by Juliette Poe
I don’t think twice about tossing the clothes on the bed, then sticking my hand into his open bag. A measure of guilt or even caution seems appropriate, but I shake it off as I loop an index finger through the shiny portion of what I spied. Lips curling into a grin, I lift out the pair of handcuffs.
Not police handcuffs, as evidenced by the fact they’re lined with a thick pelt of what appears to be fuzzy lamb’s wool. There’s a tiny key stuck in the lock port, and I take it out to examine it.
I’m immediately stunned—partly worried Deacon might be kinkier than I ever would have given him credit for… but partly interested.
Way too interested in this potentially dirty side I might have uncovered.
Deep down, I know Deacon is a good guy. He has the scary, rough outer trappings as he’s huge, muscular, and bearded. Rides a bad-ass motorcycle and wears tight tees and jeans.
But I’ve come to realize—mainly because of last night when he turned down a sure bet out of respect for me—that despite these handcuffs, he’d never harm me in any way.
Maybe they’re used for funsies in the bedroom, although I don’t in a million years want to know why he travels with them. I’ve set myself up in a little bubble that refuses to ponder the women he might have met in his travels.
Twirling the cuffs, I wonder what they feel like on someone’s wrists.
My wrists to be specific.
An idea forms, and I give a quick glance at the door. It’s partially shut, and Deacon’s room is at the end of the hall. Private enough for what I intend to do, and it won’t take long.
Knowing this is stupid, a complete invasion of privacy, and will do nothing but ensure Deacon Locke will become infinitely more possessive of my inner thoughts, I move back to the bed. Sitting gingerly on the side, I lay the key on the table between the phone and a worn paperback copy of The Call of the Wild.
I love that book, making a mental note to discuss it with him.
But I’m more interested in the lamb’s wool cuffs and the fact Mely decorated all of the guest rooms with romantic antique furniture. All the rooms sport wrought-iron beds, and this one is done in distressed black paint with rounded porcelain knobs on the posts.
I repress a snicker over my temerity and childishness as I fasten one of the cuffs around my left wrist. I’m unprepared for the softness from the wool on my wrist. At the same time, a tiny bit of helplessness descends from having something locked around me that can’t be removed unless I’m in possession of the key. I hold up my arm, watching the other end of the cuff swing freely.
Focusing on the headboard, I clamp the other end to the horizontal wrought-iron pipe that intersects with the vertical outer one.
Without thought, I try to pull my left arm away, but it’s snagged tight. It’s an odd feeling. I’m not totally helpless because the key is right there on the table, but I can tell it would be a little scary without knowing freedom was within my grasp.
Slowly, I lay back on the bed, needing to swing my legs onto the mattress to do so, and I tug on my bond. I still have a hand free, but laying on my back, I realize I’d be pretty helpless should I ever let a man—Deacon—put me in this situation. Actually, though, I think I’d like it.
When I hear footsteps in the hallway, I freeze, the only part of my body seemingly working is the pulse that has started pounding in my neck. Fear courses through me, but then I hear the occupants of the room across the hall going into their room. Sounds like they had breakfast at Central Cafe if the wife raving about Muriel’s biscuits is any indication.
The rooms don’t sit directly across from one another, so there’s no way they can see me cuffed to the bed with the door partially closed unless they decided to be totally rude and come inside.
Luckily, they do not. As soon as I hear their door close, I shoot upward off the bed, pulling tight against the cuff. I reach for the key, eager to get these things off, but rather than make a deft grab, the side of my hand careens into everything on the table. The Call of the Wild, the lamp, the phone, and my ticket to freedom… go flying.
I watch in horror as the key tumbles end over end, skitters across the hardwood floor, and then slips right though the slats of the wooden HVAC vent.
My hand goes to the pocket of my sweatpants, pats hard, but comes up empty. Slowly, I flick my eyes to my cleaning bucket… where my phone rests next to my Lysol and cleaning rags.
“Shit,” I say, letting a rare curse word tumble out of me.
I consider my options, but none of them are good. They’re all terrible, as a matter of fact, so I choose to go with the least awful.
