Showmance, Page 2

  When he opened his mouth to sing, he didn’t sound how I thought he would. His voice was a revelation, more Nat King Cole than Ewan McGregor, and the tiny hairs on my arms stood on end as I suddenly found myself leaning forward to listen. He had my undivided attention.

  Man, his singing was like aural caramel, smooth, thick, and undeniably sultry. The entire room was held rapt by his performance, barely an intake of breath to be heard. Damon stared at his feet half the time, almost as though he was too shy to face us. Still, it felt like somebody so large, somebody with such a strikingly masculine appearance, couldn’t possibly be self-conscious. It was only as he sang the last line that he finally looked up, and somehow his eyes locked on mine, like he sensed my spellbound attention.

  The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

  Goosebumps rose on my skin.

  When he finished there was a beat of silence, like everyone had been struck speechless.

  Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, you definitely won’t need a voice coach,” he said, eyeing Maura with a pleased expression. I was slightly annoyed that he hadn’t taken a moment to compliment Damon on his performance. Describing it as life-altering wasn’t even an exaggeration. Directors, unfortunately, were often desensitised to greatness, spending their lives amid the highly talented and beautiful as they did.

  I, on the other hand, wanted to leap from my seat, run up to Damon Atwood, and wax lyrical about the cadence of his voice and the depth and quality of his tone.

  “We will, however, have to make some alterations to your…look. Jenny here” — he gestured to one of his assistants — “will pencil you in for a barber’s appointment in the morning.”

  “Pardon?” said Damon, his brow furrowing. It was slightly hilarious, like someone had just told Sean Connery he’d have to do an accent.

  But speaking of accents…hearing him speak for the first time was an experience in itself. He sounded mildly Northern, sort of Sean Bean-esque. Hello. It was a little diluted, though, probably because he’d spent so many years in L.A. during his youth.

  “Your character, Christian, is a clean-cut young man,” Jacob explained. “And you look like you just stepped off the set of Vikings, no offence.”

  Damon didn’t say a word, just continued staring at Jacob like he was mildly confused by him.

  As though suddenly aware of the tension, Jacob sprang up from his seat and hurried across the room, throwing his arm around Damon’s broad shoulders and speaking to him animatedly as he led him back out the door.

  “Well, that wasn’t awkward,” said Iggy as he came to sit next to me. “How about a wager on how long Atwood will last? I’m not sure he’ll even make it to opening night.”

  I shot him a glance. “That’s mean.”

  He raised his hands. “Hey, I know people. Jacob and Damon are about as suited as Britney and that bloke she married for twenty-four hours.”

  “It was actually fifty-five, you big cynic.”

  “And they say romance is dead.” He grinned and pulled me up with him. “Come on, practice until four and then home.”

  Two hours later, I was leaving the studio and scanning the road for approaching taxis when I caught sight of Damon standing by the kerb. There were two moderately sized suitcases at his feet as he stared down at a piece of paper in one hand and his phone in the other. His attractive brows were knit together in consternation.

  Now, I wasn’t normally the type to approach strangers and offer unsolicited assistance, but there was something about him in that moment that seemed oddly helpless, despite his size.

  “Hey, uh, are you all right?” I asked, my voice snagging his attention.

  He looked up, a few moments passing as he took me in, and I wondered if he remembered our brief moment of eye contact earlier that day. After a minute he looked back down at the items he was holding. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  His response was dismissive, but not in a rude way, more in a way that said he just wanted to be left alone. I should have gone then, but for some reason my feet wouldn’t move.

  I gestured to his suitcases. “Have you just arrived in London?”

  His attention flicked from me and then back to the paper he held. He seemed tired. “Aye.” God, I really loved how he spoke. His words weren’t too thickly accented, but they held just the right amount of gravel to make my femininity aware of his masculinity. He looked at me again, this time pressing his lips together and glancing inside for a second. “You work in there?”

