“I messed up your hair.”
All the pins were gone, but she spied the sparkly star on the floor and used it to fashion a tidier do.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Back to the light. Back to the real world where someone like Damon and someone like Georgia didn’t have an insane make-out session for no good reason.
He stepped out in front of her and that was confusing. “Should I go first?”
“No need.”
He started down the walkway to the stairs, the fingers of one hand skating over the surface of the wall. He’d feel the banister and the change in flooring from wood to metal before the first step. She was so easily redundant and instead of feeling relieved, she was bereft.
Cracked and dusty memories of the one time she’d played around and been dumped sat in her chest like yellow curled newsprint used to line old cupboards. She’d kissed Lenny Tims behind the toilet block, let him touch her breasts over her school uniform on a humid Friday afternoon.
Lenny had blanked her on the Monday as if she was brickwork, nothing more than any dumb surface to play handball on, and asked Michelle Payne to the end of year formal. She’d cried herself sick at seventeen, and Damon’s sure-footed progress on the stairs brought it all back.
She needed to wake up to herself, but her soul was stroked raw by the revelation of him and it was too soon to be rational.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, face turned towards the sound of her feet. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She touched his hand and he took her elbow, but he didn’t move off when she did. She turned to face him. His eyes were focused over her head, then he dropped his chin and frowned.
“Do I need to apologise?”
“No.” That was insulting; couldn’t he tell she’d been all in? Surely he didn’t need functioning eyes to know she’d loved every minute of being with him.
“Good. So what’s changed?”
Everything. “I don’t know what you mean.” Nothing, she was an insecure school kid still.
He stepped into her, the toe of his shoe stopping against the toe of hers. “It wasn’t the altitude. It wasn’t the darkness. I didn’t kiss you because we were forced together.”
She got brave, like she’d learned to be after Lenny and before Hamish’s injury. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Are you embarrassed by being with me?”
“No. No.” She stepped away, shocked he’d think that.
Damon’s hands went to his hips, fists folded. “Then whatever it is you’re doing, stop it right now.”
She’d made out with the guy, but sharing spit didn’t mean he got to dictate how she reacted to him. She took another step away. Hamish had ruled her moods for years. She was complicit in that. But it was never going to happen again. She took another step back. Damon was perfectly capable of getting himself home.
His arms dropped to his sides. “Don’t freak out on me, Georgia.”
She took another step. This would be better anyway. Be Lenny for once. Dump Damon before he dumped her.
“I’m sorry.” She said it so softly he might not hear it over the cackle of noise from the bar: rhubarb mumbles and laughs, discordant funk. She turned her back on him and walked away. She got halfway to the exit and had to know. Had he rescued himself, had Dalia or Ed or Jace found him? He was standing exactly where she left him.
She moved around to stand in front of him. He had his head down and his eyes closed. She walked into his space, put the toe of her shoe against the toe of his.
He inclined his head. “Where’d you go?”
He wasn’t Hamish. He was funny and bright and interested in her, and he kissed like he’d gotten a High Distinction in sex god class. “I was having a freak-out.”
A smile ticked at the corner of his mouth, the dimple knotting his cheek. “Is it over?”
No, it was on spontaneous repeat like a gif that made you giddy. “Maybe?”
“My fault?”
“In a roundabout way.”
“Going to tell me about it?”
“Do I have to?”
“Only if you want me to back off.”
“I don’t.” She was going to get smashed up by this, but it was time something, someone broke through her walls and made her feel good again.
He opened his arms wide. “I want to kiss you in the light, in the open too.”
She took a breath, maybe the last sane one before the men with the white coats came, and stepped into him, her arms going around his waist, her head lifted to meet his. He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. No mistaking this kiss for play. It was harsh light of day firm, real life deliberate, hitting the centre stage of her heart and dropping the curtain on her resistance.
She’d thought to reclaim her life in bits; in fits and starts and small steps, but you didn’t always get what you planned on, and Damon was an immoveable force, an object she had no interest in navigating around.
His mouth was by her ear. “Turn around. Let’s get that drink.”
She turned her back to him, stilled to wait for him to take her elbow, but he put both hands across her eyes. “Lean back.”
“What are you doing?” She could see slices of the room through his fingers.
“I’m not dependent on you, Georgia. I should’ve thought tonight might prove that. It was a bad idea for a first date, not that I want to take any of it back, except the part where I was less than honest with you. I’m walking us to the bar. I can get there without your eyes. I can get to the street, to a taxi. I can do all these everyday things, mostly by myself or with limited guidance. You don’t have to nurse me, or care for me, or be the part of me that’s missing. If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t.”
“I wasn’t, I—”
“Well, you should’ve been.” There was that command tone again. “I’m not going to be your average boyfriend. That’s something to come to terms with.” In more ways than he could imagine. “I can sing for a start.”
“Boyfriend? I’m still technically married.”
“But it’s over and you’re here alone and starting again.”
