by Remy Rose
Delaney looks down at her plate, then back up at me. “Okay.” She lowers her voice and leans over the table. “Even though this is outside the contract, you can stay with me next week.”
“Hey, thanks. You know what the best thing about this is?”
“Tell me.”
“It means I get to spend more time with you.”
There is a pink glow blooming in her face, and she can’t hide her smile. We hold each other’s gaze for longer than before.
I like that.
chapter 20 / Delaney
I am in deep shit.
I know this because even though rationally, I should be keeping my distance from Damon and just fulfilling the terms of the contract, I’m doing exactly the opposite—getting closer. Letting him in. Physically, and emotionally, to the point where it’s actually crossed my mind to tell him about my past and how it’s affected my getting intimate with anyone. Am I simply ready to talk about it, or is it that I’m ready to talk about it with him? I can’t deny that a driving force is wanting to free myself so that I can be with him, completely—feel him inside me. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. My Kindle full of romances has proven woefully inadequate, because once you have a taste of the real thing, fantasy men can’t hold a candle.
Candle—>phallic symbol—>Damon.
Like I said, deep shit.
After our lunch yesterday, I kept thinking about how I agreed to let him stay with me and have been questioning my decision. I was so distracted at work today that I forgot to make coffee when I arrived (a cardinal sin at Precision Machine), I transferred a call to Stu that was supposed to go to Lou, and I forgot to attach a quote to an email I sent. My bosses were already irritated with me, so what better time to give my two-week notice? I printed out my letter of resignation and left it on Stu’s desk before beelining it out of there.
On the way home, I had a sudden urge to go to the Humane Society and see if I could get Tucker for a Dog’s Day Out. I thought it would be fun to surprise Damon when he came over tonight, especially where he isn’t going to be around this weekend to visit Tucker. I went to the dog kennels and was greeted by a very raucous group of canines—mostly pit bulls and Lab mixes—but no Tucker. I asked at the front desk about him, and the girl said he’d been adopted. I left feeling so glad for that absolute love of a dog, along with a selfish twinge of sadness that I wouldn’t be able to see him again. As nonsensical as it sounds, it felt like he knew he was home in my apartment last weekend. It felt right to me, too.
Just like Damon felt right.
Oh, I’m in such trouble.
I’m excited about having him stay here, but there’s a thick layer of apprehension swirled in, too. I haven’t had a man stay the night in five years. I’ve tried not to dwell on that and attempted to focus on my yoga workout, cleaning the bathroom, unlocking the ground-level door and putting a pillow, sheet and blanket on the couch.
Just to make it perfectly clear—to both of us—where he’s going to be sleeping.
Damon texted me earlier about picking up Chinese. I’m setting out plates and glasses for us when I hear a knock. I open the door, and there he is at the top of the stairs, legs slightly apart and arms folded behind his back, his grin lighting up the doorway.
“Hi, Sprite. We’re here for our sleepover.”
“We’re…?”
His arms comes forward, and in his left hand is a bag of take-out food. And a bag of dog food. In his right is a leash. And connected to that leash is a big black dog, waving his tail at me.
“Oh...Tucker!” I drop down to my knees and take his frosted face in my hands, then look up at Damon. “I’m so happy to see him! I actually went yesterday to get him for a Dog’s Day Out, but they said he was adopted. Wait...is that you?”
He’s nodding, grinning from ear to ear. “Shelter space was getting tight, he was stressed out, and I couldn’t stand to have him in that kennel for one more night. Not the best timing since I’m not in my new house yet, but sometimes other things are more important. And this guy definitely is. If it’s not okay for him to crash here with me, I can get a pet-friendly hotel.”
“As if! Please. Like I wouldn’t let the sweetest boy in the world stay here.”
“Thanks. But what about Tucker?”
“You’re quick. I’ll give you that.”
“Not always.” He winks.
“Best behavior, remember?”
“Absolutely. Sorry. Kind of um, hard, when I’m around you.”
