His Invitation

by Tanya Gallagher

Deacon swallowed the dregs of his juice, gritting his teeth around the pulp, and set the glass in his overflowing kitchen sink. Then he strode into the living room and reached for the paper with trembling hands.

  He unfolded it, and the scent of his mother’s perfume wafted from the pages. His knees went weak, and he sank onto the couch. He traced his fingertips over her handwriting with his pulse in his ears.

  Underneath the email addresses was a series of numbers that didn’t match up to any area code or phone number Deacon knew. He frowned at the paper and reached for his phone.

  “Deacon, honey?” His mother’s voice cracked on the line.

  He blew out a breath. “Thank you again for coming, Mom. For making me listen. I know I didn’t make it easy for you, but I…” His voice shook. “Thank you.”

  Her words were a balm. “We love you, Deacon. We meant everything we said.” For the first time in a while, he was starting to believe it.

  “That means a lot,” Deacon said. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand.” He squinted at the sheet. “What are these numbers for? On the paper you left me?”

  “It’s a bank account, Deacon, in your name.”

  “What?”

  His mother’s voice wavered. “After Simon…” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “You know how Simon wrote Carry On?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the song did very well. Still, does, actually. We set up a fund for the royalties, and they keep coming in.”

  “I had no idea. I knew the song was popular, but I didn’t even think…” Deacon sucked in a breath, his chest aching.

  “Deacon, that money’s for you. To live whatever life you choose.”

  “I don’t think I can accept it,” he whispered with his stomach twisting.

  His mother’s voice was a plea. “Just think about it, okay? Simon would have wanted it. And the money’s there for you whenever you need it. It doesn’t have to be today.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, bitter acid in his throat. “Okay.”

  She spelled out the bank name and password for him and then said her goodbyes. Deacon dropped his phone on the couch beside him and reached for his laptop with shaking hands.

  He followed his mother’s directions and typed the account information onto the bank’s homepage. A number larger than he’d ever expected appeared on the screen.

  Oh god.

  The screen swam in his vision, and he fisted his hands against his thighs.

  This could change everything.

  His mother’s voice echoed in his mind as he looked around an apartment that felt as hollow and empty as his chest. That money’s for you. To live whatever life you choose.

  Is this the life he wanted for himself? The one where he let things and people and opportunities slip through his fingers because he felt like he didn’t deserve them? Or did he want the life he’d started to lead, the one where he made his own name, created something out of nothing?

  Deacon licked his lips and leaned forward.

  Typed a number.

  Hit Withdraw.

  “You again.” Noah held open his front door with a grin. Noise from his television played in the background, the familiar jingle of a truck company’s advertisements reaching all the way to the front door.

  “Don’t be such a bitch about it,” Deacon said without heat. He thrust two bottles of Pináculo Tequila into Noah’s hands. “I come bearing gifts.”

  Noah looked down at the bottles and let out a low whistle. “Sure do.” He cocked an eyebrow at Deacon. “How’d I get so lucky?”

  Deacon shrugged and dropped his eyes. “You know. I figured if I’m doing all this work to turn my life around, it might help to cut back on the drinking.” His face heated, and he swallowed back the bitter taste of shame. “Just until I figure shit out.”

  Noah nodded. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in.” He stepped back into his house and looked over his shoulder. “I assume you want to hit the garage?”

  Deacon followed Noah into the house and shut the door behind him. “Yes and no.”

  “You’re being very cryptic today. Or is it introspective?” Noah shook his head and walked toward his kitchen. “Either way.”

  “I need you to help me make a list.” Noah raised an eyebrow, and Deacon continued. “If all goes according to plan, in a little while I might not need to come bother you for tools and stuff.”

  Noah set the bottles of tequila on his kitchen counter and shot a glance at Deacon. “I thought you came over for my pretty face.”

  Deacon grinned. “And your sparkling personality. Real beauty pageant stuff, here.”

  Noah huffed a laugh. “So, a list?”

  “Right.” Deacon bounced on his toes, his heart racing. “I recently came into some money, and now I can afford some of my own gear. I know what tools I use the most, but can you help me figure out some of the must-haves to start my own kit? See if I’m missing anything on my wish list?”

  “You’re asking me to help you spend your money?” Noah tilted his head to the side.

  Deacon shrugged. “Part of it, at least.”

  Noah crossed his arms over his chest. “Before I agree, does this mean you plan to leave this shit at my place?”

  Deacon shook his head. “For the next month, I should have some extra space around my house.”

  Noah’s eyes widened. “Does that mean…?”

  His wince confirmed Noah’s suspicions.

  “Oh.” Noah rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Sorry, man.”

  Deacon cleared his throat. “Me too. But I’m working on that, also. You could say the plans go hand in hand.”

  “Okay.” Noah narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean you know how you’re going to use the new tools?”

  Deacon nodded, his breath bottling up in his chest. “Actually, yeah.” He smiled, and for the first time since Emma had left, anything seemed possible. “I’ve got a project in mind, and it’s going to be big.”

  Chapter 29

  Thank god for Amazon Prime.

