Deacon (Unfinished Hero #4)(65)

Silvia had a crush on my man.

Not surprising.

“John,” Deacon’s deep voice filled the room and Silvia looked back to him. “Your parents are okay with it, girl, you can call me John.”

Slivia’s eyes went to her dad. So did mine. Manuel smiled and dipped his chin down.

Silvia looked back to Deacon and said timidly, “Okay, John.”

Deacon smiled at her.

Her eyes got huge and then dropped back to her lap.

I swallowed a giggle.

“Cassidy,” Milagros said like she was about to make an announcement. Pushing up from the couch across from us that she and Manuel were sitting on, she ended on an order. “Help me in the kitchen.”

She needed no help in the kitchen. She needed to give her friend/employer a talking to about this boyfriend-out-of-the-blue business, seeing as all the time she’d spent at the cabins since Deacon returned was time I was with Deacon so she didn’t have time to do it before.

I gave big eyes to Deacon, his lit with humor, and I let his hand go (a hand I took; he was back to no PDA, though he did sit close to me on the couch, but this could have been because Esteban wedged himself beside Deacon). I squeezed his thigh then got up and followed Milagros, who was already heading to their tiny kitchen.

Milagros cleaned my cabins and she had two other houses in town she also cleaned. She’d had a business that was going pretty well, it allowed her to work and bring in needed money while the kids were at school, be at home when they got out. Then the recession hit and she lost five clients. That was when she went looking for work and I took her on.

Even though I gave her work and it was work she was good at that she liked because she could do it on her schedule, they were far from rolling in it as their lovely, but small (and especially small for seven people) house attested. Manuel worked as maintenance for some office buildings in Chantelle about thirty miles away. The pay was decent but the commute was a bitch, on time and gas.

But pay had to be freaking awesome to take care of a house and five kids.

Decent meant every penny had to stretch.

They didn’t complain. They just worked, did their best with what they had, loved their kids and each other, and were good friends to me.

In other words, they were the bomb and I was fortunate Milagros drove down my lane looking for work, and not because her doing it gave me free time.

What I didn’t know was at that moment, in her kitchen, she was going to prove that thought absolutely correct.

She stopped well away from the door and I came to a stop a couple feet in front of her.

I opened my mouth to speak but she got there before me.

“He stays with you.” This was an accusation.

“Uh…yeah.”

“Querida, you’re not married.”

I pulled up all my thirty years in the face of a woman who was only a few years older than me but reminded me of my mother on more than one occasion, except scarier.

“No, we’re not,” I replied firmly.

She held my eyes and nodded sharply, letting that go, and saying, “You’re very beautiful and he’s staying with you. Which means he doesn’t have to pay for a cabin.”

I fought back a smile. “You think he’s taking advantage of me.”

“He doesn’t touch you.”

Sheesh, she noticed everything.

“He’s not into PDA,” I explained.

“PDA?”

“Public displays of affection.”

Her head cocked to the side as she noted, “This is odd for a man like him.”

“Just saying, Manuel isn’t into that with you either,” I pointed out.

“Of course not, I’m the mother of his children,” she said and I was surprised she did that without gasping in shock that I’d suggest such a thing out loud.

Again, I fought back a smile. “Was he into PDA when you met?”

She leaned in to me, holding my eyes, “John Priest is not Manuel Cabrera.”

She could say that again. Not that Manuel wasn’t attractive and sweet, he just wasn’t a huge, hot guy, badass.

She looked to the door then to me and I didn’t like the expression on her face when I regained her eyes.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Cassidy.”

I didn’t like that either.

“Milagros—” I started but she shook her head.

“He’s very handsome. He’s good with the children. He’s respectful. But there’s just something…” she paused, took a breath, and finished, “off about him.”

At that moment I vowed that my next best friend was going to be blind, deaf, and learning disabled.

I got closer to her. “Honey, he’s a good guy.”

“You seem certain.” This was said in a way that shared she was not.

“I am.”

“How?” she demanded to know.

“Because he fixed my gutters.”

She leaned back. She got that. I’d been going it alone for a long time, but more, she knew there weren’t many men who would fix their new girlfriend’s gutters.

“And he thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and he’s told me that,” I continued. “Often,” I stressed. “He likes my cooking. When he was away the last time, he didn’t eat or sleep on his way back and it took two days to get to me.”