The devil on his shoulder kicked the angel to the curb.
As Hannah trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, Deacon’s mouth began an unconscious descent toward hers. Her hand drifted lowered still…
And grabbed a sizeable fistful of his crotch.
Deacon’s ass shot straight off the seat. “What the—?”
His hips collided with the table, toppling their glasses. Ice and cold water sloshed over the sides and cascaded over the surface, rushing toward their laps, and Deacon grabbed his jacket as they bolted out of the booth, Hannah stumbling on her heels behind him.
Her eyes were like giant saucers in her face while her chest heaved beneath the straining fabric of her dress. “Crap! That wasn’t your upper thigh!”
Deacon’s eyebrows hit his hairline. It was tempting…so very tempting…to ask what she’d planned on doing with his upper thigh, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t trust himself not to act, not with the imprint of her hand still burning in his lap.
Jaw clenched, he flagged down a waitress. After explaining about the mess, he placed a firm hand on the small of Hannah’s back and started steering her toward the exit. Fresh air. That was what they both needed to restore a little sanity.
He threw open the door and dragged in heaving breaths of crisp, cool night air. He watched Hannah do the same as he led her around the side of the building and down the street.
Neither of them said a word, but then, they never did in cases like this. Whenever things got heavy—whether it was bullying classmates, unexpected pregnancies, or sudden single parenthood—they always took a step back and let whatever was rocking their worlds sink in before jumping into the deep end.
That was fine and good and all, but in this case, things weren’t just heavy. They’d nearly been catastrophic.
At the intersection that’d either lead them back to the arena or further into the city, they came to a stop. Hannah wrapped her arms across her chest, her slim shoulders shaking with a shiver, and Deacon opened his jacket, draping it around her slim shoulders. He stepped back again, out of reach, and she smiled at the ground.
“Thanks.” She burrowed into the leather and raised her head slightly, staring at his throat. “Uh…did you want to order an Uber?”
Right. They were stranded and still had to get back to the bus. Deacon shoved his hand into his pocket, hating the awkward distance between them, but not knowing how to overcome it, either. He palmed his phone, ready to pull up the app…but then, an alternative plan came to mind.
They both knew what would happen if he called for a driver. They’d sit in silence during the ride, go back to their roosts alone, and the weirdness between them would fester.
Screw that. They’d wasted too much time when she’d lived in Paris. Entire days had gone by where they’d had no contact other than a texted hello. He wasn’t living like that again. Hannah was back and he planned on making himself a fixture in her life for as long as she’d have him. That meant either getting over this awkwardness now or confronting it, head on.
Deacon withdrew his hand, sans phone, and said, “You know, the arena’s only four blocks away.”
This time, Hannah stared at his chin. “Oh, did you want to walk?”
It was late, cold, and not exactly a familiar neighborhood. It’d make a hell of a lot more sense to call a car. But since when did anything in his life make sense?
He shrugged. “I could use the exercise.”
Truth? Performing every night was killer cardio, as were his morning runs around the arenas. But walking meant talking. It meant dealing with the issue rather than sweeping it under the rug, and the sooner that happened, the quicker they could get back to normal. Maybe even forget it altogether.
Hannah grabbed hold of the ends of his jacket, her small white teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She knew what walking meant, too, and as a twinge of pink hit her ivory cheeks, her foot slid back and forth along the loose gravel. What he wouldn’t have given to know what she was thinking.
Finally, a slow smile formed on her lips. “Exercise sounds good.”
When she raised her eyes to meet his, her usual sea-green shade had darkened to jade. Just like inside, the connection hit Deacon square in the gut.
Every need, every desire roared back again, this time heightened with a jagged edge of delayed anticipation. Somewhere, a demon was laughing his ass off.
Hannah’s smile spread, as if she knew how hard his heart was pounding, and a pulse of heat passed between them. As much as he wanted to, Deacon couldn’t look away. She licked her lips, a slide of pink tongue that he felt in his groin, and he bit off a curse. Music from a nearby club swelled and waned, matching the slow-burning throb in his blood.
