Page 135 of The Play

Marlene’s gaze hadn’t missed a thing.

She’d seen the smile.

No doubt she’d seen every glance they’d sent each other.

The way Deacon had clenched down a little on Grant’s fingers when he’d mentioned, even briefly, the mess that they’d been forced to clean up when the team had changed hands.

“Did you read it?” Jem asked.

“Of course I read it,” Deacon retorted. He hadn’t really wanted to, but Grant had forwarded it to him and asked him specifically to make sure there wasn’t anything in it he didn’t want in the public eye.

Some of Marlene’s phrases had been rocketing around his brain since he’d scanned it.

Meant to be.

Two men who both tend to fight for everyone else, fighting for each other.

Same wavelength.

All those things were probably true. But reading the article, Deacon had been struck by exactly what had worried Grant about doing this.

Suddenly their relationship wasn’t just their own. It was everyone’s, packaged for their easy consumption. Deacon hadn’t considered what it would be like to read about it from someone else’s point of view.

Marlene had taken it easy on them and had been kind and undeniably supportive, even, but Deacon still found it really freaking weird.

“You don’t sound particularly happy about it,” Jem said gently.

“I’m not . . .unhappy about it. It’s just an adjustment.”

“Yeah. No kidding. You barely dated before this. Nevermind dated someone like Grant. Or talked about your feelings to a journalist who works for the New York Times. I was kinda expecting you to go running and screaming from all of this.”

“Thank you,” Deacon said dryly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, I realized that, too. Look, it’s a lot of people with their noses in your business—which you hate; you can’t even tell me you don’t, because I know you hate it, Deac—but you fight for the shit you really want. And you’ve always wanted him—”

“Jem,” Deacon interrupted warningly.

“Don’t even bother saying you didn’t,” Jem said.

“Okay, fine. I wanted him.”

“And you got him.” Jem’s tone had gone impudent. “So why would you let him go if things got tough? In fact, things getting tough only probably made you cling to him harder.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me,” Jem teased.

Deacon rolled his eyes even though Jem couldn’t see it.

“Did you find an architect yet?” Deacon asked.

“Not yet. None of them are willing to let me to backseat architect them, and that’s what I’m holding out for. Lots of input into the design,” Jem said. “And don’t try to change the subject.”

“I wasn’t,” Deacon claimed, even though that was not exactly true.

These days it was easy enough to divert Jem’s attention, just by bringing up the house he was building in his hometown of Christmas Falls.

Or Murphy, Jem’s oldest friend and his new boyfriend.

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