Charlie laughed, his wide eyes saying exactly how fun that conversation must’ve been, and Deacon laughed with him, impressed.
Arabella’s father was David Stone, the most ruthless man in country music, and CEO of Belle Meade Records. Otherwise known as the man who held Deacon’s future in his hands. David’s one-time low opinion of Charlie and his legendary playboy ways had been a major stumbling block for Charlie over the summer, keeping him from acting on his feelings for Arabella. Thankfully, the two men worked out their differences and now seemed to get along rather well.
Still, Deacon wouldn’t want the guy for a father-in-law.
“Dude, he’s scary as hell on a good day,” Charlie said with an amused shake of his head. “Try asking permission to marry his one and only daughter. But, I’ve got to say, he surprised me. Gave me his blessing and said to keep making his baby happy. I promised to do just that.”
As the bassist’s face relaxed in a lovesick grin, Deacon’s attention shifted back to the floor.
This was good news. Charlie and Arabella made sense as a couple. They complemented each other strengths, filled each other’s weaknesses. They deserved each other and a lifetime of happiness. Not to mention, with Stone now definitely going to the Opry event, Deacon had a solid chance to impress him. But he couldn’t deny there was a part of him that felt uneasy, too.
One by one, the band was marrying off. If he had to guess, their guitarist was next.
Miles had a girl back home, his former manager’s daughter. After a night of too much whiskey, he’d told Deacon that Lindsay used to be his Hannah—until a crazy weekend together changed everything. Now, the two friends rarely talked, and whenever they did, it always hit him hard. Miles went out with Nate and got drunk, pretending everything was fine, but Deacon recognized the look of regret in his eyes. Sooner or later, he’d wise up and go after her. Miles was a good man.
Nate was a different animal. Still a good guy, but he’d probably never settle down, so at least that meant another bachelor in the band. But while Deacon had written off the idea of women and relationships years ago, Nate went through them like water. Bolting after every show, staying out until the early morning, never going long without female companionship.
Which…in a roundabout way…left Deacon the actual sole loner of the group.
He swallowed hard. Then, one day, Hannah would leave him, too.
There wasn’t any doubt she’d find someone. She’d fall in love and marry some guy who wouldn’t even deserve the incredible creature he’d have won, because no man was worthy of her, and then he’d truly be alone. Like he deserved.
Like he’d been before Hannah Fisher ever walked into his life.
A glance at the clock on the wall showed it was ten o’clock. The girls had left over two hours ago, which meant Hannah could be out there right now, meeting the man she’d one day marry. Smiling that sweet smile, laughing at his jokes. Looking at him as if he’d hung the moon.
Deacon’s stomach twisted so hard he felt sick.
With a quick check on a slumbering Max on the sofa, Deacon raised his eyes and found Tyler already staring at him. Without a word, the lead singer handed him a yellow sticky note with an address on it, and Charlie nodded in approval.
“We’ll hold down the fort,” his soon-to-be engaged friend told him. “Go and get your lobster.”
Chapter Seven
Three and a half drinks later, Hannah figured she just about had this flirting thing down.
At least in theory.
“You sure do have a pretty smile, sugar,” a tall blonde cowboy told her, flashing a set of pearly whites. It was an odd thing for him to say, considering she hadn’t smiled in the last couple minutes, but she appreciated it anyway.
As far as flirt victims…err, targets were considered, he seemed friendly enough. Outgoing and forgiving of her awkward attempts at conversation—but then, she hadn’t complimented the roundness of his Adam’s apple, or accidentally spilled a drink down his back when she’d leaned in, either. Hannah considered that definite progress.
“Um”—she hiccupped—“thanks.”
Unsure of how else to respond to the compliment, she tried tugging her lips into the aforementioned gesture—only, her mouth hesitated to cooperate. And, when it finally did, it kind of stretched a bit at the edges and felt sort of funny. Like her smile no longer fit her face.
And speaking of her face, the skin around her mouth felt strange, too. Almost rubbery, but also sort of numb. Like Jim Carrey in The Mask. Only, hopefully not green.