One heartbeat they were a foot away from each other. The next, he reached out and yanked her to him. Hannah gasped, and the breathy sound took root low in his stomach. He wanted to hear it again.
Silver moonlight fell over her hair, caressing her shoulders, and Deacon told himself it’d just be a taste. One small kiss to take the edge off. Things wouldn’t get weird after that. Hell, it might even make things better. Kill the curiosity of the unknown.
He brushed her hair away from her face and cupped her cheek in his hand. Hannah’s eyelids fluttered shut then opened again, and when they did, the only thing he saw was matching want. Control snapped like a twig.
Scooping her into his arms, Deacon crushed his lips to hers. At her soft moan, a fire ignited in his blood. He threaded a hand through her tangle of curls, tugging to adjust the angle of his kiss, then licked the seam of her mouth, demanding entrance. When she let him inside, the essence of peach exploded on his tongue. Mixed with her own flavors, it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
Hannah squealed as he yanked her closer, and then she attacked him, clutching his shoulders as she tried to climb him like a tree. Her knees pressed into the sides of his legs, and as she wiggled and squirmed, he grinned against her mouth.
Deacon released her hair to rake his hands down her back. He palmed the flare of her hips before sliding his hands lower to clutch the back of her thighs. He lifted one and wrapped it around his waist. When his hips rolled of their own volition, thoughts ceased to exist.
Nothing in his entire life had ever felt this good.
Another surge of his hips and Hannah pulled him back to her mouth. She sucked on his bottom lip and slipped her hand beneath the cotton of his shirt. Her nails skimmed over his stomach, scratching lightly, and he hissed.
In that moment, it was like the entire universe stood still. Nothing else mattered. She grabbed onto his forearms, nails leaving crescent-shaped war wounds in his skin, and Deacon skimmed his hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, slowly inching his fingers under the hem of her dress.
BEEEP!!!
An incessant car horn jerked his questing hand away, shattering through the sensual haze.
Holding Hannah tight, Deacon raised his head, and the world around them came into focus. The sounds, the smells…the smirking crowds.
They were on a street corner. A car drove through the intersection not five feet away as people strolled past them on the sidewalk on their way to the next club, blatantly gawking at the guy who’d just been mauling his best friend in public like a damn teenager.
Crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.
Fear pumped through Deacon’s blood as reality crashed down. How much he’d messed up, exactly what was at stake, and how much he’d put at risk. Abruptly, he dropped Hannah’s leg, reaching out when she stumbled on her heels only to pull back once she righted herself.
Dazedly, Hannah brought her hand to her mouth. Her lips were cherry red and kiss swollen, and they tumbled open as she traced them with her fingertips. Her eyes cleared in degrees and they sharpened on him, looking for answers.
“Hannah.” Deacon wiped a hand over his face, wishing he had them. Instead, a sinking sense of dread coated his skin with a thin layer of sweat. “I’m not…I mean, I didn�
��t—”
“Stop.” Shuffling forward, she covered the distance he’d put between them and shushed him with her fingers. “Please, don’t say anything. Not yet.”
Her sea-green eyes spoke for her, asking him to wait until what had happened sank in…but that scared him almost as much as what it meant.
Where did they go from here? What was the next step? If Sherry were here, she’d try pushing them into a relationship because, apparently, the friends in his life couldn’t stand the idea of him being single. They didn’t realize that he wasn’t built for forever. Sure, he’d been prepared to give it his best shot after Krista got pregnant, but even she’d known what a bad bet he’d be. Even if he wasn’t, he wanted better for Hannah.
But if he lost her because of this? He’d never survive it.
Gently, Deacon tugged her fingers away from his mouth and swallowed hard. “Cherry…don’t you think we should at least—”
He never got to finish his thought.
As he’d stumbled over his words, Hannah had lurched forward. Deacon caught her in his arms, confusion transforming into fear as he watched pure panic flood her face. She fought against his hold…then promptly vomited onto the ground.
