Incapable (Love Triumphs 3)

“No. Damon, can you keep talking for a moment, please?”

“Talking, my specialty. I’m not sure how it would work for travelling, but yes, apparently I’m thinking about a dog. They’re incredibly helpful, but not right for everyone. We had them on the farm where I grew up of course, working dogs. You know, they’ve developed a washing machine that dogs can load and start with a bark. Amazing, right. I need to do my homework before it’s anything more than an idea.”

“Ready now, Damon.”

“It’s your turn.” He waited. She’d answer because it was her job to get along with him, not because she wanted to play.

“I never had pets.”

“Not even a goldfish?”

“No.”

“As a kid did you want one? Most kids want pets. Were you most kids?”

“I wanted a kitten.”

He shuddered, then laughed. That was almost witty, given he’d told her he didn’t like cats, did she realise? “Ah, kittens, they have a habit of growing into cats. Cats are creepy, slink around, minds of their own. Trip you over one minute, want your lap the next. No cat will ever sort the whites from the colours for me.”

Did she smile at that? Did he add enough fabric softener to the wash of this uneasy truce with her?

“I’m ready when you are, Damon.”

Not. Stiff towels, scratchy sheets.

He gave her an hour of straight narration. Another good hour of experimentation with his new approach. It had potential. He’d dumped the headphones. Listening to himself as he laid a track was more about security anyway, and he’d long ago refined his awareness of mouth clicks, breaths, the sound of other subtle movement like the fabric of his clothing or the movement of his hands or feet. In that aspect he was a grandmaster. The earpiece and the audio text reader gave him the next grab of copy to memorise and as long as it was phrased correctly, he didn’t need to work off print or screen text. If it wasn’t, he was learning to adapt on the run.

Twenty or more hours of narrating like this and he’d have the confidence to take his new method into his regular bookings. This job had come up at just the right time to try out a new way of working before he went back to his regular gigs, where his reputation was on the line.

What wasn’t working was his attempt to defrost Georgia. “How was that?”

“All good.”

“Not too breathy.”

“Not that I can’t easily clean up.”

“It’s fine to ask me to re-read. It’s fine to ask me anything.”

“Would you like a coffee break now?”

He dropped his head into his hands. That was it, she hated him.

“I don’t like seafood.”

He looked towards the window and grinned. She had to be looking back. “Good to know.” Not necessarily progress but a step in that direction.

After the break, when they were back on either side of the glass, he tried again. “My favourite colour is blue.”

“Mine is green.”

They were a recipe for colour blindness, but at least he got an instant answer.

She prompted him to start up where he’d left off. An hour later he needed a water jug refill. Lauren brought it in for him, and the way she was in no hurry to leave told him Georgia had left the control room.

He sat on the stool they’d provided. “How old are you?” He put a hand up to forestall her protest. He’d have to start there and work quickly to get what he really wanted from Lauren. “A range will do. Age isn’t necessarily something you can tell from someone’s voice or vocabulary. I’m guessing you’re in your twenties.”

“I’m twenty-three.”