Page 30

“We’re gonna have to go out again,”

Deacon says as he exits his man cave and enters the living room.

I look up from the book I’ve been reading, some old bodice ripper novel I found, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s something that, like I suspect so many other things in this house, belonged to his mother.

It’s endearing how little touches of her are all over his house.

As someone who’s experienced very few examples of true love, I can only go based on my limited knowledge and what I’ve observed from others around me.

It’s led me to the belief that there are many different types of love and, based on that assumption, there are infinite ways of expressing that love.

Some are pure and innocent, like a child’s love for a parent.

Some are toxic and unhealthy, like the emotions I felt for Dante.

But, there are also some that are complex and can’t be defined by any terms in the English language, instead refusing to be shrunk down to fit a specific mold.

From what I’ve observed, love is both messy and euphoric because you can’t have one without the other, or how would you be able to recognize either? Finding the balance between the two was where you found real love.

Deacon keeping items belonging to his late mother and making them a part of his everyday life proves that he loved her very much, despite her problems and the circumstances that I think surrounded the end of her life.

I think the love he has for his mother falls into that third category.

Sitting the book upside down in my lap so I don’t lose my place, I say, “We? And where are we going?”

He sits in the chair beside the couch, elbows resting on his knees.

“Yes, we .

Do you really think I’m gonna leave you here alone?”

he asks with a raised brow.

I narrow my eyes in mock suspicion.

“Why? You afraid I’ll burn the house down?”

He snorts.

“No, I’m more afraid you’ll clean .”

He scrunches up his nose, his facial expression and tone as he says the word “clean”

making it seem like he finds the prospect abhorrent.

I give him a deadpan stare, but I can’t really argue, considering that I vacuumed yesterday and cleaned out a microwave that had basically built its own ecosystem out of leftover food particles.

“At some point, you’ll either have to call in a cleaning crew or just bulldoze the house and start fresh.

You know that, right?”

I’m being extra dramatic with that last part, but even I know that the first suggestion is nearly as outlandish.

He confirms that theory as soon as he opens his mouth.

“First of all, no.

No cleaning crew is coming in here.

I can count on one hand the number of people that’ve been in this house, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

I try really hard to squash the little flutter in my belly at that.

Meanwhile, he continues, “Secondly, it’s not that bad.

I know how to mop and stuff.

I can do it myself. ”

I arch an eyebrow at him because bullshit.

I mean, I guess the fact that I didn’t die of fright when I looked at the underside of the toilet seat implies that he does indeed do at least the bare minimum of cleaning.

That didn’t make the house clean.

Besides, what else was I supposed to do with my free time when all my time was now free? I can’t get on social media, and my only link to the outside world is phone calls with my very pregnant best friend, she has her hands full preparing not only herself but her husband for a new baby because, apparently, having a child is a scarier prospect than breaking into the Louvre.

Amelia didn’t need me calling and chewing her ear off because I was dying of boredom in this house.

Okay, there I go again, being dramatic.

I wasn’t actually dying.

If anything, I’d become somewhat complacent in my new environment, to such an extent that it doesn’t feel new anymore.

I won’t say no to another excursion, but I definitely didn’t expect it to be so soon.

Intrigued by the prospect of going out again, I let the cleaning thing go and instead ask, “So, you gonna tell me where we’re going or not?”

“I have a job.

Merrick isn’t the only thief I fence things for, you know.

Given the current circumstances, I would put it off, but the client is a long-standing one, and what I have is payment for a favor that was done a while back.

If I don’t deliver, it’ll cause problems in the future,” he says.

I check the book I was reading to memorize the page number before setting it beside me, then scooch to the edge of the couch and say, “Okay, when do we leave?”

My sudden eagerness elicits a laugh from him.

With a shake of his head, he stands up.

“Be ready in an hour,”

he says before retreating back into his cave.

Just before I hear the whoosh of the door, he yells, “And I mean an hour! You don’t need to primp!”

I sit there for a second, marveling at the man’s ability to compliment me somehow while also chastising me.

I’m gonna ignore the second connotation and instead believe that he means that I don’t need makeup or my hair done to look good.

Still, I jump up from my sitting position on the edge of the couch and rush down the hall to change my clothes.

