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“He was doing it this morning as well,” Alex informs her. “He said it was a friend.”
“Oh…” Sherry grins. “Come on, Damon, spill the beans.”
He just smiles and has a sip of whisky.
“Aw,” Gaby says, “give us a clue. Does she live in Wellington?”
“Yeah,” he says, helping himself to another spoonful of mashed potatoes.
“Have you been seeing her long?” she asks.
“Nah.” He digs his fork in and has a mouthful.
“Is it a long-term thing?” Sherry wants to know.
“No.” He stabs a carrot with his fork and studies it for a moment before eating it. “Probably not.”
My heart, which had sunk a little, lifts at his words. Oohhh…
“Do you luuuurv her?” Gaby teases.
His lips curve up. “I’m very fond of her.”
“Is she pretty?” Sherry asks.
“Of course she’s pretty,” Gaby scoffs. “He only dates tens.”
My smile fades. I push a green bean around my plate before lowering my fork. I’m not exactly ugly, but I’m not a ten, either. I’d forgotten that he’s a successful, gorgeous billionaire who could have any woman he wanted. It’s ridiculous to think he’d ever be interested in me seriously.
“I’m bored with this conversation,” Alex states, and he starts talking about Gaby and Tyson’s honeymoon, asking them about their trip across Australia by train.
My phone buzzes. I glance at it.
Damon:You know you’re an eleven, right?
I can’t stop my lips curving up, just a little.
Me:I know I’m not, but thank you.
Damon:Best believe me, baby girl. I never lie.
His endearment warms me all the way through. I glance over at him, and this time I catch him looking at me. Our eyes meet, and a tingle runs down my spine as our gazes lock for just a few seconds before I look away.
*
After dinner, we all help clear the table, and then Gaby, Alex, and I banish Sherry to the living room while we tidy up. Gaby finishes wiping down the kitchen counter, then disappears to join her fiancé. Alex stacks the dishwasher, badly as usual, and I end up banishing him as well so I can stack it properly.
I’m halfway through the restack when I hear footsteps behind me. I’m bending over the dishwasher, but I catch a glimpse of a pair of bare feet as the person pauses behind me. I don’t have a foot fetish in particular, but these feet are attractive: bare, large, strong, and tanned, with neat nails. He’s wearing jeans again this evening with a tight All Blacks rugby top, and he left his Converses at the front door.
I straighten and catch him looking at my butt. “Enjoying the view?”
“Yep,” he says, unrepentant. “Hand emoji.”
I give a short laugh, and he grins.
“I don’t think you believed me,” he states.
My eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”
