Page 20 of Damon
***
Emma
Damon makes a statement which stuns me to silence. An apology. A request for forgiveness for all the times he feels he’s let me and his unborn child down these past months. What he doesn’t see is all the good he has done, how safe he’s made me feel while I’ve lived here. Sure, there have been moments of brooding uncertainty. There were times it truly felt he didn’t want me here. In all honesty, I know he didn’t. But when the hurt and pain subsided, he resumed his calm and controlled stance, then once again became the dependable father-to-be.
***
Three weeks ago, he relented to buying a few small items for his imminent daughter. Any time previously when I suggested he stock up on supplies, he’d waved my concerns away as unnecessary. It was as if he didn’t want to accept she was coming, and he was going to be tackling the task of raising her on his own.
“What’s on your list?” he asked.
“It’s your list. I won’t be here.”
He raised his eyebrows as I sat opposite him in a coffee shop on a busy Saturday morning at the local shopping center. He looked gorgeous in casual jeans that I noticed hugged his ass as he walked slightly in front of me to the car. The black cashmere sweater he was wearing clung to his muscles, highlighting the definition over his chest and abs.
When I’d got dressed that morning, I’d put a lot of thought into my outfit. I wanted to make an effort so when we were seen together in public, we complimented each other the best we could. Having been eight months pregnant, however, made the task a challenging one. I’d hoped the bright pink, long-sleeved, bodycon dress teamed with flat knee-high boots gave off an elegant image. A woman in the final throes of pregnancy but still able to look after herself.
“Okay,” he said grumpily, bringing my attention back to him. “The list.” He emphasized the word the; no one was now taking ownership of the list of baby supplies required for his daughter’s arrival. “What do we need?”
My breath caught in my throat at his use of we and not I. It took me a moment to control my excitement, while knowing that I was reading more than was sensible into his words. Damon is a straight-talking man; I’ve learned this well since I first met him back in January. My head knew he was simply being honest, but my heart hoped perhaps he cared.
“Baby wipes, onesies, nappies, and a car seat. Everything else you can get as you need it, and no doubt your mother will want to be involved?” I asked the question that had been burning on my tongue for weeks. I hadn’t seen his mother, Marjorie, since Connie’s funeral. That day she had been welcoming, taken me under her wing as we navigated the depressing event. My assumption was she would be present throughout the rest of the year and in her new grandchild’s life. Her absence was a surprise.
Shrewd green eyes held mine, running over my face. His tongue darted out between lips. “My mother,” he said, “is a busy woman. I had hoped she would be willing to help, but unfortunately her work takes her all over the world. She hasn’t been in the UK since the funeral.” My heart sank at the unfortunate news; they had appeared close. “She’s an amazing woman. Self-made, resilient and loving, but also a completely work-obsessed moneymaker.”
“What does she do?” I asked. It struck me as odd that it never came up in conversation with her. But then, the day of the funeral had been a blur, and I’d only wanted to survive it. With her help, I had.
“She’s a sex therapist,” he said, and I blinked at him. Of all the jobs that ran through my head, that was never one of them.
“A sex therapist?” I repeated back. My confusion must have been clear on my face as I tried to join the dots but failed miserably.
“Yes, to the stars…” he continued then trailed off with a chuckle. “Your face is a picture. My mother is one of the most highly respected therapists in the world. People pay her obscene amounts of money to help them satisfy both themselves and their partners.”
“Well,” I stammered, unsure how to respond, “of all the occupations I expected your mother to have…that wasn’t one of them.”
“And you can understand perhaps why I don’t shout it from the rooftops?” I nodded, he smiled—a genuine smile filled with laughter and happiness. “But I am extremely proud of her. She lives a life most women would envy and does it on her own. If I truly need her, she’ll come, but until then I need to figure this out on my own.”
“You’re not on your own,” I told him. “I’ll do what I can to help, starting with getting this little girl.” I placed my hands on my stomach. “A few items for her wardrobe.
The day had continued well. We chatted and Damon seemed openly excited about the new arrival. Every so often our hands touched as we both reached for the same item on the shelf. On each connection, my body buzzed, the reality of having such a masculine man near me for an extended length of time. As he guided me back to the car, carrying our shopping bags in one hand and holding my hand gently in the other, my skin had tingled beneath his touch. His walls were down for the first time; he spoke to me without the guarded tone he normally used. His actions weren’t romantic, but they were caring, and I considered that progress.
But then, upon arriving back at the house he had shared with his late wife, the old Damon reappeared, and a huge distance opened up between us. Though the day had been enjoyable, it was also a glimpse into a life I could never hope to have. No matter how my feelings were developing, Damon McKinney was very much still Connie’s husband.
***
His footsteps cause me to lift my eyes, which were focused on my fingers as I relived that day. It had been possibly the best day I’ve had since we lost Connie. He’s changed out of his sportswear into his standard jeans-and-cashmere sweater combo. In his hand is the pink duffel bag I packed, emptied, and repacked countless times in preparation for this trip.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice soft.
“No, but it’s happening whether I am or not.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “It will be all right, I’m there for you every step of the way,” he says, his voice calm and oozing confidence.
I want to reply petulantly until you’re not. You’ll be there 'til I give you this child, and then you’ll be gone, like everyone I’ve ever loved.
My brain snaps as the term love flits through it. Now I am being ridiculous. I’m nine months pregnant with raging hormones and living with a hot, older man. The idea that I love Damon is insane. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. I’ll be able to focus on my career instead of pretending to want to play happy families.
“Let’s go and get this over with,” I mutter, then stand. He walks around the table, holding out his hand. I take it. My body responds with a flurry of endorphins, and for an instant, I am deliriously happy.