“Do you want lunch?” I whispered.
And instantly, he gave me more.
I watched up close as his eyes started smiling.
I’d been right all those years ago. His eyes had the power to make you feel what he was feeling. Cold to your soul. Or warm in a way you’d never again feel a chill.
And that was how I felt right then with Deacon’s eyes smiling into mine.
Like I’d never feel cold again.
Like I’d feel warm and right and whole and connected and safe.
Forever.
“Yeah,” he whispered back.
I pushed my forehead into his, forcing him to allow me to slide it to the side, down his cheek so I could roll up on my toes and shove my face in his neck.
He moved his hands as I did this, one going to curl around the back of my neck, the other one sifting into my hair to cup the back of my head.
I simply continued to clutch his shirt.
And standing there, holding each other like that, nonverbally, as Deacon was prone to be, we sealed a deal that elated and terrified me.
On that thought, a knock came at the door and Deacon’s body tensed as my hands gripped his shirt tighter.
Now, that could be Milagros, but only if she felt like taking a break.
He didn’t move his hands even as he let me tip my head back to catch his gaze.
“That might be Milagros, the lady that helps me.”
If I had a guess, I would have guessed that he would nod and step away, stay in the study or absent himself in some way. Keep to the shadows even on a sunny day.
He did not do this.
In fact, he so did not do this he let me go and walked right out of the study.
I followed him and saw him going to the door.
It was then I felt him, the alertness coming off him and filling the foyer, and my eyes went from his back that was twisting, to his face that was turned to me.
“It’s not your girl,” he murmured and I looked quickly to the door to see it appeared there were a number of people standing out on my porch.
“Oh man,” I muttered.
Deacon opened the door.
I hurried to his side and my stomach pitched when I saw who was there.
Two of the people were Annabelle and Peyton. One was a young man older than Annabelle but definitely related to her. And rounding out the lot were two adults that could be no one other than Annabelle’s parents.
None of them looked happy.
“Can we help you?” Deacon asked.
“Are you Mr. Swallow?” the father asked back.