Page 16 of Deacon

“You’re different tonight.” Her fingers were in my hair.

I kissed her so I didn’t have to answer. Then I said the only true thing I could give her.

“Mine,” I said against her mouth. “You hear me? You’re mine. No one is taking you away.”

“Yours,” she whispered.

She came with her thighs locked tight around my waist and her face pressed into my neck, every muscle in her body drawing up and then letting go all at once. It dragged me over after her. I hung on through it like the floor was falling away.

Afterwards she slept almost at once, sprawled across me, her hair spread over my chest like spilled paint.

I lay awake and looked at the ceiling.

She was twenty-eight. At twenty-eight I’d already done things I’d confess to nobody, and I’d added a few since. She’d built a clean life in this town with her own two hands, and I was forty, wearing colors, carrying her father’s secrets that were going to break her heart.

I was old enough to know better. I’d known better for four years.

I’d come anyway, twice a week, every week.

She’d be angry I’d waited a night. She had every right to be. I could live with angry, as long as it came tomorrow and she was still here with me.

Tomorrow, then. First thing, over coffee, before the ovens got hot.

I’d tell her everything.

CHAPTER 5

CHELSEA

Tomorrow started at three-forty, with Deacon’s phone.

It buzzed on the nightstand and he was up on one elbow before the second buzz, reading it with his jaw set. He swore under his breath. Then he was pulling on his jeans in the dark.

“Club thing,” he said. “I have to go.”

“It’s not even four.”

“I know.” He laced his boots on the side of the bed, then leaned over and kissed me hard. “I’ll be back by noon.” He paused at the door with his cut in his hand. “We need to talk.”

Then he was gone, and I lay there in the dark with those four words sitting on my chest.

We need to talk. Nobody in the history of the world had ever said that before good news. I got up and made the bread and told myself I was being ridiculous, and by six I’d convinced myself he was ending it, and by eight I’d convinced myself I didn’t care, and by ten I’d burned a whole tray of croissants.

Noon came. He texted at twelve-fifteen. Running late. Stay put.

I stayed put. I sold Earl his lunch and Linda her rye, and wiped the counters twice, and at a quarter to two, with the shop empty and the sign about to flip to Closed, the bell rang.

It was the man from before in another equally smart pressed shirt.

Blue this time, ironed so sharp you could slice bread on the creases. He smiled at me like we were old friends and came right up to the counter.

“Afternoon,” he said. “I didn’t buy anything last time. That was rude of me.”

“We’re about to close, actually.”

“I’ll be quick.” He studied the case. “Two of the green chile rolls, please. I hear they’re popular.”

My hands stopped on the register for a moment.