meeting Scott right at that moment and I can’t risk missing out on the right guy because of a silly wardrobe issue.
I whip around the corner to Scott’s street and toss Damon a determined shrug. “That’s an aerate cooking garment. Aerate, rhymes with pirate.”
His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Irate cooking garment?”
“Pressures of the kitchen can be tough. The last thing a cook needs is sweaty thighs and nasty chafing. These allow for airflow. All the top chefs wear them.”
“I was dreading this whole Scott morning,” Damon murmurs. “But this might make all the pain worth it.”
I roll up to number 7, park outside a double garage, and meet those twinkling hazel eyes. “Thank you for helping me out. I’m beginning to wonder what I’d do without you.”
Damon scrubs his jaw over a smile. “Right. Irate on. Let’s see what’s special about this Scott guy.” He glances towards Scott’s house. “Holy shit.”
It’s even more impressive inside. Even larger-than-life Damon is dwarfed by the grandeur of this mansion. Shadows cast by antique interior pillars seem to steal his light as Scott leads us through his home to his second guest kitchen.