Hannah gazed at the freshly filled cup in her hand and giggled. Oops. She probably should’ve told the girls that she was a lightweight.
Cowboy Man scooted forward, catching Hannah off guard, and she stumbled on her borrowed heels into the person behind her. Her pink drink sloshed across her hand and spilled onto the floor. She frowned. Such a waste.
“Wanna dance?”
“Dance?” she repeated, setting her cup on the bar top. There should be some sort of rule about drinking in borrowed shoes, especially heels. Ugh, heels were the devil. Looking back up at her flirtee, a confused wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.
Ah, right. He’d asked her to dance. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. Sober Hannah resembled a confused buffalo when she danced. Buzzed Hannah? Well, she rarely drank more than a glass of wine here or there anyway, due to the whole “lightweight” problem, but she felt moderately confident that Buzzed Hannah was even worse. A deranged buffalo, perhaps?
Besides, if she were going to dance, it certainly wouldn’t be with him. Dancing meant being held and breathing the same air, and Cowboy Man smelled all wrong. Like leather and whiskey. Deacon always smelled like cinnamon and soap. Clean, fresh, and spicy. Just the way she liked it.
Hannah shook her head, then widened her eyes when the room continued to bounce around her vision. “Nope,” she finally answered, popping the p as the world righted itself again. “Don’t dance. Buffalo problems.”
Cowboy Man quirked an eyebrow, but Hannah shrugged it off.
Glancing around, she wondered where Sherry and Arabella had disappeared to. Or that nice bodyguard, Tony. She hoped they were paying attention, as she’d had a rather successful round this time. Much better than the men she’d praised for their neatly trimmed nose hair and prominent clavicles, and so far, she’d yet to bring up the fact that bar stools were probably covered in feces and sperm, since most people didn’t wash their hands. Eck. Nope, this time, she’d made some minor adjustments to the game plan and skipped the compliment and random factoid portion altogether.
Now…now she was ready for a nap.
Cowboy Man regrouped and took her hand. “Don’t worry, sugar. I can dance real well, so you can just hold on to me. I’ll take good care of you.” Then, smelling that wrong smell of his, he tightened his grip and tried dragging her onto the dance floor.
Hannah shook her head again and tugged back. “No, thank you,” she told him with a frown. She was ready to go home. She’d managed to avoid embarrassing herself, so tonight’s lesson should be complete. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d like to go back to my friends.”
“Aw, come on, honey,” he urged, getting a bit forceful now. “Just one little dance.”
Hannah dug in her heels, but they sort of just slid across the tacky ground. She wind-milled her free arm to keep from losing her balance, prepared to hit the nasty floor covered in who-knew-what—but she never fell. Instead, a strong arm suddenly wrapped around her waist and yanked her back against a solid, muscular chest.
Cinnamon and soap flooded her senses. “I believe the lady said she wasn’t interested.”
The body supporting her weight was coiled tight with aggression, but Hannah wasn’t worried. On the contrary, she’d never felt safer in her life. This was Deacon, after all, and this was what he did. He saved her and made everything better.
With a pat of his firm chest, she mused aloud, “My Superman.”
Cowboy Man scowled, and his eyes locked on the arm slung low around her waist.
For the span of a heartbeat, Hannah thought he was going to argue, or challenge Deacon to an old-fashioned barroom brawl. But that could’ve been the alcohol swimming in her veins. In the end, he just sucked his teeth and shook his head, finally forcing a smile onto his face. A wise move when confronted with an angry Deacon.
“Fair enough.” He took a step back, his hard jaw and stiff posture saying what his words didn’t. “Y’all have a nice night.”
With a tip of his hat, he turned on his boots and disappeared into the crowd. Hannah exhaled in relief. That could’ve gotten rather sticky. Then Tony materialized in front of them, Sherry and Arabella on either side, and the gang was back together. “My friends!”
The bodyguard shot her a glance, then stared grimly over Hannah’s head. “I had my eye on her,” he told Deacon. “I was seconds away from stepping in myself.”