  Emma sat on her living room floor on Sunday night in a pair of sleep shorts and an old tank top, grinning as she faced her newly-installed TV. All around her, cardboard shipping boxes littered the hardwood floor, but the trash could wait. She’d made it just in time.

  She reached for the remote, flicking on TV as the opening credits for a Mr. Eligible special rolled.

  Technically it was one of those behind-the-scenes specials, and she needed to wait until next week to see if Mr. Eligible was going to pick the sharp, witty startup founder or the anesthesiologist with a heart of gold, but still.

  Bring. It. On.

  Emma turned up the volume, trying to cover the sound of the laundry thumping around in her dryer. Apparently, rooms echoed when you didn’t have furniture in them.

  Who would have thought?

  Bex’s text message pinged through right after the opening credits. Just your daily reminder to eat.

  Emma sighed and typed back, Not hungry.

  Her stomach, normally a faithful companion and inspiration for many a good food splurge, had apparently decided to close up shop. She hadn’t felt hungry in days—just the empty kind of nauseous.

  Please eat.

  If I agree, will you stop texting me?

  Bex sent back a shooting star emoji and a picture of a taco.

  Emma grinned and texted back, I’m on it.

  She padded to the kitchen in her bare feet and tossed a bag of microwave popcorn into the microwave. She hit the Power button and stepped back. A giant popping sound issued from the far wall, and the kitchen and adjacent living room plunged into darkness.

  Well, fuck.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  A hot burst of panic heated Emma’s chest, and she groaned. How was she supposed to fix this? It was way too late to call Sergio to help, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember what he had said to do.

  She reached for her pho
ne, her fingers itching to call Bex. Maybe she could walk her through it.

  No. No Bex.

  Emma took a deep breath and returned the phone to the kitchen counter.

  Just because she’d always had someone take care of things for her didn’t mean she couldn’t do this now.

  She took another yoga breath. This had to be a blown fuse. No big deal.

  In her last place, the fuse box had been in the master bedroom, so she could start there. Emma strode into her bedroom, walking past the mattress resting directly on the floor and into the closet. She crawled over a stack of boxes and pushed aside a few dresses that she’d hung on the wire racks, revealing a metal box set into the wall.

  There.

  She opened the fuse box and located the switch labeled Kitchen, then flicked it back into the correct position.

  Fingers crossed.

  “I don’t blame you, little fuse box,” she crooned to it as she shut the door. “Anything that’s overloaded has to give.”

  Her heart included.

  Emma rubbed a hand over her chest and went to inspect the kitchen.

  One problem at a time.

  Emma’s office phone rang just after lunchtime on Monday, pulling her attention from the screen she’d been staring at blankly for the last ten minutes.

  Had she read a single word?

  “Emma, hi.” Jeremy Glass was on the line, his smooth, confident voice filling her ear. “Did you have a nice Fourth of July?”

  She stifled a groan. Independence Day in Las Vegas was a thing, but the only fireworks in her life this week, other than the blown fuse, had come when she accidentally left some tinfoil on a piece of pizza she was reheating in the microwave.

  Boom.

  She really needed to work on her microwave skills.

  “All good.” Emma gritted her teeth and curled the phone cord around her finger. “What can I help you with?”

  “I wanted to congratulate you on the article with Sexational Magazine. Avery dropped a fresh copy on my desk this morning, and it looks great.”

  “Oh.” In the swirl of everything, she hadn’t realized the issue had been released. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for making such a strong showing for our team. Very good work.”

  “You bet,” she said, and Jeremy offered his goodbyes.

  Emma set the phone in its cradle and whirled as she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

  Bex stood in the doorway to her office, a wrapped package clutched in her hands.

  Emma waved her in, and Bex dropped into the empty guest chair next to Emma, setting the package on the desk.

  “How’s the new place?” Bex asked.

  Emma shrugged and traced a finger along her desktop. She’d bitten her nails down, and her skin was cracked and dry. “It’s good, actually.” She frowned. “I mean, the circumstances suck. But I’ve been waiting for so long to get my own place, and it’s nice to be all independent.”

  Bex studied her, unconvinced. “You were always independent. You’re a force of nature.”

  Emma offered a small smile, and the tightness in her chest eased ever so slightly. “Thank you. I just mean I’m living on my own. It’s not that big a deal, but I can’t believe I’ve waited all these years to do it. I get to walk around in my underwear.” She paused. “Not that I didn’t do that before.”

  The memory of her sweaty night with broken air conditioning sent a spike of tears into her throat. Deacon. In her bed. Naked.

  Her face crumpled.

  Bex snagged a tissue from the box on Emma’s desk and shoved it into her hands. “You’re going to be okay, chickadee.”

  Emma pressed the tissue to her face. “I know. I always am.”

  Bex nudged her foot against Emma’s. “I know you’ve got a prize-winning vibrator of your own,” she teased, “but if you want, you can come visit my desk and pick your favorite prototype to take home.”