“Yes.” Hamish had started divorce proceedings. There was nothing left between them except sorrow, bitterness and paperwork
“I’d like it to be more than a hook-up. Do you want something different?”
She shook her head, but his hands went with her, masking her vision.
“Then I’m happy to discuss the term used to describe what we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“A drink, a chat with Dalia, blistering kisses, my hands doing rude things to you in the taxi, a debate outside your flat about whether I stay the night.”
She sucked in a breath and he laughed.
“Tomorrow we’re going shopping. Tomorrow night I’m singing at Moon Blink and I’d like you with me. Sunday I’ll take you to dinner. Then I’ll pester you while you’re working, for lunch, for a walk, to be with you wherever you are, and we’ll take it from there. Does that work for you?”
That worked like therapy, but it took simple word choice and made it like trigonometry, too hard to calculate on the spot. She had nothing to say. She nodded and he laughed, the music of it tangling in her hair.
He got them to the bar without tripping or knocking into anyone, but he took her arm immediately it became obvious there were other people close by. He’d proven his point, but he wasn’t stupid about it.
Dalia found them and this time Georgia didn’t back off, didn’t surrender Damon to someone with an older claim. She stayed by his side, her hand in his.
He didn’t embarrass her in the taxi but she sat in the circle of his arm, and unlike the first back seat adventure she didn’t want leap out and abandon him. She wanted the journey to take forever so she could continue to rest her head on his shoulder and have him stroke his thumb across the back of her hand.
When he sent the taxi off she remembered what anxie
ty felt like: duelling chainsaws carving up the lining of her stomach. She wanted Damon’s kisses but she wasn’t ready to let him stay the night.
“I’m not coming in for coffee,” he said. “I want to stay the night.”
What was wrong with her? He was gorgeous and he wanted her, what other criteria did she need met? It was one night, not forever. “I want you to.”
“But?”
She put her hands over his ears like he’d done to her eyes. He heard too much in the silences and the spaces between words. She leaned into him, arms wrapping around his neck to pull his lips to hers.
He fed her mumbled protest back into her mouth between the press of airy kisses, then tucked her face into his shoulder. “I can wait.” His husky, gritty voice made her knees weak.
“Pick you up at eleven? That too early?”
He’d said shopping, but not for what. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere they sell dresses.”
She pulled away to look at him. Dimple, cheeky grin. She didn’t get it. He saw into her silence.
“Preferably red ones.”
The night was silvery, a full moon, a streetlight luring moths and bugs, and Georgia blushed so hard Damon might’ve seen it. She felt it in her feet. If he was touching her face he’d feel it too.
“You’re going to need one. Next weekend. Voice actors’ annual awards night. I’d like you to come with me and it’s black tie.”
“So we’re going to last a whole week?” The devil made her do that.
“Unless you put out first.”
She was no competitor to the devil in him, and because his voice was chilli chocolate, smooth with a bite, and his expression was rat pack cool, she thumped him. Hit him with a closed fist in the centre of his chest. He coughed a laugh, turned it into a splutter and lifted her off the grass. “Your call.”
She struggled, but he held her against him and she didn’t want to be anywhere else so quit wriggling and kissed him, let her body go soft against his. They could argue about the dress tomorrow.
She’d only switched on lights and relocked her front door when her phone rang. She answered while sliding the key back in the lock. He must’ve had trouble getting a taxi.
“What are you wearing?”
She laughed. She could hear another voice. “Are you in the cab?”
“The driver is taking a call—in Arabic. He’s not listening to me. What are you wearing?” Dog with a bone. He’d be like that about the dress tomorrow too. She needed to think about how to deal with that. He wasn’t buying her a dress.
“Five-year-old faded Hello Kitty pjs with a hole in the shorts and a sauce stain down the front.”
“What flavour?”
“Um.”
She stifled a laugh and pretended to consider and he cut in with, “Where’s the hole?”
“Goodnight, Damon.”
He hummed and she picked the tune, confirmed when he said, “Goodnight, Georgia on my mind.”
She slept like prehistoric bones, buried in bedclothes and ancient inspiring dreams of dancing with a tall dark-haired stranger who didn’t feel strange at all. And he wasn’t strange the next morning either, standing outside her door, hair wet, slicked back, face flushed, sunglasses on.
He’d been to the gym, which is what accounted for the muscles under his t-shirt and the soap-fresh smell of him. And the sunglasses were for the glare, not the lick of rock star bad boy they gave him. He didn’t kiss her and that was as deliberate as his eagerness to take her out so she couldn’t fault him for it.
In the taxi he held her hand. “I worked out I don’t hang with any girly-girls.”
“What’s your definition of a girly-girl?”
“One who’d know where to buy a sexy red dress.”
“You can’t buy me a dress.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve known you a week.”
He brought his lips to her ear; this driver wasn’t on the phone. She held her breath. “And you were thinking about sleeping with me last night. You’re thinking about it now. What’s a dress between two consenting adults?”
She pushed his face away. “Unnecessary.”
He sat back laughing. “We’re in complete agreement.”
