He’d said we’d changed.
Now I was wondering what that meant.
But I couldn’t think about that. Thinking about that would drive me crazy. Or to the bourbon. Or to bed to sob myself to oblivion and I had stuff to do and comforters to clean.
I had to think of other things and luckily I ran my own business so I had a bazillion other things to think about.
I dealt with about five of those, namely checking e-mails, confirming bookings that came in, handling my calendar, dealing with a cancellation, and looking up the phone number to Vista Real Condos.
I called it and asked to be put through to Annabelle and Peyton’s unit, just to see if they were okay. Reception rang me through but there was no answer.
I disconnected, deciding not to leave a voicemail and instead get in my Rover and drive there to check on them in person.
I made this decision when a knock came on the door.
I looked toward the foyer.
It couldn’t be Milagros. Shampooing rugs and furniture took forever and the woman was a neat freak. Although the boys cleaned that cabin, she’d go over it again until you could eat off the floors.
Maybe it was another renter or someone who saw the sign and pulled in, thinking correctly: a night at Glacier Lily was just the thing. This didn’t happen often, I mostly rented through bookings, but it happened.
I pulled myself out of the chair, walked into the foyer, and stopped dead.
This was because I could see Deacon’s big body in my front door window silhouetted by the late morning sun behind him and partially obscured by my filmy curtains.
My heart pulsed hard in my chest and my mind was warring with being annoyed he was dragging this crap out (and I didn’t know him but that didn’t seem very…him) and being overjoyed that I’d see him one last time.
Leave it to Deacon to check out in person the only time I wouldn’t want him to do just that.
I pulled myself together, walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and looked up into his impassive but impossibly good-looking face, wishing in that second he’d taken me on the table with the lights on so I could watch him do it.
I did all this opening my mouth to say something.
I again got nothing out.
He moved into me and I was forced to move back.
The thing was, he kept moving. He didn’t stop, grunt something, and hand me my key then exit the premises immediately (this being what I imagined Deacon’s form of good-bye would be).
I turned to watch him move and saw he had a brown paper bag, the top rolled over and clenched in his fist, and he was heading to my kitchen.
Stunned silent by this, I closed the door and followed him.
I stopped two feet into my kitchen to see him at the table, the table where he’d fucked me.
Seeing him standing there, the sun coming in the windows subdued by the trees around my house, and doing it like he’d done it thousands of times before, I remained stunned silent.
So did he (though without the stunned part) but he didn’t do it immobile. He was unrolling the top of the bag he’d put on my table.
I watched him wondering what was going on.
Did he buy groceries?
His head turned slightly, not fully, so it was really just his eyes that slid to me.
“Cassidy. Here.”
Here?