citrusy scent. It didn’t smell like fake citrus, though, like you get in chemical cleaners. When we went into the kitchen, I saw someone had placed several chopped lemons and limes in a bowl of water.
Damon caught me looking, shrugged, and explained simply, “Sheila.”
“She must use them to freshen the air,” I suggested, looking around. The interior was simple but homely. The floors were hardwood, and there were also wooden beams on the ceilings. It was all very rustic. There wasn’t much in terms of interior design, but the place felt lived in and warm. I noticed the lit fire and thought Sheila must have seen to that, too.
“Do you pay her for doing all this?” I asked. It seemed like a lot of work to do just out of the kindness of your heart.
Damon sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve tried, but the woman takes offence whenever I bring it up. When you live in a place like this, everybody takes the time to help each other. That’s why I don’t like cities. There are too many people, and life becomes devalued somehow, taken for granted. Here, everybody appreciates one another, because they know how much we all need each other to survive.”
I stared at him, speechless, and honestly, a little bit turned on. He was right, of course, but I’d lived my entire life in London. I was desensitised to the rush and the feeling of being just another one among too many.
I coughed to clear my throat. “Well, she seems like a lovely woman.”
Damon nodded and lifted my suitcase. “She is. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
The spare bedroom was small, with just a bed, a closet, and a desk as furniture. Damon stood in the doorway after we both worked together to put fresh sheets on the bed. I glanced up and caught him staring at me, some kind of heat in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but seemed to shake himself out of it a second later.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to rest. The journey must have taken a lot out of you.”
He closed the door and walked down the hallway, presumably to his own bedroom. My heart thrummed in my chest as I wondered what he’d been thinking just then. There’d been thick sexual tension growing between us all day, and I felt like I was just about ready to burst with it. I loved how he’d given me the window seat on the plane, and how he never let me carry my own suitcase, how he placed his hand on the small of my back in a protective gesture as we made our way through the airport. Alicia had been right. He was a gentleman.
I also couldn’t get my mind off the fact that he had only ever really slept with a handful of women. There was something so sweet and lovely about it, because any woman would give her left arm for a night with a man who looked like Damon Atwood.
At the same time, it made me angry. No teenager should ever be introduced to sex the way he had been. There was a fierce need inside me to erase everything he’d been through. To make it better.
Letting out a long sigh, I opened my suitcase and changed into a comfortable jumper and some leggings. When I lay down to rest for a little while, I found myself unexpectedly drifting off to sleep. It was so quiet here, barely a sound to be heard for miles around. Perhaps that was why sleep came so easy.
I awoke to the smell of food cooking, and padded my way into the kitchen to find Damon by the stove, heating up a pot of what looked like lamb stew.
“That smells amazing,” I said, taking a seat on a stool behind him.
He turned, looking sexy and relaxed in a grey long-sleeved T-shirt and lounge pants. His feet were bare, and there was something about the sight of his bare skin, any skin, that turned me on.
“It’s all Sheila’s doing. I found the pot waiting on the stove,” he explained, sounding exasperated with the older woman’s kindness.
“You really need to find a way to start paying her,” I said, smiling and reaching my arms up to stretch over my head.
Damon’s eyes followed the movement before he focused back on the stove. “Good nap?” he asked, voice a little strained.