  Emma’s voice was noncommittal. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Bex squeezed her knee. “Good.” Then her face lit. “Oooh! That gives me an idea. Maybe X Enterprises should put together a sexy breakup kit.” Emma winced, and Bex frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But, you know, it could be a super empowering pleasure box. There could be some lube, a toy, maybe a racy romance novel or two.”

  “Only if your package also includes copious amounts of alcohol.” Emma’s face pinched. “Preferably not tequila.”

  Bex smiled at her, her eyes bright. “I like where you’re going with this. I’ll deliver a sample kit to you tomorrow.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of which”—she pushed the wrapped package in Emma’s direction—“this is also for you.”

  “What’s this?” Emma asked.

  “Just open it.”

  Emma peeled back the paper to reveal a framed print of the magazine article.

  Bex grinned. “Figured you should have this for your desk.”

  It was such a nice thought, but the picture accompanying the article displayed her little purple vibrator, and all it did was remind her of Deacon.

  Emma set the frame on the far side of the desk, her chest heavy. She tried to brighten her voice, but she sounded like a strangled cat. “How’d you even get this? Jeremy told me the article just came out today.”

  “I asked for a proof copy.”

  “Clever girl.” She cracked a smile.

  “I learned from the best. Have you read the article?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Go ahead and read it now. I’ll wait.” Bex crossed her arms over her chest and made eyes at Emma until she grabbed the frame and started to read.

  Emma Harrington, X Enterprises’ Quality Control Manager, not only ensures that top-quality, body-safe products make it to the company’s customers, she also designs quality products herself.

  The article went on to share details about Emma’s design and her philosophy about pleasure. Bex wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the piece.

  Holy shit.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be the Emma show,” she said, her eyes watering. “This is all a mistake.”

  Bex flashed her a warm, genuine smile. “No, it’s not. I called Avery and had her correct the article to report the truth—that you were the designer of the toy. Not me.”

  “What did you do that for?”

  Bex reached forward and took her hands. “Emma, you are one of the most selfless people I know. You’re always lifting everyone up, even me when I don’t deserve it. But you? You deserve your own recognition. You have had some shitty things happen to you, and you’ve moved through them in such a strong, graceful way. And this toy was all you. The world needed to know.”

  Emma squeezed Bex’s hands, then wiped away a stray tear. “Thank you.” The article meant more than she could say. “I think I really needed to hear that.” She blew out a deep breath. “You’re right, you know. I can get through anything. Blown fuses, living on my own. Even this breakup.” She cracked a smile. “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

  “No.” Bex lifted a finger. “When life hands you lemons, toss that shit back and demand vibrators instead.”

  Chapter 30

  Deacon turned the corner of the Golden Oaks Apartments and scanned the building’s red doors until he spotted the number he’d typed into his phone. He strode forward and pushed a finger against the doorbell, his stomach clenched and his palms sweaty.

  “Who is it?” A shadow crossed behind the peephole.

  He licked his lips. “Deacon.”

  Emma opened the door, her eyes rimmed with red, and he felt a pang in his chest. “Deacon Whistler,” she whispered.

  “Sassafras Harrington.” She looked good. Well, she looked emotionally destroyed, but she was so familiar, so fucking perfect for him, that if she’d let him, he’d hang her picture in every room.

  Emma’s lower lip trembled. “How’d you find this place?”

  Deacon shifted on her doorstep. She’d laid out a doormat
shaped like a donut, and the sight of it brought a smile to his face. “I called in a favor with Bex.”

  Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m surprised she didn’t chew you out.”

  “Oh, she did. But she fully supported me winning you back.”

  “That’s what you’re trying to do?” She searched his eyes.

  “Not trying, Emma.” Deacon pushed back his shoulders and straightened. “Succeeding. I play to win, remember?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and when she closed it, her lips curved into the tiniest smile. “Do you want to come in?”

  Deacon’s shoulders lowered with relief. “Hell yes, I do.”

  A car horn honked out on the street, and Emma jumped.

  “Easy,” he said. His fingers itched to steady her, but he left them at his side instead. Today he needed to let her set the pace.

  Emma gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s a little less secure, living on my own. Especially with a ground-floor apartment. But I’m getting used to it.” The horn honked again, and Emma craned her neck to stare over his shoulder. Her forehead wrinkled, and she tilted her head to the side, her lips pursed. “What the hell is that?”

  Deacon followed her gaze to the pickup truck double-parked at her curb. A sheet-covered lump sat in the bed of the truck, waiting for her.

  He grinned at her. “I figured you might not have gotten around to picking out a bed just yet.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide. “Did you—?”

  “It’s a new one, Emma. Big enough for two, if you’ll have me back.” He held her eye and licked his lips with cautious hope. “I’m ready now.” Her eyes filled with tears, and he swiped one from her cheek. “Remember that time I told you I was going to mess up?” She nodded and laughed through her tears. “I think we discovered that when I do things, I do them to a spectacular degree.”

  Emma pressed a hand to her lips. “Oh, god, Deacon.”

  “I love you, you know.” His voice got husky. “You were right about a lot of things, Emma. I’m starting to figure out how to let go of the past. I need to because I want a future with you.”