“Good.” She looked at him; smug grin, dimple deep, smelled a rat loose from its pack. “What?”
He leaned over her. “We’re in complete agreement, there’s no need for a dress between consenting adults.”
She pushed against his chest. Well, that was the idea, but once her hands sat over his pecs she wanted to stitch them there. “That’s not what I meant.”
He might kiss her. She stared straight into his face and lifted her chin, but he missed that cue, shifting to his own seat. She almost laughed. He had her strung out like coloured bunting, flapping in the breeze for his attention.
“I’m not kissing you till you’ve chosen a dress.”
“That’s a shame.” She clung to his side and spoke in his ear. “I can’t sleep with you if you won’t kiss me.” He turned his head to try to catch her lips but she bounced back into her own space.
“I’d make an exception.”
She sighed loudly. “I couldn’t have you compromise your moral stance.”
“Compassion is the basis for morality.” He said that with a German accent.
“Who was that?”
“That was my all-purpose German philosopher. Did it work?”
“To convince me to be compassionate?”
“I’d roll without the com.”
“You can’t buy me a dress.”
He touched her shoulder, trailed fingers down her arm to her hand. “I’ve asked you to a formal event. It’s proper formal, not Sunday best. If you already have a dress, then let’s have lunch instead, but you said you didn’t have much in the way of date clothes, so I’m assuming you don’t have a formal dress either. No dress, no date. I have to go to this thing. I want you to come with me.”
“I can buy my own dress.” A formal dress was going to cost a bomb. With the move home, bond for the flat, paying for services to be turned on, she hadn’t been working long enough to have much in the way of savings and she already had a load of credit card debt.
He sighed and released her hand. “I shouldn’t dictate what you wear.”
She could hire a dress. He would never know if it wasn’t quite right, but that felt dishonest. If this was London, she could borrow one. “Maybe I should sit this one out.”
He slapped his hand on the seat. “Goddamn, let me buy you a dress.” The driver’s eyes came up in the rear-view.
No amusing accent, a flare of genuine temper. They weren’t going to make it to next weekend for her to need the stupid dress.
Damon made a grunt of annoyance. “Sorry. It’s work. It’s a tax write-off. Can’t you let me buy you a dress so I don’t have to go to this thing alone?”
Why would he need to go alone? “Taylor or Dalia would go with you.” He must know dozens of women. “Lauren probably has a dress that would suit.”
“Taylor would laugh herself sick if I asked her. Dalia has the play. Lauren would dump me for some able-bodied guy five seconds after we got there. I want to go with you. Unless this is your way of telling me you don’t want to go?” There was a good clump of snip in his tone and his forehead was furrowed, his mouth flat lined.
“It really is a tax write-off?” She was making a big deal out of this, but it was a big deal. The last formal dress she’d owned was white, but it’d come from a Red Cross thrift shop because they’d been too laden with medical expenses to fritter money away on a new wedding dress and she’d only worn it for an hour anyway, because she’d felt stupid making a trip to the hospital canteen in it.
“You want to check with my accountant?”
“You already gave me a fish.”
A crinkle behind the arm of his sunglasses. “I’m incredibly frivolous.”
“I’m going to regret this.”
�
��If you believe that, we’re going for lunch.”
Oh, still cranky. “It’d better be a good kiss.”
He brought her hand to his lips, a flick of his tongue on her knuckle. She closed her eyes. The romance of him was devastating news. He was a headline event and she was pushed into the margin of the story by his presence and her own insecurity. He was not the gentle kickstart relationship she needed, but he was the full catastrophe she was going to get.
She needed a shy, gentle man who held her hand for six months before he kissed her, and virtually proposed before he took her to bed. Squeezing her hand was Mr Larger Than Life, who couldn’t read her well constructed thought bubble, who’d barrelled through her run and hide defences and persisting in thinking there was more to her than rank ordinary.
Damon paid the driver. He used a fifty. It had a fold in the corner like a tick. His fingers had moved other notes with different folds lines. He pocketed the change, got out and held the door for her. She moved beside him and he took her arm.
“Lead on, Gunga Din.”
That had to be a movie reference, but it was lost on her, until he said, “Everyone wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant,” in Cary Grant’s voice.
She walked them to the fashion precinct of the centre, which meant navigating escalators. Maybe she could find a dress she could afford. It had to be one she had shoes for. Mentally rifling through her shoe collection made her forget to tell Damon they’d hit the top of the first escalator. He walked into her side, making them both stumble.
A voice behind them said, “Idiot, watch what you’re doing.” A man with a baby in a stroller was right on their heels.
Damon caught her in a hug. “Yeah, about those moving footpaths.”
“I’m so sorry.” She said it to Damon and the father’s back as he moved around them.
“My fault. I can tell when it levels off, I was too busy thinking about you.”
She looked up at his face. Sunglasses gone now, big smile, dimple depressed, a flick of hair fallen over his forehead. He shouldn’t say things like that. They were meaningless, and yet she wanted so badly for them to be true.
Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Page 12