Pulling on a pair of well-worn skinny jeans and an oversized t-shirt sporting a picture of a violin and the words, “I don’t make mistakes when playing, only spontaneous creative decisions.”

I slip on a pair of sneakers, just in case we have to make a run for it.

The man is a criminal after all.

I do my hair up in a quick French braid because I don’t care what the newest generation of influencers say; the French braid is still the tits.

Running into the bathroom, I throw on some foundation and mascara, which I definitely do not consider “primping.”

I do have a moment when I wonder why I’m even putting in this much effort when I’ll probably end up sitting in the damn car the whole time.

I imagine being closed up in Deacon’s car because, of course, he’d lock me in while he makes some shady deal in the alley behind a seedy bar or something.

I wave that thought away like a gnat in front of my face.

No fucking way am I staying in the car.

If he doesn’t want me going out into the alley with him, then he can park me at the bar, and I’ll do tequila shots with the bartender until he’s done.

Hell, maybe I’d even test that possessive streak I’ve seen hints of by pretending that my primping is for the bartender.

As I double-check my hair in the mirror, I can’t help but make a note of the space on the bathroom counter that Deacon cleared off to allow room for my makeup bag and skincare products.

My toothbrush sits alongside his in the holder and my hairbrush has distinctive blonde strands in it.

I don’t need these little reminders that we’re basically cohabitating at this point, though.

Funny enough, for all my blustering about being bored and wanting to get away from this house, my thoughts of actually leaving have become fewer and fewer over these last weeks.

Not because the prospect seems so unrealistic right now but because every time I try to envision returning to my quiet apartment, my stomach knots up, and I feel a little sick.

I try to push those thoughts away whenever they creep up, but it’s difficult when that one gnat turns into a swarm of gnats.

I combat the swarm by telling myself that whatever’s going to happen will happen when it happens while a little voice inside my head quietly whispers a prayer that it doesn’t.

Pointing at my reflection in the mirror, I say quietly, “You are not falling in love with this man.”

My face is stern but my tone sounds unsure, even to my own ears.

With a shake of my head, because I know I’d look insane if anyone could hear this, I exit the bathroom.

I rush back out to the living room, through the dining room, kitchen, and laundry room.

Pressing the button on the security panel that I now know works like an intercom system, I yell into the small speaker, “I’m ready!”

Less than a second later, a series of beeps sound, and the wall slides open.

Deacon stands there, a funny look on his face.

Bemusement? What does bemusement even look like? As if snapping out of some kind of trance, he says, “It’s literally been 15 minutes.

There’s no way you’re ready to go before me.”

I hold my arms out wide and do a little spin as I say, “And here, I bet you thought I was high maintenance.

You don’t know m—.”

My last word is cut off as I complete the spin, only to suddenly have Deacon backing me up against the washing machine.

Reaching around, he palms my ass with both hands and buries his face in my neck, giving me little kisses and teasing licks against my skin that have my entire body shivering.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna give up coffee and opt for just sniffing your neck every morning,”

he says, his voice muffled against my skin.

And with that, I might as well just melt into a puddle because the crazy version of me just telling herself off in the mirror seems to have left the building entirely.

Instead, I tilt my head, allowing him better access.

As his lips make their way up my neck, one hand grips my ass while the other coasts up the opposite side of my body.

As he passes my jaw, the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck near the hairline just as his mouth hovers over mine.

My head tips back, my eyes slide closed, and my lips part, our breaths mingling.

I wait for a beat, quite possibly the one that poets often talk about getting skipped.

Wait for the feeling of his mouth on mine but my eyes pop open when the hand that was just at the base of my neck suddenly gives my braid a firm tug.

As soon as my eyes clash with his, he slams his mouth down, swallowing my gasp of surprise.

Thump .

There it is, making itself known with the power of not only the missed one but the one after.

From there, horses gallop in my chest.

He doesn’t touch me anywhere else except the hand on my ass and the one now using my braid as a leash to guide my head this way and that, the different angles allowing him to deepen the kiss and I swear to God, the man is trying to suck my soul from my body.

It might very well be working.

