Apparently, I wasn’t as ready as I thought.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with him—my God, I’ve never been more turned on...have never wanted a guy to touch me more than I wanted Damon to. I didn’t tell him, but it was his words that triggered my slamming on the brakes. I didn’t want to get into explaining the whole thing, so I just said I was sorry—really, really sorry, and I didn’t want him to think I was a tease because I’m not like that, even though I’d told him I wanted him to do what he usually did with a woman, and I was so deeply sorry for being like an idiot.

Not surprisingly, he’d looked pretty shocked, his eyes filling with bewilderment, but that quickly switched to sympathy and concern which both mortified and comforted me. I just wanted to have a normal, natural sexual encounter with a magnificently-sculpted and charming guy, and I fucked it up. As if I wasn’t already knee-deep in humiliation, I made it worse by starting to cry, and Damon took me in his arms and held me until I loathed myself so much, I had to gently pull away and suggested as nicely as I could that maybe he should leave. He asked me twice if I was sure I wanted to be alone, and he was so incredibly sweet and understanding about the whole thing that I literally ached watching him walk to the door. I texted him how sorry I was again before he even got in his car, and then again later that night, and then sent him a text on Tuesday that said I would understand if he totally hated me. He texted back for me not to be ridiculous, that he didn’t hate me at all, and he hoped I would someday want to try again, and that Vivian Ward and Edward Lewis had some issues but worked it out, and he thought we could, too. It took me a few minutes to realize he was talking about the characters in Pretty Woman. This made me laugh and text back that I hope he wasn’t comparing me to a prostitute, to which he replied absolutely not, just that they were two people in a business sort of arrangement that unexpectedly turned personal, and also that he could never compare me to Julia Roberts because I was hotter by far.

I was just starting to feel better when I got another text from him telling me that his mother was having a small dinner party at her house to welcome Portia, and he needed me there. This a) stressed me out, because Gloria Cavanaugh is way more than I bargained for and isn’t going to want me attending her party, and b) brought me down, because it was a reminder of my role in Damon’s life.

But it’s reality.

So that’s where I’ll be going tonight. After a brisk walk and spending much of today packing up non-essentials for my upcoming move, I lay out what I’ll wear to dinner (short-sleeve, little black dress from T.J. Maxx, black patent leather pumps and silver jewelry) and also make an impromptu decision to stop in at the Ellsworth Humane Society. They put out a plea on Facebook for some towels and sheets to use in the kennels as bedding, so I’m dropping some off.

And maybe I’ll just look at the cats.

The strong scent of cleaning solution makes me wrinkle my nose when I open the door. The receptionist at the front desk smiles at me and motions me over. I hand her the bag of towels and ask if I could look at the cats.

“Absolutely. They’re down the hall on the left, and there’s also a big room we call the Cattery where our long-time residents can roam around. We’re pretty full, and kitten season just started. Let me know if you have any questions, and if you’d like to visit with an animal, one of our volunteers can help you.”

I thank her and walk down the tile hallway. There are glass windows that double as the back of the cages, so you can see the cats from the hall side. Some of them are curled into crescents sleeping; others arch their backs and lift their tails when they see me. I open the door and go in.

I know I’m not able to choose a cat today, but very soon I will be, seeing as the closing on the building is less than two weeks away. I will just look.

And speaking of looking...the first thing I see when I enter the cat room is probably one of the most impressive male asses I’ve ever seen. The guy is crouched down in front of one of the lower cages, wearing jeans and the same color maroon shirt as the receptionist has on, so I’m guessing an employee or volunteer. It’s not the shirt I’m focused on, though—it’s the tight jeans. I realize I’m supposed to be looking at calicos and tigers and tabby cats instead of masculine, muscular derrieres, but holy Hannah...I can’t help but stare. Broad back tapering down to a fit waist and ending very happily in that amazing butt. And it hits me that I shouldn’t be looking at this guy because of Damon, which is so ridiculous, because I’m not in a real relationship with him. Still, though, I’m feeling inexplicably guilty until the guy stands up and turns around...and it is Damon.

What. The hell.

Damon Cavanaugh, standing there looking at me, as surprised to see me as I am him, holding a litter box in his hand.

“Hey, Sprite,” he says, after a few seconds.

“Hi...Damon,” I manage. I’ve imagined a crap ton of scenarios involving Damon, but not one of them where he’s at an animal shelter cleaning a cat box.

