Deacon (Unfinished Hero #4)(2)

“Since it’s not your money, it isn’t for you to agree or disagree,” I shot back nastily.

His face twisted further and I so didn’t like the way it twisted that I leaned away from him.

“You f*ckin’ bitch,” he clipped, his voice rising.

I felt my eyes widen as my heart twisted at his words. Words no one in my life had ever said to me, especially not Grant.

There was no way I could stop the hurt that sent through me. Hurt so bad, I only had it in me to whisper, “Grant.”

“I knew you’d f*ckin’ throw that in my face eventually and you didn’t waste time. We been here weeks, you’re throwin’ that shit in my face.”

“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” I pointed out carefully, because he was right. What I said was a low blow. I knew he didn’t have a load of money. He’d been up front about that.

Then again, he’d been up front about it but told me he’d contribute by helping with the cabins.

Still, I shouldn’t have said what I said. And now I needed to calm us both down and fight my way back to the high road.

“I’m listenin’ to you,” he shot back, his voice still raised. “Seems all I do is f*ckin’ listen to you. Hotshot college grad whose daddy thinks she shits roses. Babe, you got another thing comin’, you think I’m gonna crawl up your ass and treat you like a f*ckin’ princess like that f*ckin’ father of yours.”

I did more staring at my handsome, thoughtful, supportive boyfriend thinking where on earth did that come from?

I didn’t get the chance to ask. There was a knock on the door, and as we were fighting in the foyer, Grant close to the door with his back to it, he turned, grabbed the knob, and yanked it open.

“What?” he barked, angrily and unwelcomingly.

But I saw the man standing in the doorway and I took an automatic step back.

I didn’t do this because he was handsome and handsome men freaked me way the heck out.

Good-looking guys like Grant, no. Grant could turn heads. Even though he wasn’t tall, with his lean, defined body, shock of messy dark blond hair and clear blue eyes, he got more than his share of attention.

But Grant wasn’t like the guy at the door.

The guy at the door wasn’t good-looking. The guy at the door was handsome. Amazingly. Tall. Dark-haired. Rugged-featured. His large frame built tough and solid.

He looked like the model a cologne company would choose when they decided to break in to the difficult market of trying to convince hardcore bikers they should smell good.

But I didn’t take a step back because of that.

I did it because he was terrifying.

Utterly.

Huge. Dark. His face a cold, emotionlessness mask. His chill swept through the foyer, causing a shiver to glide over my skin even though it was a sunny day in August, warm, and we had no air conditioning.

Further, I knew in a glance he was gone. There was nothing there. He was standing. His blood was coursing through his veins. He was breathing.

But that was it.

He existed.

He did not live. He did not feel. He did not smile. He did not laugh.

In other words, he was the guy a cologne company would approach when they decided to break in to the difficult market of trying to convince hardcore bikers they should smell good. He was also the guy who would listen to this then rip the head off the person who suggested such absurdity.

I got this all from a look, and as I kept looking, I knew with complete certainty I was right.

And it scared the heck out of me.

He scared the heck out of me.

But this was only part of the reason he scared the heck out of me.

The other part, the bigger part, was even feeling all that, I had a near-overwhelming urge to go to him and wrap my arms around him.

Tight.

And maybe never let go.

For eternity.

Yes, standing in my foyer with my boyfriend, staring at that man, and thinking these thoughts, he scared the ever-living crap out of me.

His deep voice rumbled through the hall, and as deep as it was, there was no warmth to it. It wasn’t even benign. Even saying everyday words, it was ominous and wintry.

“You got a unit open?”

“We got eleven units open,” Grant replied, tossing out a hand toward the door to indicate the cabins down the lane. “Take your pick, man.”

“Unit eleven,” the man stated instantly and I was not surprised by his choice, though I was unnerved that he knew which cabin to pick. He’d either been there before or he’d checked out the lay of the land before he approached us.

Number eleven was the cabin up the hill, almost fully surrounded by woods, removed from the other cabins. Secluded.

I stood there, staring at him, thinking I didn’t want him to rent a cabin. I didn’t want him on my property. He wasn’t a threat and yet, some part of me knew he was. I didn’t think he’d harm me or Grant. It wasn’t like I got a serial killer vibe off him (not that there was such a thing).

It was just that his menace came from something else. The hurt he could deliver would be the kind of hurt you’d never recover from. The kind of hurt that didn’t cause scars to the skin but it was still the kind of hurt that would destroy you.

The problem with that was Grant was not entirely wrong. We had limited money that wouldn’t stretch forever, especially considering how much needed to be done to the cabins.