Deacon (Unfinished Hero #4)(72)

He rested his hands on my ass, his eyes never leaving mine.

“She wants something,” he muttered like he was talking to himself.

“Just got off the phone with my mom,” I shared.

He made no response, not verbally, not physically, just continued to look at me, waiting for me to go on.

I took this as good. He could have shut down. He could have tensed. He could have given some indication that whatever it was I was going to share about my family that included me getting close was something he wasn’t ready to be a part of.

“They’re coming out in August. Everyone. Mom, Dad, my sister and her family, my brother and his wife. My aunts and uncle.”

“Right,” he prompted when I said no more.

I got closer, my heart squeezing as I gave it to him.

“I’d really like it if you worked it out with your jobs so you could be here when they are.”

“Then that’s where I’ll be.”

I sat motionless atop him, staring in his handsome face, shocked but filled with glee that that wasn’t only his answer, but it also came quickly.

“You’re not…” I shook my head. “That doesn’t freak you?”

“They come with you?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

The skin around his eyes softened and his fingers dug in my ass.

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear I want you, woman. They come with you, I want that too.”

Oh God. I was so falling in love with this man.

“Dad’ll like you,” I whispered.

“Yeah. I had a daughter in the middle of nowhere, states away, and a guy worked on her roof in the heat so it wouldn’t eventually cave in, I’d like him too.”

I smiled, tamping down the idea of Deacon having a daughter.

And how he would get one.

“Though,” he kept going, “that would only be until I was reminded he was sleepin’ with her. Then I’d go back to wantin’ to shoot him.”

That was when I burst out laughing.

While I was doing it, Deacon slid a hand up my spine until he had it curved around the back of my neck.

And when I quit laughing, I noticed that he was not sharing in my amusement.

When he spoke, I’d know why.

“Means a lot, baby, you want me to meet your family.”

I leaned closer to him. “Yeah,” I agreed.

“You give me the dates, I’ll make sure I’m free.”

“Okay.”

He slid his hand to the side of my neck, the tips of his fingers in my hair, his eyes moving over my face.

I let him. He had these moments occasionally, when he was feeling something, something beautiful and big, something about me, and since it was that, I wanted him to have them.

When he shifted his thumb so it swept my lower lip, I knew it was leaving him so I said, “I need to get down to frying the chops.”

His eyes went from my lips to mine. “You need a grill.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Can you grill?”

“Do I have a dick?”

I smiled again.

“We’ll fight about who’s payin’ for that tomorrow, on the way back from gettin’ the dog.”

I kept smiling. “You’re on.”

His eyes crinkled.

I leaned in and kissed him. It was meant to be a touch but his hand at my neck tightened, his other arm lifted to round me, and it became a whole lot more.

This meant I was breathing heavily when I climbed off him and went into the kitchen to start the chops.

* * * * *

Hours later, after dinner (I was not wrong, Deacon loved the casserole; he even said that, of a sort, while forking it into his mouth, “This shit’s the shit, Cassidy,”) and cuddling on the couch watching a movie, Deacon turned on the news.

I tilted my chin to catch his eyes.

He felt mine and looked down at me.

“I’m turning in.”

“Gonna watch the top of the newscast then I’ll be up.”

“Okay.”

He bent his head to touch his mouth to mine and let me go.

I rolled off the couch and went upstairs.

When I got to my bedroom, I closed the door, leaned against it, sucked in a massive breath, and took in the room.

After I had the bathroom remodeled, this was the first room I’d refinished.

The wood floors were gleaming. The threadbare rugs had been removed and a large, thick, attractive one in soft beige with muted pastel green, blue, yellow, and pink swirls on it was under the bed. The two dressers were a mish-mosh I’d located for a deal at an antique store, the wood light and battered but they burnished in way that I thought was pretty. Matching iron nightstands with drawers that had mismatching but lovely lights on them. There were old, framed pieces of faded, but awesome embroidered flowers I’d bought for five bucks each on the walls. Walls that I’d painted a warm, soft oyster.

A year ago, I’d bought a new mattress. On it was a down comforter with a feminine paisley cover that had a cream background and subdued green, yellow, and blue design. Matching shams. Cream sheets. But minimal toss pillows since they finished the look of the bed but were a pain in the patoot to arrange every day.

And my bed had a slatted head and footboard.

Staring at it, I bit my lower lip.