His home was black and white and grey, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling glass, the kind of space that didn't ask to be liked.
It suited him.
I stood in the entrance hall with my one small bag and felt acutely conscious of how much of my life I'd condensed into it. Damon's housekeeper showed me to a guest suite on the upper floor—high ceilings, linen drapes, a view of the private garden below. Understated and expensive in the particular way of things that don't need to announce themselves.
At dinner, I was careful. Small movements. Quiet voice. I sat straight and ate methodically and told myself this was no different from a business dinner.
Damon sat across from me, cutting through a medium-rare steak, and then he looked up.
"The nerve you had last night," he said, "stopping my car
