Page 66 of Deacon

I spend most of my time at work. Autumn brings the fall festivals, the farmer’s markets, and the auctions to the towns and cities. It’s good for Tracy’s businesses, and she’s often pulled away, leaving me in charge of the café. I don’t mind working alone. The townspeopleare curious about me. I make up better stories to tell them about my past than the truth.

Most of them call me church girl. I’m not sure why.

The men never write their numbers on napkins and leave them. That’s confusing. Back at home, I had boys hanging on my window at the ice cream shop now and then. Here, the men from Knifley are respectful when they order, and they don’t flirt with me much.

The days slip by. It feels like dozens, but it’s been less than a week since I saw Deacon.

I wonder why it feels so long.

The café keeps me company. I sell coffee and chat with people I know but not well enough to say we’re friends. It’s late afternoon, one day that feels like fall and the pumpkin pastries are flying off the shelves, when I’ve got a few customers left and I’m thinking about closing thirty minutes early. There’s a young man talking to me, leaning on the counter. He’s a cowboy from one of the neighboring farms. They like to stand around and shoot the shit so they don’t have to get back to work.

I smile and nod where it’s appropriate.

The door swings open. The little café is filled with a strong presence that makes me lift my head.

My stomach flutters. I tuck a curl behind my ear.

Deacon Ryder walks in, the bell ringing in his wake. He’s as tall as the door and more than half as broad. As usual, he’s in that charcoal gray Henley that clings to his shoulders, frayed at the collar where it touches his neck. Over it is his Carhartt jacket, and on his feet are his work boots.

My mind is filled with images of what he did to me that night in the blacksmith shop. The fire flickering, his dark eyes on me, lids heavy with desire. The dizzying and exhilarating experience of being bent backward over the anvil. The fence stake was a little…unexpected. It woke me up to the fact that I think Deacon is a little wilder in the bedroom than he’s been letting on.

My face flames just thinking about it.

Deacon crosses the room, boots loud on the wooden floor. The man looks up, shifting over a few steps. Deacon sends him a sideways glance.

“You flirting with my girl?” he asks.

The cowboy shakes his head. “Nope, just leaving.”

Alright, it makes more sense as to why no man in Knifley gives me more than a polite nod. The man leaves, and it’s just Deacon and me in the café. He takes his hat off and sets it on the counter.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I say.

“Have to establish my territory.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “What’s got you so full of it today?”

“I’ve just got a whole lot of something,” he says, “and now I got somewhere for it to be.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Can I get a coffee, sweetheart?”

I turn to fill a paper cup, and he lets out a low whistle. Startled, I let the carafe go and turn on my heel. “Don’t whistle at me.”

“Why?” His eyes glint with a smile. “You look pretty good in that short little skirt.”

I pull at the hem of my skirt. It’s new. Tracy gave me a bag of her grown daughter’s clothes. This morning, I was feeling a little bolder than usual, so I put on a plaid skirt that hugs my hips and upper thighs and tucked in a black sweater with a dipped neckline. Nothing’s showing, and I’m wearing a thick pair of black tights underneath, but it’s still a little sassier than what I’m used to.

His eyes run up and down.

“You look pretty good,” he says again.

That look steals over his face, the one that makes his head cock and his lips part.

I turn back around to fill his cup, but knowing he’s looking me up and down, probably hard under his zipper, has me flustered. I take my time getting a lid and fitting it on. Then, I hand it to him.

He gives me two dollars. Our fingers brush. The sensation tingles up my arm.

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