And all over his boots.
Chapter Nine
Brushing your teeth while standing in a moving vehicle was a daily exercise in balance. Doing so with a hangover from Hades? Well, that was an Olympic-worthy achievement.
Hannah groaned as she grabbed hold of the counter top and spit into the sink. Even after the second brushing, her tongue felt fuzzy. As for her head, the aspirin she’d taken an hour ago had dulled the vicious pounding to more of a roaring, constant tap. Still annoying, but not entirely unmanageable. The bottle of water Deacon had forced into her hands before she stumbled into bed last night probably had a lot to do with that, too.
Ugh. This was why she didn’t drink very often. The one other time she’d pushed her luck, and drank more than a glass or two of wine, was during her first week in Paris, and that had ended in a morning much like this one. Only that had been the result of too much merlot and a tattered, broken heart.
Not so this time.
Despite herself, Hannah grinned.
Hangover or not, joy swept her body, healing the remaining broken pieces as she recalled the feel of Deacon’s lips on hers. Every touch, every stroke, every gentle bite of their kiss was forever tattooed on her brain, and she’d been watching it replay in her mind like her favorite movie all morning. Even the way that it ended, with her spewing chunks all over his boots, wasn’t mortifying enough to steal away her happiness.
Deacon had kissed her. Really and truly kissed her. Holy crap!
Hannah slowly shook her head, awed but still nursing a headache, and pinned up her hair with a clip. An explosion of curls fell over her forehead, crowning a face scrubbed bare of any makeup. For the morning, at least, the makeover portion of Operation Joie de Vivre was on pause. As giddy as she was over last night’s kiss, she didn’t have the energy to hum one of her silly little ditties much less pick up an eye shadow brush.
Satisfied that this was the best she was going to look today, Hannah shuffled out of the bathroom, her thoughts on her stomach. Breakfast. She needed breakfast. Cereal, or maybe some eggs, and a whole pot of black coffee.
Thankfully, she had the bus to herself for a few hours as Sherry, feeling needlessly guilty about getting Hannah drunk, had taken the kids to a nearby park. The guys usually had rehearsals and sound check until lunch, which meant she’d have time to become almost human again before having to face anyone. And by anyone, she meant Deacon.
Yawning, she tucked her chin to her chest. She couldn’t help wondering where his head was this morning. They hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about their kiss last night, what with being preoccupied by the vomit and all, but now that he’d had some time to think, how would he play it when he saw her again?
Would he brush it aside like it never happened?
Acknowledge it, but go back to friendship as usual regardless?
Or would he be open to exploring the possibility of more?
At the end of the short hallway, a pair of crossed bare feet entered her vision, and Hannah stuttered to a stop. She’d recognize those toes anywhere.
“Thought you could use this.”
Deacon’s voice settled over her like a warm bubble bath with extra fizzy salts. Her skin heated and tingled, and she closed her eyes against a shiver. Of course this was how he’d see her hours after he kissed her: hungover, and looking like a half-dead orangutan.
Would it have killed her to swipe on a little lip gloss?
“Thanks.” Forcing a smile, she accepted the glass of apple juice and touched the ends of her crazy hair. She bit her lip. “Um, as you can see, I’m not exactly at full capacity yet.”
Why had she pointed that out? Clearly, the man had functioning eyeballs and could see the truth for himself; she didn’t need to go around flaunting it, for Chrissakes! Why didn’t Cosmo ever cover this in their magazine? The awkward morning-after-kiss conversation, complete with monkey hair.
Looking away, she took a tentative sip.
“The sugar in the juice helps,” he murmured, sounding every bit as uncomfortable as she felt, which only made it worse. He coughed and repositioned his feet. “The vitamins and water should rehydrate your body, too.”
At his tight smile, Hannah realized he knew this from years of dealing with his mom’s drinking and his own early days of partying. Great. Guilt heaped on top of her awkwardness. At least no one could say she didn’t fail with style.
