I turned back around. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “I don’t have food.”
It was the last thing I’d expected him to say. “There’s a Waitrose around the corner.”
He shook his head, as though annoyed with himself. “Waitrose, right, sorry.”
I paused, eyeing him, but not spending too much time thinking about what I said next. “Do you want to come have dinner at mine? I’m making chili con...”
“Yes,” he said eagerly, before I even had a chance to finish the sentence. This was odd, to say the least. First he adamantly refused my help, and now he was latching on for dear life. I didn’t understand it, but I decided to just go with the flow.
I gave him a sceptical look. “I have to warn you -- my flatmate, Julian, will be there, and he’s about as ‘city type’ as you can get.”
“Oh.” He suddenly seemed less enthusiastic.
“He’s harmless, though,” I offered. Yeah, about as harmless as a honey badger.
Damon scratched at his stubble, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I should make an effort be sociable.”
“You’re coming, then?”
Damon’s face nodded while his eyes shook their head…or at least, that’s how it seemed to me. I cleared my throat.
“Okay, that’s, um, that’s good. Let’s get going.”
It was a mildly chilly day, so I zipped my coat all the way to the top and shoved my hands in my pockets, my bag hanging over my shoulder as we walked. It was quiet for a minute or two, and I had between one and twenty pent-up questions just burning to be asked. In the end, I went with the most obvious.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but if you don’t like city types and you can’t dance, then why on earth did you sign up to be in a musical on the West End?”
Damon’s handsome brown eyes slid to mine. “How much do you know about me?”
I inhaled a quick breath. “Well, I didn’t know much until this morning, when everyone bar the cleaning lady was gossiping about you being cast like it was Christmas come early.”
He winced, seeming uncomfortable with this titbit, but soldiered on. “After I retired from film, I went to live with my maternal grandmother on the Isle of Skye. She died just over a month ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said gently.
Damon shrugged. “She was ninety-four. She had a good innings. On her death bed, she asked me to revive my art. The next day I got a voicemail from Jacob Anthony, asking if I’d audition for his musical. Felt like kismet. I love singing, and I admit I do miss acting. Gran had been hopeful that I’d perform again, so impulsively, I said yes.”
“And now you’re regretting it,” I added.
He just stared at me, but didn’t answer. His gaze wandered over my features, sharpening momentarily on my mouth. His expression was indecisive. A minute later, we reached my apartment, and I dug in my bag for my keys.
“So,” I began as I led him up the stairs to the top floor, “Julian can be kind of full-on when you first meet him, but really, all you have to do is let him yammer on about himself, and he’ll be quite happy to do all the talking.”
“I’m not a big talker,” Damon admitted as I slotted my key in and turned it.
I almost got a crick in my neck as I bent my head to look up and give him a kind smile. “Yeah, I noticed that.”
He appeared momentarily self-conscious, so I reached out and gave his hand a soft squeeze of encouragement. He jumped slightly at my touch, like he wasn’t used to it. I felt a little shot of adrenaline shoot through my chest at the sensation of his skin on mine. Something both old and new awoke inside me but I couldn’t say exactly what it was.
Then I let go, and it faded.
Three.
*Rose*
“Well, now, who’s this?” Julian asked as he slid up off the couch, where he’d been lazily scrolling through his tablet.
I chanced a quick, reassuring peek at Damon before answering my friend. “This is Damon. He’s in the cast.”
Julian groaned as he approached, his chestnut hair sitting messily atop his head. “Oh, please, Rose, not another actor.”
I glared at him, trying to channel as much “shut the hell up” into my eyes as possible. My flatmate didn’t really have a censor. A moment of quiet ensued while Julian circled Damon, taking his measure. “You don’t look like an actor.”
The edges of