I fold my arms indignantly and try to glare, but I’m so not mad, and he knows it. How can I be, with a sweetheart dog, Chinese food and this guy in my apartment?
After having his leash unhooked, Tucker trots over to my couch and hops up like he knows exactly where he’s supposed to be. And he’s right.
Damon grins when he sees the bedding laid out. “How subtle.”
“Thank you. Sorry I don’t have a guest bed.”
“No problem. T-Man and I are just glad to be invited, aren’t we, buddy?” He scratches Tucker behind the ears. “Listen...would it be okay if he stays with you this weekend, since I have my bachelor’s thing?”
“Absolutely. I’ll take any time I can get with this boy. I’m kind of jealous, if you want to know the truth, about you adopting him.”
“We can share him.”
Something about the way he says that makes a flurry of feeling kick up in my chest. “That would be great. I’m planning to adopt a cat once I get Memory Lane up and running.”
“Fantastic. Tucker loves cats. And I do, too. I love—”
“Stop. Don’t say it.”
“Wh-a-at?” He holds out his arms, his eyes wide with innocence. Fake innocence. “Just saying I like felines.”
“You are awful.” I’m trying to frown at him, but my lips keep curving up.
Laughing, he pulls me toward him in a spontaneous hug as Tucker woofs. I wriggle away, but I’m fighting myself on that, too. “Let’s eat.”
Over dinner, I ask him about his closing. “Are you sad at all, moving out of your place?”
“Leaving The Condom? Nah.”
“Oh my God. That’s what you call it? I can take a guess about how it got its name.”
“And you’d be right. Guys don’t get sad moving out.”
“No? Saying goodbye to the memories of all those girls?”
“I can make new memories of girl. Singular.”
I take a forkful of fried rice, my heart thumping. Just as I’m trying to process this, he makes a one hundred eighty degree turn.
“By the way, I’ve decided we’re not doing anything tonight. We’re just going to talk.”
Oh. I’m trying to decide what I feel about that. A little relief, but then again, damn.
“I decided on the way over here that if I’m going to stick to my word about being on my best behavior, I can’t even kiss you. Wouldn’t be able to stop. And I want you to be perfectly comfortable with me staying here.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Damon raises his beer bottle to his mouth and tips his head back, then sets it down, his lips twitching. “Plus, I figured by next week, you’ll want me even more.”
The urge to laugh wells up in my chest, battling with the desire to get up from the table and go kiss his maddening, delectable, infuriating, delicious mouth. “You really are incredible, you know that?”
He’s laughing, an easy, boyish, genuine laugh that warms me better than any Chinese food could. Then his next words heat me up even more.
“I’m really glad I’m here, Sprite.”
I swallow. The fried rice seems to be catching in my throat. “I’m really glad you’re here, too.”
chapter 21 / Damon
I’m in my office, looking at Portia who’s perusing the folder of material our marketing manager pulled together for her. I guess I’m not so much looking at her as analyzing objectively. This time, I’m not wondering about her lack of attrac
tion to me, but why I’m not attracted to her. She really is a knockout, a classic beauty with glamour and elegance, intriguing eyes, tall and in great physical shape.
So why don’t I feel anything, when I’ve always been hot for a wide variety of gorgeous women?
Doesn’t take me long to figure out.
She’s not a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, spunky little spitfire.
She’s not Delaney.
Kind of a major realization.
Portia looks up to catch me staring. Her face colors, like she’s both puzzled and embarrassed. Smooth, Cavanaugh. Real smooth.
“Uh, just to recap,” I say quickly, shifting into professional mode. “we feel that our yacht broker is an integral part of our success. We’re currently working with Morrow Yacht Sales, and they’re all over the place for us—in addition to using print media and social media, they’re also into grassroots campaigns, like galas, charities, displaying models in their showrooms and boat shows. Morrow exhibits at several places in Florida...Fort Lauderdale draws hundreds of thousands. They show in Boston, LA, Seattle, and right here in Maine, and last year even exhibited in Dubai and Moscow.”