Clearing my voice, I prepare to call for assistance, knowing I need to be loud enough for the couple in the room across the hall to hear me.
“Hello,” I yell, wincing at my volume. I hope it doesn’t wake up any of the other guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Edgar? If you can hear me… I need some help in the room across the hall.”
I’m rewarded with an immediate opening of the door as Mrs. Edgar pokes her head in. She’s sweet, elderly, and luckily not hard of hearing.
“Oh, my,” she exclaims when she sees me cuffed to the bed, then briefly takes in the lamp, phone, and book on the floor. “Have you been kidnapped, my dear?”
“Oh, no,” I rush to assure her. “Nothing like—”
And that’s as far as I get before she rushes out of the room.
“Mrs. Edgar,” I call, but just as soon as she seems to have disappeared, she’s back again with her cell phone in hand.
My stomach tightens as I see her tap three times on the screen before putting it up to her ear.
“No, Mrs. Edgar,” I almost screech, hysteria lacing the sound. “Don’t call 9-1-1. I just need my brother, Colt.”
She ignores me. The next thing I hear is, “Yes… I’m over at Millie’s. I believe the sweet owner, Larkin, must have been part of a kidnapping plot. I’ve just found her in the room of the big biker who’s staying here—unsavory character, I’m sure you’ll find. She’s handcuffed to the bed. We’ll need the police. Oh, and probably the fire department, too, to break her free.”
“No, no, no,” I scream.
“The poor dear is beside herself,” Mrs. Edgar says.
To my burgeoning horror, Mr. Edgar comes running in, clad only in a bath towel around his portly waist, with a gun in hand.
“Where’s the perpetrator, Connie?” he asks, looking around frantically.
“Mrs. Edgar,” I moan as I motion to the phone in her hand. “Please, let me talk to them.”
“No need, dear,” she says, and I actually feel myself shrivel up and die inside when I hear the wail of a siren, then screeching brakes outside of Millie’s. I can only pray it’s Andy, a good friend of mine who is a deputy sheriff, and that he will quickly be able to unlock these cuffs. I had hoped to get Colt here with bolt cutters, but maybe I can salvage this if Andy frees me and ends this horrid situation.
Then, as if the universe is working against me, a figure fills the doorway. My entire body goes hot as I’m zapped with the biggest current of embarrassment I could ever imagine.
Deacon Locke stands there, one eyebrow cocked as he stares at me.
“Excuse me,” I hear someone say from behind Deacon. When he moves to the side, two firefighters hurry in, followed by a paramedic carrying a crash bag.
“Oh my God,” I moan, closing my eyes and letting my head drop.
“Ma’am,” one of them says. “Where are you hurt?”
Snapping my head up, I glare at the men who just walked in. I’ve known all three since I was a kid. “I’m not hurt anywhere, Phil and don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I don’t need fire and rescue. What I do need is an extra key to these stupid cuffs, since I seemed to have knocked the one I had down into the AC vent.”
I dare a quick peek at Deacon, whose face is absolutely unreadable. I’d expected anger, as he has every right to be mad since it’s obvious I snooped in his bag seeing as I’ve cuffed myself to his bed.
&n
bsp; “Andy will have an extra key as soon as he gets here,” Orin Kent, the other firefighter, says.
“Or you could get bolt cutters out of your truck,” I suggest sarcastically.
Orin flushes, but turns around to leave the room. Deacon moves into the interior, then leans against the closet door. He levels a smile at Mr. and Mrs. Edgar, who glare at him suspiciously.
“Orin,” I yell. “Call Andy and tell him he’s not needed. It was a false alarm.”
“Got it,” he calls over his shoulder.
“A false alarm?” Mrs. Edgar asks.
“Yes,” I admit through clenched teeth, mildly annoyed with her. I’ve been caught and duly embarrassed. Now I just want to shut all of this down. “You and your husband can leave now. We have it under control.”
The Edgars step past Deacon, refusing to make eye contact with him. I’m sure he’s quite the ruffian still in their minds. Phil, Deacon, and I sit in awkward silence until Orin returns with the cutters.
