“It’s owned and run by a family of third-generation Mexican Americans,” I shared and his head turned to me. “Obviously,” I went on, since that was in the name, kind of, without the third generation part and adding the jumping bean. “They have normal coffee. And fancy coffee. And Mexican coffee, which has cinnamon in it and,” I leaned into him, “it’s divine.”
He looked into my eyes, then to my lips, his lips quirked and he moved to undo his seatbelt.
I watched him do this, thrown, because apparently he felt he had to go with me, then I darted my hand out and curled it around his wrist.
He looked back at me.
“You don’t have to go in,” I told him. “I’ll get the coffees and come out.”
His eyes moved over my face, his expression not giving anything away, until suddenly his wrist twisted, disengaging mine but only so he could catch my hand, lift it, and jerk it. He did this hard enough to bring me closer to him, not hard enough to cause any pain.
When I was leaning across the cab, he leaned in to me.
“I’d never do anything to harm you and I’d never do anything to put you in danger,” he declared.
In the face of going to get coffee before a road trip, that was suddenly and surprisingly heavy.
If welcome.
“Okay,” I agreed.
He continued, “The only lie you live is calling me Priest. That’s already asking too much. I won’t ask more. That means you don’t hide me. You don’t protect me. You want it, we find our way to it, I’m your man. In your life. When I’m here, I’m at your side. Not secret. But that’s your call. You don’t want me walkin’ in there with you, I sit in the truck. You wanna work toward us findin’ a way for me to be a part of your life, I go in with you.”
“I want you to go in with me,” I replied immediately and just as immediately he released my hand.
But he did it so his could flash out, fingertips grazing my jaw as they moved back into my hair. He curled them in, putting pressure on, pulling me to him as he bent to me, and when he got me where he wanted me, he kissed me dizzy.
I started blinking when he released my mouth, expending effort to focus on him as I tried to get over the kiss and more, what he’d said through it.
“Then let’s get my Cassie a coffee,” he muttered, letting me go, and turning to his door.
My Cassie.
Seriously, I was wondering who’d actually taken up the challenge.
Because it might not be big and grand, full of words, flowers, orchestras playing, fairy dust filtering through the air, but he found his quiet but spectacular ways to make me more and more happy. He did it repeatedly. And he did it successfully.
Which meant I had to step up my game.
* * * * *
I was halfway through my huge-ass, awesome, Mexican cinnamon coffee and we were a quarter of the (silent, so far) way to our destination when it hit me.
Last night, I’d prodded gently.
And if Deacon didn’t want to answer, he didn’t. He didn’t do it mean. He didn’t shut me down (well, not in an overt way). He didn’t get angry.
He just didn’t answer.
So I turned to him and stated, “Right, Deacon Deacon, tell me something.”
At my Deacon Deacon, I saw the grooves form at the side of his mouth, his eyes crinkling, and this heartened me.
When I was done speaking, he invited, “Shoot.”
“I’m taking it the license you gave me was fake.”
“Yup,” he answered easily.