  So he did remember. The thought had my pulse racing for some reason. I offered a friendly smile. “That’s right. I’m Rose, the choreographer’s assistant.”

  Damon grimaced. “I can’t dance.”

  His honest response solicited a light chuckle from me. “In that case, you picked a stellar gig.”

  He didn’t say anything then, just stared at me as though trying to figure out my game. I took a step closer and glanced at the paper he held. It contained an address, and I recognised the street because it was only a few minutes away from my and Julian’s apartment.

  “Is this where you’re staying?” I asked.

  He withdrew the paper, tucking it firmly back in his pocket like it contained information on breaking the Enigma code rather than a simple address.

  “Aye,” he answered, still wary.

  I motioned to his phone. “If you’re looking for directions, I live close by. We can even share a cab if you’d like.”

  Again, he eyed me warily, like maybe I was a thief trying to steal his luggage. “No thanks, I’ll make do.”

  “It’s really no problem,” I went on.

  Now he frowned, growing agitated as he grunted forcefully, “I said no.”

  I jumped in surprise and took a step backward. There was a catch in my throat as I raised my hands and relented. “Okay, no worries. See you around.”

  As I turned to leave, I heard a frustrated sigh. “Hang on,” he called.

  Hesitantly, I turned back to him and waited.

  “I’m sorry. I’m no good with people these days.” There was remorse in his voice, and it made my pulse stammer.

  I looked at the ground, toeing a loose stone with my Sketchers. “It’s okay. All this must be a big change for you.”

  He nodded, his brown eyes studying me a moment before glancing over my shoulder. “Here’s a taxi.” Holding a hand out, he flagged it down, and it pulled to a stop. He didn’t say a word as we both climbed inside, but I could tell he felt bad for snapping at me. Sharing the cab he’d previously refused must have been his way of apologising without words.

  We began our journey in quiet, and I was suddenly floundering for conversation, perhaps because Damon felt so imposing. He was Hollywood handsome, but rough around the edges. He was also very large, looming almost, and he seemed uncomfortable with his size. I kept glancing at the thigh that was closest to me, noticing he held it rigid so it wouldn’t invade my personal space or knock against mine.

  When I pulled out my phone to check my messages, I began to sense him looking at me. Trying to ignore his stare, I scrolled through some old texts, pretending they were new. When I couldn’t take much more, I chanced a peek at him. He was blatantly staring, but not in a cocky or creepy way, more in the way a child stares at something new and unusual.

  “What?” I asked, self-consciously tucking some hair behind my ear.

  Damon shook his head but didn’t turn away. “Pardon?”

  “Why are you staring at me?”

  It took him several beats to answer. “You’ve got a kind face.” He sounded surprised, like kindness from a stranger was the last thing he’d expected when he got to London.

  “Oh,” I breathed, my lungs filling. “Well…thanks.”

  At long last Damon cast his gaze out the window, and I felt a tingling sensation just below the surface of my skin. When the cabbie stopped outside the house he was staying in, Damon seemed hesitant to get out. We both spoke at the s
ame time.

  “Looks like a nice place.”

  “Come in with me.”

  Something about his request made my heart skip a beat, but he obviously didn’t mean it in that way. “What?”

  “You seem good with people. I’m not. There’s going to be someone in there looking to show me around, and I don’t want to deal with them.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “So, you want me to deal with them for you?”

  “Please,” he said, his tone begging me not to make a fuss.

  I looked at the driver, who seemed just as perplexed by the situation as I was. However, there was something about Damon Atwood that I couldn’t bring myself to say no to, so I shrugged and nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Damon exhaled and shot me a grateful look. Then he shoved a fifty through the pay slot – way too much for the journey we’d taken – and hurried outside with his luggage. I followed him to the gate. It really was a very nice house, refurbished Edwardian with a bright red door.

  Damon lifted the knocker, and a moment later it flew open, a young, eager-looking man welcoming us in. He was from the letting agents. Damon stepped right past him, walked upstairs, and shut himself inside the bathroom.