It takes only a moment for him to release me, then he sets the destroyed cuffs on the table. All the while, Deacon watches from his spot against the closet door, arms crossed over his chest. Even as I ask Orin and Phil to please not tell anyone about this—and they agree—I know by the time I finish my cleaning duties, the news will be all over Whynot. It’s the distinct downside to small-town living.
When they leave, Deacon pushes away from the closet. He walks over, picks the ruined cuffs up, and dangles them in front of my face.
“I’m sorry,” I say morosely, knowing he must hate me for such an intrusion.
“For what?” he asks, and I’m relieved when the corners of his lips tip up. “Not every day a man returns to his home to find a woman willingly cuffed to his bed.”
I blush and grimace at the same time.
“It was willingly, correct?” he asks with a chuckle, then drops the ruined cuffs in the trash can.
I stand from the bed, immediately bending to pick up the broken lamp. I’ll have to run out for a replacement today. When I straighten, Deacon is there, taking it from my hands. He sets it on the bed, then puts his hands on my shoulders.
“What were you doing, Larkin?” he asks, his tone now deadly serious.
“I wasn’t snooping, I swear,” I blurt out, rushing to tell him everything before he kicks me out. “I was going to wash your clothes for you. When I picked them up… well, I saw the cuffs there. And I was simply curious about them. You know, the lamb’s wool and all. So I just—”
“Put them on and knocked the key down the vent,” he continues, a grin breaking out.
“I’m really sorry.”
“For offering to wash my clothes?” he asks with a chuckle. “Nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”
“I had no right to stick my hand in your bag. It was so wrong.”
“It’s fine, Larkin,” he says. “Don’t have a thing to hide from you.”
“Then…” I say hesitantly. “The cuffs?”
“A gag gift from my old Marine buddy for my birthday last month.”
An odd mixture of relief and disappointment fills me, and it produces the most hysterically stupid laugh. Deacon merely grins in return.
“But wait a minute… what are you doing back here?” I ask.
His fingers tighten into my shoulders incrementally, and he pulls me a little closer. “It occurred to me that I shouldn’t have left letting you think there was anything untoward about me going to Linda’s. It’s really for a job, nothing more, and I have no interest in that woman.”
“Oh, well, I never thought—”
My words are cut off by his kiss. It’s hot and exactly the kind I imagined he would have given me last night had he spent the night. My toes curl as any lingering doubts about his feelings for me simply vanish. Even my embarrassment over him finding me cuffed to his bed melts away.
When he pulls back, he merely says. “See you later. Looking forward to dinner with your family.”
“Supper,” I correct.
“Pardon?”
“It’s called supper.”
He levels me with a grin, disappoints me by not kissing me again, then turns to leave the room.
CHAPTER 12
Deacon
“Do you want to talk about the handcuff incident?” I ask Larkin, shooting a quick glance at her in the passenger seat. We’re actually driving her bakery van to her parents’ house for supper. It’s the only vehicle she owns, and it’s far too chilly this evening to take the bike.
I don’t mind, though, as long as I’m driving.
Probably the most sexist thing about me, but I’m the man and I have to drive.
Larkin throws me a glare I can see all too well in the ambient light coming from the dashboard. Her voice is clipped and slightly snooty sounding. “I do not.”
I chuckle low in my throat, deciding to leave it alone. She’d been horrified this morning when I found her cuffed to my bed. I, on the other hand, had to expend every bit of self-control and energy inside me not to bust out laughing. I was in no way offended she had pilfered through my bag because, as I told her, I have nothing to hide. Obviously, I can’t tell her all the dirty thoughts that were in my head from not only having seen her handcuffed to my bed, but also knowing she was curious as to what it would feel like.
Though, that probably is a conversation we will have at some point if this relationship continues to progress.
Which I think it will.
“So do you do this every Sunday?” I ask casually.
Head snapping my way, she snarls, “No, I do not cuff myself to a bed every Sunday.”
I can’t help the snort that comes out. “I wasn’t talking about the handcuffs. I was talking about going to your parents’ house for supper.”