She nods, impressed. “Brilliant. From these charts, you can clearly see the difference in sales from pre-broker to present. Perhaps Bellamy’s ailing sales could be revived this way.”
“It’s very possible. One of the most successful strategies that Morrow uses has been direct email.”
“Ah. We don’t do enough with email mahketing, and I’ve troyed to tell Daddy that. I’ll definitely be sharing this information with him.”
“Has he visited the States? Might be more convincing if he were to see the results for himself.”
She sighs, twirling her pen between her fingers. “I’ve suggested that, and he seems pleased as punch I’m over here and always wants updates. But whenever I’ve asked if he’d like to come visit, he acts positively narked and brushes me off. Strange, because that’s not really his temperament. He’s quite a lovely man.”
“You have a good relationship?”
“Absolutely. We’ve always been close. I do worry about Daddy, being alone like he is after he and my mum split up.”
“I can relate to the split-up thing.”
“In this case, it was best. I don’t know as they ever truly loved one another.”
“Same with my parents.”
Almost on cue, Gloria and her beige pantsuit walk into my office, her mauve lips stretching in a big smile when she sees Portia with me. “How’s everything going in here?”
Portia smiles back. “Hunky-dory. Your son is a smashing instructor.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve just met with our design team on our newest model, the Dulcinea. Seventy-three meter motor yacht, accommodations for twelve, six staterooms along with a full beam master suite with panoramic views. It’s going to be absolutely stunning. I believe I have a new favorite.”
I wink at Portia. “Every new boat is her favorite.”
“Ignore my son, Portia. I also wanted to invite the two of you to an event at the winery in Blue Hill. It’s in two weeks—Bistro Night featuring husband and wife performers who sing backup for Alicia Keys.”
“Sounds good. I’ll ask Delaney if she can go.”
Not unexpectedly, I get the Gloria glare. Portia seems to be aware of the iceberg forming between us and quickly moves in to attempt to thaw it.
“Thank you, Gloria. I’ll check my calendah and let you know.”
“Excellent.” She shoots me a glance. “It might be more appropriate if just the two of you attend. Kensington Winery caters to a certain class of people.”
Before I can respond, she’s blowing Portia a kiss and breezing out of my office as though she hasn’t just insulted the fuck out of her son’s girlfriend.
“Your mother doesn’t give up easily, now, does she?” Portia is smiling at me ruefully.
“You’ve noticed.”
She laughs. “It’s kind of hard not to when she’s constantly talking to me about how incredible you are.”
“Funny, she never seems to say that sort of thing directly to me. Listen, I apologize if she’s pressuring you in any way. I hope it isn’t too awkward.”
“Oh, I can certainly handle it, Damon. It’s rather amusing, actually. Especially when you’re oll-ready very much taken.”
The tone of her voice, the weight of her words reach deep into me. I’m caught off guard. Mainly because I’ve never been “very much taken” with anyone.
“You’re quite crazy about Delaney, ahn’t you?”
“She’s my girlfriend...I’d better be, right?” I give a laugh, but it’s fake. The irony, because now I’m trying to cover up how much I do care about her.
Portia’s eyes are warm. “Cheers for helping me learn today.”
As she gathers up her materials to leave my office, I find myself silently telling her the same thing.
chapter 22 / Delaney
Even though Damon got back last night, I kept Tucker with me an extra day for purely selfish reasons. He’s an absolute love and I’ve grown quite attached to him, and I also needed him at Precision to soften the blow of my leaving. One thing (maybe the only thing) I like about Stu and Lou is that they’re both dog lovers but can’t have them—Stu’s wife is allergic, and Lou’s condo complex doesn’t allow them. So I figured an impromptu Take Your Dog To Work Day would make the boys hate me a little less.