“Guys, I’m sure he was harmless,” Sherry cut in, sending Hannah a sympathetic smile. “Our girl had it under control.” But when her gaze switched over to Deacon, she winced a little. “We just wanted her to have some fun. I had no idea she had such a low tolerance.”
A grunt came from behind her, and Deacon turned Hannah in his arms. Again, she tried for her usual bright, sunny smile, and again, it felt like her lips had been replaced with rubber. She gave him one anyway, and he groaned.
Eyes on her, Deacon’s expression shifted from one of frustration, to one of amusement, before finally settling on something sweeter. Something much more tender.
Something that made her heart flutter like crazy.
Pulling her close again, Deacon tucked Hannah into his body. He raised his chin at Tony. “I’ll get her home. Why don’t you three take the Uber I have waiting outside?”
Hannah smiled, liking that plan, and snuggled deeper in his hold. Whereas she’d been as eager as a beaver to head home a minute ago, she was more than happy to hang back if it meant one-on-one time with Deacon. Especially now that she had a few tools in her bucket, courtesy of her beloved Flirt Squad.
Arabella and Sherry exchanged a grin, and Ella shot her a wink. Trying to play it cool, Hannah wished them both a good night and thanked Tony for his escort—but she didn’t budge from where she stood. Nope, she was content to stay right where she was, forever if she could. In a crowded, hazy nightclub somewhere in West Virginia, with her head over Deacon’s heart and his arms holding her close.
Unfortunately, he had other plans. Shifting her back, Deacon nudged her chin up with his knuckle and looked her over with concern. “You okay there, sweetheart?”
Hannah nodded, knowing he was asking about the scene he’d walked in on. “I’m good.”
She wished she could tell him just how good she was. He’d come for her, just as she would always come for him. They were bonded that way. A team. If only he’d open his stupid eyes and see what was in front of him, everything would be perfect.
Deacon studied her for another moment, that same almost tender smile from earlier curving his mouth. “Why don’t we grab a table and hang out for a while.”
It was a statement, not a question, and it was music to her ears.
Hannah bit her lip and nodded, but felt it pertinent to add, “But no more drinking.”
Deacon laughed and took hold of her shoulders in his large hands, jostling her gently while he steered her toward the back of the club. “Only water, darlin’.”
Grinning, she let him lead her to a section a bit more private than the crowded bar, a bit more intimate, and went back over Sherry’s flirting tips in her mind.
Prepare yourself, Superman. Cherry’s about to make her move.
Chapter Eight
In a dark, secluded booth at the back of the club, Deacon wrapped his hand around a glass of water and drank like his life suddenly depended on it. In some ways, it felt like it did.
Across from him, Hannah mimicked the gesture, pursing her plump red lips around the straw as she stared a hole into the tabletop, and Deacon cursed as he had to adjust himself again in his jeans. Even watching her drink water was sexy now. He was so damn screwed.
The seething anger from seeing that jerk manhandle her had faded to a low boil, but in its wake had swelled an emotion that was more complicated to deal with and a hell of a lot more tempting.
Peaches. She’d smelled like peaches.
The new scent was seriously messing with his head. Normally, Hannah smelled like her freesia body wash, which somehow smelled like candy and flowers rolled together. It was soft, sweet, and feminine, just like her, and it’d gotten to the point where he couldn’t walk through the floral department or even the candy aisle at a grocery store and not think about her. Now he’d never look at fruit the same way, either.
Ever since he’d inhaled the tropical scent on her breath, assumedly from the pink cocktail she’d been devouring, Deacon couldn’t help wondering if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
It was that kind of thinking that kept knocking him for a loop. Hannah’s blue-green eyes flicked to his, her damn full lips still wrapped around that straw, and it hit him like a physical blow. Ever since she’d walked out in that dress tonight, he’d been reliving their “almost kiss.” Berating himself for letting the moment go on for as long as it had….and questioning his own sanity. He knew damn well what it was like to lose Hannah and how miserable he’d been when she lived in Paris. Did he really think this could possibly end any differently? That she wouldn’t run the second things fizzled and got weird?