Larkin mutters something under her breath, which sounds like it starts with the letter F and has three letters following. She then says, “Pretty much. Sometimes, we just do lunch after church rather than supper.”
“You go to church?”
She nods as I navigate the dark country road she’d sent me down. Her parents’ farm sits a few miles outside the town of Whynot. “I go sometimes. It’s hard owning your own business, especially since my bakery is open seven days a week. But if I manage a free Sunday morning, I’ll go with my mom and dad.”
“Do you ever take a vacation?” I ask.
Her voice sounds both fatigued and chagrined. “Not since I started this business.”
That’s not good. Nobody should work so hard they can’t enjoy the fruits of their labor. “You need to rectify that.”
“Don’t I know it,” she says, then points up ahead as a sign comes into view. “Turn right there.” Through the glow of my high beams, I see a white sign with black lettering.
Mainer Farms – Established 1742.
As I make my turn onto a gravel lane, I murmur in awe, “1742? Incredible.”
“It’s been in the Mainer family for eight generations. The original deed to the land was awarded to us by the king of England.”
“And what do you farm here?” I maneuver the van down the bumpy driveway where I can see a huge two-story farmhouse in the distance.
“Tobacco, corn, and soybeans were the original crops. These days, we lease out most of the land, but Colt still farms about seventy-five acres as well as has a small cattle operation. He’s also starting some grape arbors with the hopes of running a winery here one day.”
“Very enterprising,” I observe.
“Farming is in Colt’s blood. He’s the one true Mainer out of us all.”
The gravel driveway makes a sweeping loop through the front yard, in the interior of which stands a huge oak tree, and I bring the van to a stop in front of the house.
Another vehicle comes down the lane and by the time Larkin and I have exited her van, a white Toyota Highlander that has seen better days pulls up. Floodlights from the top of the farmhouse provide enough illumination I can tell instantly the woman who gets
out from behind the driver’s wheel is Larkin’s older sister, Trixie. They have the same chocolate-colored hair and hazel eyes, but because she is not identical in the face to Larkin, it can’t be her twin sister.
Larkin rushes to hug Trixie, then the tall man who unfolds himself from the passenger seat. It must be Trixie’s fiancé, Ryland Powers. I learned a lot about the family the afternoon Larkin and I spent at Chesty’s playing pool and drinking.
Both Trixie and Ryland are attorneys. Trixie practices here in Whynot and her law firm sits right in between Chesty’s and Larkin’s bakery on South Wright Street. Ryland is a partner in a huge firm in Boston that opened a Raleigh office so he could be here with Trixie.
Larkin makes introductions, and Trixie shakes my hand with an evil grin. “So this is the guy whose bed you cuffed yourself to this morning? Well done, sis.”
My jaw drops slightly that her sister would know such a detail. I would bet my life Larkin did not tell her this information. It’s not that I don’t think Larkin isn’t close with her sister or any other family member—because I definitely learned enough about the Mainer-Mancinkus family to know they are all incredibly tight. But Larkin was sufficiently mortified to have been caught, so I doubt she breathed a word to anyone.
“Shut up,” Larkin snarls.
I don’t say anything except to drop a “pleased to meet you,” as I shake hands with both Trixie and Ryland.
A nondescript silver sedan comes bumping down the lane. It’s Larkin’s twin sister, Laken, who exits the passenger side, so I assume the man driving is her boyfriend, Jake. He’s some multimillionaire who owns a company based out of Chicago who is in the process of relocating down here. Larkin told me he bought a farm for a tax write-off, then ended up falling in love with Laken during his time down here.
Laken hurries right up to me, then gives me a fist bump. “You must be the handcuff guy. Well done.”
Larkin rolls her eyes and huffs while Jake introduces himself to me with a bit of knowing mischief in his eyes.
Before we can make our way into the house, a navy-blue pickup truck comes down the lane. After it comes to a stop behind Jake and Laken’s car, a tall man and a blonde woman get out. The man flips a lever, then pushes the bucket seat on the driver’s side forward, and a young girl climbs out the back.
