I couldn’t predict a winner so I didn’t try.
After his last awesome stay, Deacon had taken a job and come back. It was three days before my family was going to descend and there was a lot to do.
The house needed to be cleaned and we needed to go to the grocery store. This was because we were having a big spread the night they arrived. At Deacon’s request, my loaded potato casserole (and because Dad liked it too) would be served and Deacon was going to grill steaks (another talent I discovered, my badass could man a grill).
The next night, we were having a big shindig. More barbequing, hotdogs, hamburgers, brats, chicken breasts. Milagros, Manuel, and the kids were coming, as well as few of my friends from town.
Deacon had not hesitated to approve his meeting of my friends. He did this over the phone while he was on his job.
“Whatever you want, Cassie.”
Whatever I wanted.
I so loved Deacon Deacon.
And the last thing to do before my family descended, according to my man, was teach our dog to stay.
So I was giving them time and was up in the bedroom, determined to unpack Deacon’s bag. He’d said this stay would be a month. He’d also said, “Gonna start cuttin’ ties, Cassidy.”
He didn’t explain this fully.
He didn’t have to.
I got it.
He was preparing to be with me.
Always.
And I was preparing to have him, doing this by making a point by unpacking his bag. I’d already cleared a drawer and space in the closet. I did this as a statement but I also did it because I was sick of tripping over his crap when I was in the closet.
A win-win for me.
I was also going to corral Lacey into going shopping with me. Deacon looked good in his tees, shirts, jeans, and definitely his belts. He had kickass belts.
But he didn’t have many clothes.
I was going to rectify that. If he didn’t want to take them on the road, that was okay. They could stay home.
Home.
With me.
I grinned.
He’d tossed his dirty stuff in the laundry so I dragged the bag out of the closet and put it on the bed. Tees, socks, and boxer briefs in the drawer. Belts (two of them, he had three, one he was wearing) on the hooks on the wall in the closet. Extra pair of boots on the floor. Jeans (three pairs, all faded; as hot as they were, definitely needed new) and shirts on hangers. Dopp kit in the bathroom, unpacked and put in a drawer. Then there were the three thick rolls of bills, the outside bills in denominations ranging from twenty to one hundred held tight by rubber bands that I found, ignored (but didn’t, since I had to touch them), and put in with his socks and briefs.
And then it happened.
I was down to the bottom, feeling the loose change, forgotten receipts, and lint brushing my fingers in the bag, and I hit what felt like paper. Slick paper.
I closed my fingers around it and pulled it out.
It was a white piece of photograph paper and it was in a bad state. A corner ripped, the paper crumpled and wrinkled like it took a battering but was consistently smoothed out.
My brows drew together. I flipped it.
And stopped breathing.