No. Allowing his imagination free reign was one thing; giving in…
An abrupt thud jerked Deacon’s attention back to the club. Across the booth, Hannah shoved aside her discarded glass and leaned against the table.
“Anyone ever told you your ears are the perfect shape for your face?”
He started to say thank you…then, “My ears?”
“Yep.” She looked at him from beneath dark eyelashes, and a slow smile curved her lips. “I love a man who gives good ear.”
Deacon choked on his spit. The line—if that was what that was—didn’t even make any sense. But when delivered with the liquid desire swirling in her eyes, he more than got the point.
Okay…so maybe he wasn’t the only one having inappropriate thoughts lately. But that was explainable. Normal, even. They’d recently been separated for the longest time since they’d known each other, and they were struggling with where they fit now. Plus, they were both young and hot-blooded, living in close quarters, and they trusted each other. It was expected that boundaries would blur. It had happened with Miles and Lindsay, too, only they messed up and gave in, and it ruined their friendship.
The difference here was that he and Hannah wouldn’t be the only ones hurt in the fallout. Max would be devastated, too. His actions had already cost his son one mother in his life, and he was only just beginning to grasp what it meant to have a single parent. Deacon couldn’t let him lose Hannah, too.
With that thought, he grabbed his glass. He took another large gulp—as if strength was somehow infused in the water—and watched a determined look settle over Hannah’s face before she started a deliberate scoot around the long, curved booth for eight.
Sweat dotted his upper lip. He liked to think he was a strong man and could withstand just about anything; his past sure as hell tested that theory more than was necessary. But the past few weeks had weakened him, and if Hannah actually pressed that body against him and came onto him? He’d need the libido of a monk to say no.
Blood rushed from Deacon’s brain, and his favorite body part stood at attention. Shiiiiiit.
As Hannah neared, the thought crossed his mind that he was getting his due. This was the universe’s way of punishing him for his past sins. After all, when he’d left Tyler and Charlie at the bus, hadn’t he let them think this was exactly what would happen? At the time, it’d seemed easier to go along, since it helped get him off the bus faster,
which stopped Hannah from meeting someone else and replacing him. Another reason he was being punished.
With each slow slide of Hannah’s hips, Deacon’s mind raced. She was drunk, or at the very least, severely buzzed, which meant she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. It was on him, as the sober person at the table, to keep their friendship intact.
Grabbing hold of the bench cushion, he inhaled deeply through his nose, needing a dose of clarity. What he got instead was peach and freesia. Hannah erased the scant inch left between them, scooting until her thigh fit tightly against his, and a jolt of energy passed through his body.
As Deacon closed his eyes, he imagined two mystical creatures perched on either shoulder. One good, one bad, fighting it out for the upper hand. He hoped the good one proved stronger than him.
“Deke,” Hannah whispered, and the warmth of her breath hit his neck, giving him chills. The devil on his left cackled with glee. “I want to know what it’s like.”
Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He shouldn’t ask. He. Should not. Ask.
“What what’s like?” he asked.
A breathy moan hit his ear next, and the sound shook the hackles of his restraint. “What it’s like to feel your scruff on my…” When her voice trailed off, Deacon’s eyes flew open at the possibilities. She inhaled audibly and finally whispered, “My everywhere.”
“Holy hell.”
Deacon searched his mind for a basketball player, any basketball player, and came up empty. The angel on his shoulder had nothing, either. A lot of help you are.
Hannah grinned, clearly pleased with herself, and leaned in closer. Of course, having already been firmly pressed against his side, closer meant crushing her barely covered breasts against his arm.
At the feel of those soft curves on his bare skin, Deacon’s eyelids grew heavy. Three weeks of fighting had left his control hanging by a thread. Hannah licked her lips and skated the fingertips of her left hand down his chest and over the ripples of his stomach.
The Nanny Arrangement (Country Blues) Page 11