He eventually pulls away with a tug on my bottom lip, the suction from his mouth evoking the need for me to follow him.

My mouth tries to do just that, but the grip on the end of my hair stops me, and he releases my lip with a slow pop .

We’re both breathing heavily as we break apart, and he looks down at me with eyes that have darkened to cobalt.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear entire galaxies swirled in those eyes.

“If we don’t stop, we’re never gonna make it out of this house.

Hell, we might not even make it out of this laundry room.

Have you ever been fucked against a Kenmore before?”

As my lust-clouded brain tries to process what he’s just said, he wiggles his eyebrows at me, adding, “Spoiler alert, there is no gentle cycle.”

He knows he’s being ridiculous, and yet, somehow, he still finds a way to make it hot.

Out of the two, however, ridiculous wins out because I immediately burst out laughing.

He grins at me, then just before turning to lead the way out of the laundry room, he winks .

This fucker knows precisely what he’s doing.

And I’m falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.

I shake my head in astonishment but follow him nonetheless.

It doesn’t take long before we’re in the car and on our way.

When we start to head east on the interstate, I think that the meeting must be in Charleston.

Despite it being my hometown, my hands suddenly grow clammy, and the galloping horse is back in my chest, only now for an entirely different reason.

There hasn’t been any significant progress on locating Dante that I know of but even so, the irrational part of my brain whispers that he’s taking me home and dropping me back off in my dark, cold apartment.

Clammy turns to sweaty as drops of perspiration bead my upper lip and forehead despite the air conditioner going full blast.

I might be on the verge of having an anxiety attack, but why? I don’t know.

Am I afraid of being alone? I never used to be, but even if I was, I don’t think that’s the reason I don’t wanna go back.

Trying to get myself under control, I reach up to tuck a small piece of hair that’s escaped my braid behind my ear.

When I realize my hand is shaking, I quickly lower it into my lap.

Without warning, a hand reaches across the middle console, sliding under mine, linking our fingers together like before.

Without thought, I grip his hand like a lifeline, even though I know he can feel the tremors.

I don’t look at him out of the twisted notion that avoiding eye contact will somehow minimize my embarrassment.

“Hey,”

he says, his tone gentle but firm.

I still won’t meet his gaze but nod slightly to indicate that I’m listening.

Without warning, our speed decreases, and the car swerves into the emergency lane.

The thump thump thump of the tires as they roll over the hazard lines mimics the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

As the car comes to a stop, he reaches over the steering wheel with the opposite hand, putting it in park.

Gentle pressure from the hand interlocked with my own steadily increases until I finally lift my gaze.

Immediately, he releases the extra pressure, but not my hand.

Looking at me with concerned eyes clouded with confusion, he tilts his head, studying my face, before glancing out the front windshield at the large green sign in the distance, indicating the distance to Charleston.

A look of revelation takes hold and he looks back at me, simply saying, “You stay with me.

Where I go, you go.

Understand?”

No, I don’t.

I don’t understand any of this.

Whatever this is, I didn’t plan on it.

I didn’t want it.

Now, I’m afraid that I won’t know how to function without it, and that feeling is terrifying.

It literally feels like we were fighting five minutes ago, and now I’m having an anxiety attack at the thought of not being stuck at his stupid house.

My mind is telling me that this isn’t normal, but that stupid horse in my chest is just running wild, refusing to be tamed.

His words have the desired effect, though.

My breathing slows, and so does my heart rate; the ringing in my ears no longer drowns out the sound of everything else around me.

As I look down, I realize I’ve got a death grip on his hand, the knuckles on both turning white.

I make a conscious effort to loosen my hold, but he doesn’t take the reprieve for what it is and let go.

Instead, he rubs gentle circles with the thumb of the hand still tangled with my own.

“Good?”

he asks, angling his head to catch my eye.

I nod. “Good.”

He looks at me for another second or two, then gives a satisfied nod, again reaching over with the opposite hand to put the car back into gear.

He navigates us back onto the highway with one hand on the wheel and the other still clutching mine.

I still have no idea where we’re going, but the trip seems like a good metaphor for my life—seemingly stuck somewhere between my past and present, unsure of the final destination.

But he’s here and holding my hand, so I let go of the reins.