“So you’re probably surprised to see me here.” He flashes me a sheepish smile so adorable it makes me scrunch up inside.

“Um, yeah. You could say that. Do you...work here?”

“I volunteer. Usually once a week, on the weekends.”

The gray tiger cat in the cage Damon was cleaning sees his chance and starts to climb out. “Not so fast, dude.” Damon sets down the litter box, scoops the cat up and starts scratching him behind the ears. The tiger closes its eyes and leans into Damon as he pets him, and if I thought the smile was charming just a minute ago, it’s taking second place to seeing Faux Boyfriend loving on a purring shelter cat. After a few seconds, he gently sets the cat back in the cage, swaps out the litter box in the cage for the clean one and latches the cage door.

He goes to the hand sanitizer on the wall and squirts soap in his hands. I watch those hands as he rubs them together, thinking of how they touched me last week, and my toes curl inside my sneakers.

“Are you looking to adopt?”

“Yes, but not till I move into my new place. I was here to drop off some towels.”

“Oh, nice. We were definitely running low.” He moves to the next cat cage, two buff-colored kittens with blue eyes.

I instantly fall in love. “They’re so precious!”

He nods, reaching in to pet them as they mew and raise their tiny tails. “They are. Everyone loves the kittens, and who wouldn’t, right? I tend to gravitate toward the older ones, though, just because people don’t tend to want them as much.”

I’m practically bursting with the question. “Damon—what are you doing here? I mean, I know you’re volunteering, and that is so awesome, but why would you, of all people?”

There’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before, and I realize with a start that my words stung him. Shit. I didn’t mean to. I start to apologize (seems to be a pattern with me lately), but he speaks first.

“I guess it is pretty surprising, but it’s really quite simple. I’ve always loved animals. I begged my mother for a dog for years, but she refused to let me have one. She had all kinds of excuses: they shed, they bark, they have accidents inside the house, and whenever I’d try to counter those with I’ll brush it, I’ll train it, I’ll clean up after it, she didn’t believe me...said the newness of owning a dog would wear off and I wouldn’t take care of it, and she didn’t want to be stuck doing everything. I guess a small part of this is proving my mother wrong.” He smiles wryly, and then his expression turns earnest. “But most of it is because I love being around the animals. And the people here, they’re great to work with. They don’t see me as the president of Cavanaugh Yacht—they don’t even know about that, and I want to keep it that way. They see me as just...me. I like that. I don’t tell my friends and colleagues I work here...for some reason, it wouldn’t mean as much to me if anyone in my circles knew. They’d probably question my motives, think I’m doing it for good PR or something, when I’m doing it for these guys.” He tilts his head in the direction of the cages. “And for me.”

Jesus. I thought I was surprised seeing him holding a litter box. But learning about this side of him? A definite eye-opener.

“I also like that this place is no-kill. I wouldn’t want to volunteer any place that wasn’t. I’m planning to adopt as soon as I move out of my condo.”

“That’s awesome,” I say. And it is. All of this, is awesome.

“So you’ve discovered my secret happy place. And when I adopt, I’ll be bringing some of that happy home.” His face lights up, and suddenly the cool room gets a lot warmer. “I like this—having two of my favorite things in one spot.”

I feel myself start to blush.

“I’m talking about cats and dogs of course, Sprite,” he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course you were. I knew that’s what you meant.” I’ve never known a guy who could be so devilish and charming at the same time, but Damon Cavanaugh has it down pat.

“Let me know if you want to visit with any of the cats individually. I’m walking dogs after this—one of my favorite things. I’ll be more than happy to help you. In any way, if you need it. In any way.”

“I’m sure you would.” Cheeks and other areas, bursting into flames. I turn quickly around to look at the orange and white cat rubbing her head against the front of her kennel, and then I’m aware of Damon standing very close behind me.

“Pick you up around 6-ish tonight?’

“That’s fine.”

He bends down to murmur in my ear. “Glad I got to see you extra today. Major bonus. And I can’t wait to see you later.”

Me neither. I think it but don’t say it, as if it somehow will be less real that way.

Yeah, right.

* * * *

White and huge. Those are the first two things that come to mind when I walk into Gloria Cavanaugh’s showplace of a home. The third thing is fuck, because I’m feeling way out of my league here, and I really hate that. But Damon’s reassuring hand is on my lower back, and he told me I looked perfect, so I’m clinging on to both of those like life preservers, since I know someone who’d like to see me drown.