I was right. Tucker took on his role of good will ambassador like he knew exactly what he was supposed to do—pushing his nose into Stu’s big hands to be petted, laying at Lou’s feet when he was on the phone. At the end of the day, I honestly think they were more upset to see the dog leave than me.
Damon comes over right after work. I have the door unlocked, so he’s able to walk right in and say, “Honey, I’m home!” which makes me laugh and feel squishy inside at the same time.
“Let me give you the requisite contractual-girlfriend greeting.” I walk up to him, stand on my tiptoes and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He has a little stubble going on which I find tremendously appealing, and also God, he smells good.
“You can do better than that.” He pulls me into him, lifting me a bit so my feet are dangling inches from the floor, and oh, hello, Damon’s pelvis!
My lips part as his mouth claims them. His tongue pushes against mine in a very warm, very deep, very real kiss. Tucker wedges his nose between us, and we break our lip lock and laugh.
Damon reaches down to ruffle Tucker’s ears. “Have you been a good boy, I hope?”
“He’s been an excellent boy. Charmed the pants off everyone at Precision Machine.”
“Fantastic.” He pauses to sniff. “Funny,” he muses, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “I don’t smell dinner cooking.”
“You’re quite hilarious. But I don’t recall me making dinner as being in the contract. Also, FYI—being sexist costs you big, big points with me.”
Huffing in mock indignation, Damon puts his hands on either side of Tucker’s face. “Did you hear that, boy? I’ll bet she made you dinner.”
“You’re right. Dogs don’t have the same...expectations that fake boyfriends do.”
“So what you’re saying is, I should be more like a dog to get what I want? I can definitely do that. I can nuzzle. And lick. But I don’t bite. Unless, of course, you want me to.” His eyebrow arches so comically I can’t keep from laughing.
“Your demon side is showing. How about breakfast for dinner? I was busy all weekend with the café prep and didn’t get to the grocery store, but I can make us waffles and scrambled eggs? I should have some fruit, too.”
“You do the waffles. Scrambled eggs is one of the few things I can make well.”
“Deal.”
We go to the kitchen, Tucker following us happily and flopping down on the floor with a grunt, thumping his tail against the tile as we smile at him. I set out a frying pan and the Belgian waffle maker while Damon gets the eggs and milk
.
“The renovations must be coming together?”
“Yes! I’m so excited. Jack was here most of Saturday painting and is going to refinish the floor this week. My display case is being delivered any day now. Still a lot to do, but it’s definitely starting to look like a real place.”
“I can’t wait to see it. I’m really glad for you, Sprite. Now your work place will also be your happy place. As it should be.” He grimaces. “Wish I could say the same thing about mine. Maybe someday.”
We talk over our breakfast dinner. Damon is right about the scrambled eggs—they’re perfect, light, fluffy and buttery. We both toss Tucker a piece of toast and chide each other for encouraging him to beg at the table, then do it again with a piece of waffle. The dog is just so damned adorable.
After dinner, I’m putting dishes in the sink when I feel Damon’s nose in my hair, just behind my ear. “You smell like syrup. And you,” he murmurs. “Both of which are doing things to me.” He rubs his nose gently against my head. “This is my imitation of a dog nuzzling. Is it working?”
Falling for it hook, line and sinker.
“Not really,” I whisper.
His arms go around my waist and he presses soft lips against my neck. “I’m a really, really good licker, if you remember.”
“I think I do remember something about that, yes.”
“I missed you this weekend, Delaney. I want to show you how much.”
“Okay,” I shudder, wriggling against his ticklish kisses. “If you have to.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I do.” Taking my hand, he walks me toward the living room couch. I pull back, feeling an unexpected burst of bravery. “Let’s go in my bedroom.” My voice is quavering, but only a little bit.
His eyes and face soften, like I’ve both surprised and moved him. “Are you sure?”
“I want to try.”
“We can do that.” A slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. I am pretty much wrecked by that smile.
I’m vaguely aware of Tucker padding softly behind us. I hope he won’t think less of me for what’s about to happen.