As she messed with her hair with one hand, she tugged on the hem of her baggy tee with the other, only now remembering what she’d thrown on. She winced at the picture she made. Deacon’s mouth quirked as he looked at his toes, and she closed her eyes. What a mess.
Resigning herself to the reality of her sloppy appearance—and the unlikelihood of there ever being a repeat performance of their earth-shattering kiss—she lifted the juice to her lips again. Thankfully, sugar helped with heartache, too.
When Deacon raised his head again, his eyes trailed over her face, and a slow, soft smile curved his mouth. “Even at reduced capacity, Cherry, you’re still beautiful.”
Hannah sputter-coughed on her juice.
What did he just say?
Not once in her life had anyone called her beautiful. Sure, she’d gotten a lot of adorables over the years. A handful of cutes and even a couple of prettys. But never, ever a beautiful.
Did it mean anything, that Deacon called her that word now, after their kiss, and when she looked downright scary?
Did it mean he wanted to kiss her again? Or was he just buttering her up to let her down gently?
Gah! Why were men so impossible to read?
“Here, I’ll take that.” His fingers brushed against hers as he took the empty, forgotten glass from her hand, and a tingle shot up Hannah’s spine. He set it in the sink and then turned around, leaning his hip against the counter and shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. “Guess what I found out this morning?”
Hannah blinked at the rapid subject shift, much preferring they stay on the compliment trail and the discussion of what it could mean. But then she noticed a strange glow in his eyes. His soft gray-green irises shined with excitement—and Deacon rarely got excited about anything.
Wondering what on earth he could be up to, she shook her head. “What?”
“Well, I was going over the band’s travel schedule this morning and noticed something interesting.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded, and the suspense built until she was about ready to drag it out of him. Then, ever-so-nonchalantly, “The Charlotte concert is the same weekend as the Harvest Festival.”
Hannah’s entire world stopped.
Deacon smiled, taking in her reaction. “Cool, right? I think we should go. We haven’t gone to the carnival together since senior year.” More like junior year, but who�
�s counting? “Oh, and get this, Arabella set up a fundraiser in the gym for Charlie’s foundation, Life & Lyrics. A free throw competition and private concert the day before the dance.”
On the outside, she licked her lips and moved her mouth to form words like, “Th-that’s awesome.”
On the inside, only one thought swirled her brain: he mentioned the dance.
This was it. Her chance to walk under that vine-covered pergola. To go to the dance with the love of her life and finally make her longest-held wish come true.
“Since the concert’s not until Sunday, I thought we could bring Max to the carnival on Saturday. Introduce him to the joys of funnel cakes and see if I can’t still kick your ass at Hoops.” Deacon shot her a playful wink. “Afterwards, maybe your parents can babysit while we check out the dance.”
Unsteady hands grasped the table’s edge. “The dance,” she repeated, tasting the words on her tongue.
Was she still sleeping? Was that what was happening right now? It would certainly explain the beautiful remark and this entire dreamlike conversation. But, just in case she was wrong, she decided she should ask anyway. Just to be sure.
“You mean the Harvest Moon Dance?”
“Well, yeah.” The skin between his eyebrows furrowed. “But it was just an idea. We definitely don’t have to—”
“No, no, no!” she interrupted, throwing her hands out to stop him. “I want to go. I do. Really.”
Hannah bounced on her toes, ignoring the pain that sliced through her skull—note to self: jumping and hangovers do not mix—and Deacon widened his eyes. “You sure? You’re acting kind of weird.”
She lifted a shoulder, trying her best to fight back a giddy smile. “I just love dances.”
He chuckled as she continued bouncing on her toes and shook his head like she was a foreign creature. “Since when? I don’t remember you caring one way or the other in high school.”
That’s because no one ever asked me to one, you idiot, Hannah chastised in her head. And because you always went to them with Krista.
The Nanny Arrangement (Country Blues) Page 12