Chapter 6
Samantha
Polished wood paneling lines the walls, along with an entire wall made from reinforced glass that runs the length of the building on one side. Saddle leather couches in deep brown face an entertainment center that dominates most of a side wall. A balcony enclosed in glass runs all the way around the building, from what I can tell.
“Wow.” Other than that, I’m speechless.
His grin is a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I grew up in public housing—council flats, we call them—one of the nastiest areas in all of London. I promised myself I’d get a nice place once I got older.” He pauses, then shrugs a bit. “I don’t spend much on luxuries outside of the place itself and my car, so I figure I can indulge myself.”
“I’m not complaining. This is lovely.” Not much in the way of Christmas decorations, aside from a pine and holly wreath over the entryway that adds a nice odor to the room.
I notice the fancy gas fireplace in one corner and walk to it, extending my fingers to its warmth. There’s a single photo on a mantel otherwise dominated by geodes and fossils, and I take a look at it.
It’s smallish and old, probably thirty years, and creased at the edges behind the glass—as if it was carried in a billfold for a long time. In it, a chubby, gentle-faced woman with curly, russet hair stands in a small, shabby living room with a crucifix on the wall. She wears a cheap, blue, flower-print dress and wraps an arm around two small but already burly boys in ill-fitting, gray school uniforms.
The boys have a similar look to them—one is stockier and thick-featured, with small black eyes and the same mussed, wavy black hair as the other, who has familiar liquid-brown eyes and an easy smile. I look back at Damon as he approaches, smiling at him. “Is this your mom?”
He looks serious suddenly, and my impulse to tease him about having been a really cute kid dies as he stares wistfully past me at the photo. “Yeah, that’s my mum and my cousin, Copper, from way back when. They’re gone now.”
“Oh.” Awkward. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your doing, sweetheart. I’ll pop that pizza in the oven. Like a cup of tea?” He’s already headed for the kitchen, which is visible through an archway at the far end of the room.
“Yes, thank you.” To my surprise, he pulls down a lacquered black tray and a very pretty purple, clay teapot. “That’s nice. Chinese?”
“Yeah, Yixing ware. I brew it with black, if that’s all right.” He starts digging into the cupboard for a tin, glancing back at me.
“That’s fine,” I reassure him. I’m not even much of a tea drinker, as I find it bitter and watery compared to a mocha, which is my favorite hot drink. But I don’t mind trying his tea if it gives me something to drink with him.
He looks a bit distracted as he puts together the tea service and puts the kettle on. I watch him work—precise as always—his giant hands moving as deftly as a butler's as he slices lemons, pours cream into a tiny pot, and sets a little bottle of brandy on the tray. I've never seen a big, masculine man use sugar tongs before, but he does so without hesitation, sleeves half rolled up.
"Have a seat on the couch. I'll be right there," he instructs, pointing me in the right direction. I wander obediently to the gigantic, deeply-padded thing covered in saddle leather.
I settle into it with a sigh, glad for some comfort after dealing with the thin hospital mattress for most of the night. The couch is very comfortable, wide enough to sleep on, and deep enough to sleep two.
Or do all sorts of things together that I haven't actually ever done, but suddenly want very much to do. With him.
The depth of my thirst for this man frightens me a little. He saved my life, he's helping me get justice, and he's kind and thoughtful—not to mention dead sexy. He would have made a dead-sexy garbage man, but as it is, the fact that he saves and improves lives for a living makes him even more attractive.
We keep up a steady flow of small talk, getting to know the basics about each other. My work at school. His work at the hospital. Neither of us having family any more—not that I ever had any to begin with.
The whole time my eyes are tracing over his face, his body beneath his black turtleneck and jeans, and those powerful hands that I want to feel on my skin. My eyes keep settling on his lips of their own volition, and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on mine. But instead of kissing, we’re talking and talking.
He pours the tea. I drink it with everything, the milk and honey smooth and sweet on my tongue. When the pizza comes out of the oven, dripping with cheese and steaming tomato chunks, it’s the best thing I have ever tasted.
But I can’t stop watching him and wondering, what is it about you?
We’re both on our third slice when his phone goes off. He glances down at it as it lies on the coffee table in front of us and sighs. “Humph, hang on. I keep getting calls from people who aren’t on my contact list.”
“Local?” I dab at my mouth with a paper napkin.
He checks ...and then for reasons I don’t understand, he goes a little pale. “London.” He picks it up. “Hello?”
He frowns and sets it down after a moment. “They disconnected. Odd.” But his troubled expression tells me that he finds it a lot more than ‘odd.’
I don’t ask about it, and after a while we start talking about the lawsuit, which he promises me is about as cut and dried as these things come. “He’ll settle for a large sum. It’s how he’s able to keep the spotlight off of himself—a big, fat check that he tries to use to buy silence. Thing is, he can’t make your approaching the board into a condition of the settlement. That’s a different matter from the lawsuit altogether.” He smiles and pours me another cup of tea. It’s actually good, making me wonder what trick he’s using to keep it from being so bitter.
Shaking thoughts of the tea from my head, I focus on how I have to tell him of my interest—I have to say something or I’ll always regret it. But I keep hunting around for the right words and coming up with nothing.
“Is something wrong?” he asks after a while, as if he’s sensing my struggle.
“I ...was wondering something,” I admit nervously. My fingers twine together between my knees, and I squeeze them hard enough that the knuckles go white. I’ve never done this before, and it feels like the long, ticking climb to the top of a roller coaster drop.
“You can’t date your patients, can you?” I don’t know how I get the question out. I blush at once, embarrassed at myself and worried that I’m about to be shown the door.