Everyone knowsthat Damon Cavanaugh is a minimalist. He prefers his surroundings to be sleek, clean, and clutter-free. His furniture. His decor. His office. Less is more. He’s always been like this. Demanded perfection. He has this incessant need to control his surroundings. Clinically, I could equate this type of behavior to the loss of his family, but even as a college snob, he couldn’t handle a film of dust.
The elevator doors to Damon’s penthouse ping open, and my jaw nearly slams against the dirty hardwood floors. My surprise quickly morphs into concern. It’s a disaster in here. As if a hurricane swept through. Art supplies. Sports equipment. Pots andplants. The kitchen…a mess. Flour. Cutter cookers. My gaze flits briefly to a pile of empty energy drinks, and then toward the hall.
Damon kicks around a football, his body vibrating as he concentrates.
"Mate…?"
Damon jerks, the football bouncing away as he turns to face me. "Jesus Christ, Quin!" He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to appear nonchalant. "What are you doing here?”
“I came here to check in on you and talk..." I walk slowly through the various delivery boxes. “What-What’s going on here, D?”
Damon's speech is jittery and neurotic. “Nothing, just you know, trying to keep myself busy."
My gaze sweeps around the room again, taking in the chaos. "It looks like an Amazon tornado blew through here."
Damon chuckles awkwardly, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck. "Oh, relax. It’s not that bad. Just a few deliveries." He nods to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
I narrow my eyes, not buying the facade. "No, we’re not sidestepping this, D. What the hell is going on? Why do you have…" I point to a large stand-alone furnace. "Is that a kiln?"
Damon's jaw tenses. "Yes."
I gesture to the other side of the room. "And those are?"
"Batons," Damon admits, his voice softer now. "For juggling."
I raise an eyebrow. "Juggling?"
Damon grumbles, brushing past me toward the kitchen before slumping down on a bar stool. "Yes, juggling, okay?! I also have fucking knitting needles and yarn somewhere around here." He drops his face into his hands. "I’m losing it, man. I’m fucking losing it."
I weave through the mess and stop on the other side of him, rolling up my sleeves. He needs food. I have a feeling his blood is currently a mix of caffeine and chemicals. "Talk to me, D. What’s going on?"
Damon hesitates, his mask slipping further. "I was…” He swallows as I pull out a pan and put it on a burner. “I was trying to find a hobby, okay?”
“A hobby?”
I turn my back to him and head to the fridge. If memory serves me right, Damon tends to be more forthcoming if not approached directly. Casual. My questions must be casual. Not accusatory. Not clinical. Not like a doctor. A shrink.
He groans. “Well, apparently, I need to find a hobby, otherwise, I’m going to ruin everything.”
I remove a carton of eggs, turkey bacon, and butter from the fridge, checking the expiration dates. Bless Josie for keeping the essentials stocked. She knows Damon better than anyone.
“Ruin everything? What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” he mutters. “Never mind.”
I begin cooking breakfast, keeping my gaze glued to the pan, but my attention is solely on Damon. “Don’t do that, D. Don’t ice me out. Talk to me.”
He hesitates, and in the corner of my eye, I catch him staring at me, unsure and guarded.
“Apparently, I’m on a path of self-destruction with Emery. I-I’m self-sabotaging our relationship.”
I frown. He didn’t come to this conclusion on his own.
“Elaborate.”
He grunts, raking his fingers through his hair, pulling it slightly. Jesus. “I’ve recently been made aware that relying on another person for happiness is toxic and unhealthy.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “So, I’m trying to find a hobby. And well, you can see how that’s going.”
The eggs and bacon sizzle in the pan, and I make the executive decision to finally glance up at him.