And that someone is eyeing me up and down like I’m a hobo off the street. Gloria raises her chin and flares her nostrils like she smells something putrid. “Oh. I didn’t know Damon was bringing a guest.”

Damon’s arm wraps around my waist in a non-verbal I got this. “You remember Delaney, mother—my girlfriend? Whom you most definitely knew was coming, seeing as I specifically told you.”

Gloria fixes her icy gaze on him. “It must have slipped my mind. At any rate—let’s go into the dining room. Portia and the other guests are already here.”

Figures she’d emphasize Portia. This woman is a piece of work. I smile at her as if she’s not a total bitch. She matches the décor of her home, in a spotless white pantsuit that looks crisp and tailored, and you can bet she’d never allow a crumb or splotch or wrinkle or lint to deface it. The home is also immaculate, with an entryway about the size of my whole apartment, cathedral ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto the ocean. There is no warmth to be found, and very little color. I’m trying to picture Damon growing up here—if it looked like this when he was younger, there’s no way in hell any paw prints or pet hair would ever have been allowed. It’s a far cry from the three-bedroom Cape I grew up in, where mud and grass stains were part of the décor, where Wilder and I, our friends and two cats and dog had the run of the place.

I’m now feeling sorry about Damon’s childhood, because I don’t think he even got to have one.

We follow the hostess through the living room. I note that the coffee table is as big as my bed, but it’s the piano that catches my eye—gorgeous, black and gleaming in the corner of the room, with a vase full of white hydrangeas on top of it. Damon catches me looking at it and leans down to whisper that yes, that was the one he played.

That scene from Pretty Woman flashes across my brain, and hot damn.

Damon told me there will be six of us here tonight: Gloria, Damon, Portia, Bill (the Cavanaugh vice president whom I met at the winery), Helen (Gloria’s administrative assistant), and me. He said Bill and Helen are “good people” and that Portia was more down-to-earth than he’d anticipated. So Gloria will be the biggest challenge. Shocker.

She leads us into the dining room, and I take a quick mental snapshot. At last, there is color. The walls are a dramatic, regal purple, and the windows are softened by white swag drapes. There’s a portrait in a heavy, ornate frame commanding attention—an austere-looking, elderly man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, staring so disdainfully that it freaks me out. I hastily turn my attention to the live people in the room: the dinner guests standing around the glass-topped dining room table, holding glasses of wine and looking at Damon and me with interest.

I notice Portia first. She’s the one I’m most interested in, seeing as she’s my “competition.” She’s tall, slender and stunning, with her hair in a sleek black bun (definitely Gloria-approved), porcelain skin, luminous eyes and elegant red lips. And she’s rocking her classic black dress and tall boots. Damon didn’t do her justice with the way he described her, and I want him to know this. I look up at him with raised eyebrows and give my brightest smile, hoping he can somehow see the what the actual fuck, honey? in my eyes.

His lips twitch in amusement. He gets it, and jumps in to do the introductions. “Delaney, I’d like you to meet Portia Bellamy. She’s visiting to learn about marketing in this country.”

“And she’ll be working closely with my son,” Gloria adds, jabbing her eyes at me. “Very closely.”

“Portia, this is Delaney Brewster. My girlfriend,” Damon finishes.

I have to stifle a giggle at Gloria’s pained expression.

Portia reaches out her hand, her red lips framing dazzling white teeth. “It’s raylee lohvely to meet you, Delaney. It appears we have the same taste.”

For a second, I think she’s talking about Damon, but then I realize she means the black dress. “Oh! Yes. It’s so nice to meet you.”

And shockingly, it is. There’s an instant warmth about her, a vibe I didn’t anticipate at all. Her accent, her looks—everything about her is quite mesmerizing, and I’m rattled to realize I’m the tiniest bit concerned that Damon might be mesmerized, too.

I’ve never been to a dinner party where there’s wait staff, but a twenty-something man in a white shirt and black pants hands me a glass of white wine and smiles almost sympathetically. He apparently gets it, too.

Telling Portia we’ll talk more in a bit, Damon steers me away. Does he know I’m wondering if she’s having an effect on him? He introduces me to Helen, a sweet-looking, older woman with beautiful white hair and a kind smile, and I say hi to Bill Richardson, who bends down to give me a surprising (but not at all creepy) peck on the cheek.