  Weird.

  I, on the other hand, was left to deal with the aftermath.

  “Is Mr Atwood quite well?” the young man asked.

  “He had a bit of a dodgy curry for lunch. He’s not feeling the best,” I lied, and he seemed relieved that he hadn’t somehow inadvertently offended a client. I let him go through the motions as he showed me where everything was and how the central heating worked, etc. By the time he left, Damon was still in the bathroom. I hesitantly went upstairs and gently knocked.

  The door opened slowly, and Damon peeked his head out, asking, “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled in relief, and I cocked a questioning brow at him. He seemed hesitant to explain. “City types stress me out. Thanks for…well, just thanks.”

  “It was no problem,” I replied, not mentioning the fact that I myself was a city type. Thrusting forward an envelope and two sets of keys, I said, “These are for you.”

  Damon accepted them without question, and I turned to leave. “Wait,” he called, almost desperately. 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 Damon’s mouth twitched for the briefest second. “Thanks.”

  “He’s got a sense of humour, too. He’ll go far.” Julian grinned in my direction, then sauntered into the kitchen. “I’m starving. Are you cooking dinner?”

  “Aren’t I always,” I sighed, and then asked Damon if I could take his coat. He shrugged out of it, his eyes not leaving me all the while, and then I went to hang it on the rack by the door. On my return he bent to ask curiously, “Another actor?”

  I took a moment to absorb the sensation of his breath hitting my skin. It was…not unpleasant. Julian, who I swear had the hearing of a bat, didn’t miss a beat as he let out an amused chuckle. “Rose has a weakness for those in your profession.”

  Damon looked at me in question. I strode over to the breakfast bar, again glaring at my friend. “Yes, well, I’ve sworn off all thespians after the last disaster, so Damon here is safe.”

  “What disaster?”

  For someone who claimed not to be a big talker, he sure had a lot of questions.

  “Ever heard of Blake Winters?” Julian chirped, plucking an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a big bite.

  Damon shook his head. Julian scrunched his brows.

  “Have you been living under a rock?”

  “No, I’ve been living on an island,” said Damon.r />
  Julian cocked his head to the side, as though trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic. “Well, he’s an actor, like you, and he sleeps around. Rose had the great misfortune to have her head turned by the young Mr Winters. He seduced her and then left her in the lurch, the swine.” Julian pouted his lips, affecting a disapproving expression.

  “Sounds like an arse,” Damon put in, and both Julian and I began laughing.

  “I like this one,” said Julian.

  I grinned as I thought, yeah, me too, and found myself suddenly blushing.

  I was sure that if I’d met Damon a month ago, I’d already be head over heels, especially considering the whole brooding, antisocial thing he had going on. However, though my Blake wounds had scabbed over, they were still fresh, so I wasn’t really feeling anything more for him than friendship.

  Damon took a stool and sat as I began gathering the ingredients for dinner. At the same time, Julian’s phone started ringing, and I knew it was his work number because it rang to the tune of “Roxanne” by The Police. Yes, my friend had a dark sense of humour to go with his inability to censor.

  And yes, I was aware it was odd how normal it had become for him to be taking a call from someone who wanted to hire him for sex, but Julian and I had both had a very non-traditional upbringing. What was surreal to others was ordinary to us. And the sad fact of the matter was, if Julian hadn’t been working in the sex industry, he’d probably be strung out in a heroin den somewhere, waiting to die.

  Experiences had moulded him in such a way that he needed constant stimulation.

  It was the lesser of two evils, and I’d grown to accept that. In life, you often had to reshape your square edges to accommodate the plethora of difference that existed in the corners of our individualities.

  “Yes, all right, I’ll see you in a half an hour, then,” said Julian, and he hung up. He had that little thrill of excitement in his voice that told me this was a client he liked.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner,” he went on, striding back over to the kitchen. “Duty calls.”

  “I’ll leave a plate in the oven, just in case you’re hungry when you get home.”