Page 28 of Deacon

My hands move of their own accord as I make toast and coffee, but my head is in that bathroom with her. My whole attention is concentrated on it.

Over the summer, it occurred to me that this is more than attraction. I have an obsession. It started with soft fern-green. It escalated to watching her daily in the café, to watching her in the church parking lot, and went all the way to seeing her undress through the crack in my closet and giving her a phone so I can keep tabs on her.

I have a problem.

But I don’t have a problem with it.

She clears her throat. I turn. Right away, my dick twitches. She fills out my flannel perfectly. The top button is open, showing her cleavage. The hem comes to the middle of her thighs, leaving those curvy legs bare.

“You hungry?” I manage.

She nods, eyes huge. “I didn’t get dinner.”

“Sit at the table,” I say. “I’ll make something.”

She obeys, but her eyes follow my every move, wary like an animal. I set the coffee and toast down in front of her.

“You like fried eggs?” I ask. “Bacon?”

She nods.

“Not a big talker, huh?”

She shakes her head. I smile, and I think I see a flicker of one in return. I take a cast iron skillet and set it to warm up while I get the eggs and leftover bacon from this morning. Her gaze follows my every move, even when she takes a sip from her mug.

“So, tell me about yourself,” I say.

She clears her throat. “There’s nothing much to say. What do you do?”

“I own the place and I train the horses and sell them. We also do some cattle out here.”

“I don’t do anything that interesting,” she says thoughtfully. “I work at the café. At night, I go home and do the cooking.”

“You don’t have nothing you like?”

She tilts her head. “I collect moths and butterflies. Some beetles.”

That catches me completely off guard. I stare at her for a minute, the grease in the pan crackling as the bacon reheats.

“Like, you keep them in a bucket or something?” I ask.

She laughs, and my head goes empty. It’s a soft, pretty sound, barely bubbling from her throat. A blush fills out her cold cheeks.

“No, I collect them when they’re dead and keep them preserved,” she says.

“Why?”

I don’t mean it in a bad way, I’ve just never met anybody with a strong interest in bugs and moths.

“Because they’re beautiful,” she says. “And interesting.”

I lean on the counter, crossing my arms. “Huh. How many do you have?”

“Hundreds, near about.”

“That’s a lot of bugs.”

She tilts her head, and her guard goes up again. “You think it’s silly.”

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