I have a second glass of wine because I am at Gloria Cavanaugh’s house and more alcohol just makes sense. The nice waiter brings out trays of smoked salmon cucumber rolls, spinach and goat cheese tartlets and caviar canapes, and I have one of each except for the last, because ewww. Helen tells me she’s known Damon since he was a little boy and looks at him adoringly—like you’d hope a mom would. She asks me what I do for work, and I’m just about to answer when Gloria swoops in, like a giant white hawk in heels.

“She works in a machine shop,” she says, triumph emanating from her like perfume.

“I’m in sales and customer service,” I tell Helen sweetly, without a glance at Gloria.

Damon chimes in, putting his arm around my shoulders. “She’ll continue that role, but at her new café. Delaney is opening up her own business.”

Ugh. I don’t know if divulging this is such a good idea. Gloria pounces on that news like it’s a mouse in her talons. “Really? That sounds like an expensive proposition for someone working in a machine shop.”

“I’ve been saving,” I tell her. “For a long time.”

Portia looks genuinely happy for me. “Your very own café? That’s appsolutely brilliant, Delaney.”

Gloria clearly doesn’t like that this convo has turned in my favor. She tells everyone that dinner is almost ready, and we take our seats in the white leather chairs. She has Damon sit in between Portia and me, which the wine and I find highly amusing. I notice the portrait of the haughty-looking older man again and whisper to Damon.

“That painting is looking at me.”

“It’s my great-great grandfather, and he looks at everyone that way. Don’t think you’re special.” He pauses to murmur in my ear. “Just kidding. You are.”

Suddenly, I feel his warm hand on my bare knee under the table, and I have to smother a gasp as my body reacts to his touch. This is so not the time to be getting horny, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Damon can make me feel all kinds of things in all kinds of situations.

We eat—crab-stuffed chicken breasts, asparagus cordon bleu, roasted red potatoes and pesto bread—and Portia quite honestly steals the show. She is funny and charming, and Damon talks and jokes easily with her. Everyone seems to adore her British accent, Bill gets a kick out of her calling him mate, and we’re all laughing when she describes the disastrous party she once threw as a “damp squib.” It truthfully would be a very enjoyable night if Damon’s mother didn’t look like she wanted to impale me with her salad fork.

After a dessert of what I learn is called Merlot-poached pears, I’m completely stuffed and relieved that I made it through dinner intact. Helen and Bill say their goodbyes and leave; Portia jokes about getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road and tells Gloria she’s chuffed to bits about the Mercedes. Damon gets her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. I know Gloria is watching me watching this, so I make sure to keep smiling.

Damon gets our coats, helps me on with mine and gives his mother a quick kiss on each cheek. I am struck by how sad this makes me, because there is no emotion from either side—this is clearly a duty rather than a show of affection. He thanks her, stiffly, and I thank her as much as you can thank someone who did her best to make you feel like shit.

And then we’re in the car, alone, driving back to my apartment.

Damon expels a long sigh. “Well. We made it.”

“Yes, barely.”

“I’m sorry she’s such a bitch.”

“It’s not your fault. And besides, you’re paying me well.” I look at the side of his face. He looks serene. And sculpted and gorgeous. “I liked Portia,” I continue. “She’s not at all like I thought she would be.”

“Same here.”

“You know...maybe you should think about giving her a try. It would save you a lot of stress. And money, actually, because you could take back the building and sell it.”

“It’s your building. And more importantly, I’m not interested in Portia that way.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure that a part of you was interested.”

He glances over at me, his eyes widening in delight. “You’re jealous.”

“I am absolutely not jealous.”

“You are. You’re practically the color of Astroturf. And are you saying that you were staring at my crotch?”

“I may or may not have glanced at it.”

“If there was a reaction, I get that way in the presence of beautiful women.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“I’m not talking about Portia.” He puts his blinker on, and all of a sudden we are pulling off to the side of the road and slowing to a stop.

“Why are you—” Before I can say any more, he’s whipped off his seat belt, turned his body toward mine and is cupping my face in his hands. My mouth is conveniently open when he puts his lips on it, and then he is kissing and kissing me until I am practically gasping for air. And for more of him.

Much too soon, he pulls back, his eyes looking deep into mine. His voice is soft when he speaks, and I cannot breathe. “That’s just so you’ll remember you’re the one I’m faking crazy about.”