Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

simply couldn’t muck it up, and Trent, who she was supposed to shadow, had taken an urgent phone call and left her to set up alone.
    “Damon, please come this way.” She gestured to the door on her right, Studio B, then moved to open it to allow him through.
    He really was a looker, easy over six foot, and nicely muscled, but clumsy with it. The way he stepped towards her; didn’t quite align with the open door, then put his hand to the jamb, made her wonder if he was drunk. God! She didn’t smell alcohol on him, so maybe he was stoned, though it would probably help with the bumping into fixtures thing if he took his sunglasses off, but hey, they went with the girlfriend groupie thing and the whole Captain Vox cocky vibe he gave off, though Vox wasn’t drawn nearly as pretty.
    She held the second door open between the control room and the isolation booth. He spoke from behind. “Trace of a Brit accent there, Georgia. But you’re an Aussie, right? How long were you in the UK?”
    She’d said maybe six sentences and he’d picked the occasional blur in her accent. Damn, he’d be a mimic too. She looked back at him. He had both hands braced on the corridor walls. “I lived there for nine years.”
    “You did well not to end up sounding like a Pom.”
    He’d pushed his glasses to the top of his head, into the locks of his dark hair. He was smiling and he didn’t sound drunk. Would he have picked the twist in her accent if he was stoned?
    “Lor’ luv a duck! That’s assumin’ yew didn’ wan’ ter sound loike one. Know wot I mean, darlin’?” he said, in full cockney. He could’ve been an East End barrow boy. “Nothing wrong with an Aussie accent.” He was back to his own voice.
    That Damon Donovan voice had a delicious warm ripple to it, like liquid thrill, sun-warmed leather and muscle car purr. It was smooth like hot chocolate or heavy satin. An even, deep modulated rumble that made her momentarily want to lie at his feet and plead with him to rub her tummy.
    And he could make it do so many things. He could lower it, and the menace was a chill lifting all the hairs at the back of her neck. He could lift it and sound like he was ten years old. He could funk it up and you’d believe he didn’t have two communicating brain cells.
    His repertoire included a range of cartoon characters, a mechanical cyborg and almost any accent you wanted, including a few made up ones, and of course he was the star of the Dystopian Conflict Trilogy .
    She held the door and gestured into the booth. “Please come through.”
    “After you,” he said, which was sensible in this narrow corridor.
    She’d first been inside Studio B an hour ago; she was an unsure newbie as well as being slightly starstruck. She’d spent her career making unknown actors and singers sound better than they’d hoped, given DJs sound effects and correctly cued tapes, and prevented swear words from going to air on the late shift talk radio. Never in any reality she’d contemplated was she showing Damon Donovan to an iso booth.
    She went through the doorway and he followed close behind. The room was small, dead to sound, with a long, wide glass window through to the control room. The lighting was low. She had no idea if he’d want to sit or stand to read. Where the hell was Trent?
    “I’m assuming you’ll brief me. Ben told me next to nothing about this. I’m going to need you to help me make magic, Georgia.”
    She blinked at him. That was kind of flirty, and he’d brought his groupie girl to the studio. Not cool.
    “I’ll need a copy of the script on USB so I can read off my tablet.”
    That was better, back to business. “Of course.” She said that as though she had the USB in her pocket. She had no idea what script he was reading. She was the world’s most experienced work experience girl. She knew what she should be doing, but not how to do it at Avocado.
    “Anything particular you need from me today?” he said.
    “Ah.” Dork,