by Juliette Poe
From my Mainer history lessons with Larkin, I assume this is her brother Colt—the youngest in the family—and his girlfriend Darby, who works on Jake’s farm growing peaches. The little girl is her daughter by a prior marriage, Linnie.
Before any introductions can be made, Colt turns to me with a harsh stare. He locks his eyes on mine, but he asks his question specifically to Larkin. “This the man whose bed you were handcuffed to?”
I can’t even be offended or threatened. Stunned her brother knows this, I turn to her and ask, “Did you tell your entire family?”
The floodlights from the house make it easy to see Larkin blush all the way up her neck into her cheeks and forehead. Grimacing, she mutters, “That’s the Whynot gossip mill working full tilt. I never said a word.”
Amazing.
That’s life in a small town, I guess.
Leaning forward, I hold my hand out to Colt. “I’m Locke. The cuffs were a gag gift from a buddy. Your sister was merely trying to be funny, but it backfired on her. That’s all there is to the story.”
Colt reluctantly takes my hand, obviously not wanting to give up the overly protective brother role. After we let go, I turn to shake Darby’s hand. She introduces me to her daughter, who stares up at me through large round glasses that frame pretty blue eyes that match her mom’s.
“You’re really big,” she observes solemnly as she tilts her head way back to peer up at me.
“And you’re very observant,” I reply with a smile.
She sticks her hand out for me to shake. “Pleased to meet you.”
I’m immediately charmed by her manners. In contrast to many children I’ve seen over my lifetime, Linnie appears incredibly sweet and well behaved.
“We better get inside before Mama tans our hide,” Trixie says, and she bounces up the porch steps. We all follow. As Larkin and I bring up the rear, I decide, based on initial impressions, that I really like her family.
Even her overprotective, somewhat grouchy brother, Colt. Of course, I haven’t met Lowe and Mely yet. They’re due back from their honeymoon tomorrow.
Everyone sort of jams up in the foyer since Larkin’s mother and father are there to greet us. I glance into the living room to see George, Larkin’s grandpa, leaned back in the recliner, drinking a beer and watching a football game.
There are hugs, back slaps, and cheek kisses amongst the entire family. Larkin finally pulls me through the chattering crowd to introduce me to her parents. “Deacon… this is my mama, Catherine, and my daddy, Gerry.”
Catherine gives me a warm smile. Rather than a handshake, she gives me a hug. I have no qualms about returning it as I am a genuinely affectionate person, nor am I surprised this is how she greets me. Larkin and I had hours of conversation in which I learned a great deal about the personalities of this big family.
Gerry steps forward. No one needs to tell me he is not the hugging type. He still has a Marine Corps high-and-tight haircut and a ramrod straight spine, which proves that retirement never bends a military bearing. As we shake, I say, “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Thankfully, neither parent mentions the handcuff incident, but I am going to have to assume they know about it since everyone else does. I imagine secrets are practically impossible to keep in this area.
I’m surprised when they don’t say anything, though. Well, not her mom. I imagine Catherine is all tasteful grace and wouldn’t be so crass. But maybe Gerry doesn’t know because, as a former Marine, I would understand completely if he wanted to kill me. Regardless, by the end of the night, I hope they will figure out I am not the type of man who would pressure Larkin into doing such a thing.
Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cuff her if she asked me to, but that’s an entirely different scenario.
“I’ve got just a few things to finish in the kitchen,” Catherine says as she turns that way. “Supper will be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Trixie, Darby, and Laken follow her. Gerry, Colt, Ryland, and Jake head into the living room. I find it a fascinating division of roles, and I wonder how much of this is a Southern thing—the women in the kitchen cooking and the men in the living room watching sports while they wait for their supper.
Larkin and I are left standing in the foyer. I nod toward the kitchen. “Let’s go help your mom with serving up supper.”
Larkin smiles, shaking her head. “I’m really more about watching the Steelers. Let’s go in the living room.”
When I gallantly hold my arm out to her with a grin, she slips her hand into the crook. It feels nice and right.
We head into the living room, which has a couch, a loveseat, and a recliner that is occupied by George. His eyes come to mine briefly, and he lifts his chin. “Locke.”
“George,” I respond in greeting.
“Call me Pap,” he orders without taking his eyes off the TV. “Everyone else does.”
Pap it is then.
“I thought your name was Deacon,” Colt says somewhat aggressively. I believe he doesn’t want to like me because he feels it’s his duty or something. I search back to remember how I was introduced to him, but it all happened so quickly with everyone pulling up that I just can’t.
Larkin rushes in to explain. “His name is Deacon Locke. Most people call him by his last name.”
Colt doesn’t reply, but rather follows Ryland and Jake to sit on the couch. Gerry sits on the small loveseat, leaving an uncomfortably small space beside him for both Larkin and me.
Larkin ends up pointing to the cushion next to her dad, indicating I should sit there. When I do, Larkin pops her cute little butt on the armrest beside me, easily draping her arm around my shoulders as I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. What I’d love to do is pull her down on my lap, but I’m fairly sure I’d get my ass kicked.
“Who do you follow?” Gerry asks he watches the football game.
“No one really,” I reply, and every single head snaps my way except for Larkin’s. She already knew this about me.
Shrugging, I glance around at the men. “Football isn’t my thing.”
They all blink at me dumbly.
“Hockey?” Gerry Mancinkus asks.
“Nope.”
“Baseball?” her father queries in a hard tone that makes it clear I am probably completely unacceptable for his daughter.
I smile at him. “I love baseball. I’m a Yankees’ fan.”
Gerry Mancinkus grimaces, Colt shakes his head, and Pap smirks.
“The Yankees,” Gerry says with extreme distaste. “But why?”
I shrug again, wishing I had more in common with this group of guys but also comfortable enough with myself that I really don’t care. “It’s who my dad followed growing up. Tradition, I guess.”
Before Gerry can make his distaste over my sporting affiliations known, Jake asks, “Where you from, Locke?”
“The outskirts of Boise, Idaho.”
Jake nods, then Colt asks, “All your family still back there?”
“Pretty much. My dad is a retired lineman. He and my stepmom, MaryAnne, are still in the same house I grew up in. My two stepsisters, Keeley and Dahlia, are married and have kids. They live pretty close to my parents.”
Ryland asks, “What do they all do for a living?”
I launch into a recitation about my family, giving the details asked, but not elaborating too much. It doesn’t take me long because there’s not much to explain.
That easily exhausts the conversation about my family, but then Pap seems to want to get in on the conversation. “How long are you staying in this area?”
“Few weeks probably.” I shoot a short glance to Larkin, who is silently observing this. Then my eyes go back to her grandpa. “Got a job starting the day after Christmas, and it’s going to last at least that long. Then I’m supposed to head down to the Keys to do some fishing with a buddy.”
Adventure and travel have always got me juiced up. It’s been a long time since I’ve been down to the
Keys to hang out with my old Marine friend. We’ve always been incredibly tight. I should be chomping at the bit to finish this short job in Milner to head that way. In fact, I’m surprised I even took the job. The price I negotiated isn’t really worth the work I have to do, but I took it to give me a reason to stay.
Because right now, I’d rather be here with Larkin than anywhere else.
CHAPTER 13
Larkin
Deacon pulls my van into my driveway, which is a fifty-foot grass and gravel lane beside my house. Even though I’m just on the outskirts of town, I’m still in what’s considered a city block. I have a driveway along the side of my house, and a small front yard bordered by a sidewalk where my neighbors walk on mild evenings.
While Deacon opened my van door for me on the way to my parents and as we were leaving, I don’t wait for him to open it to exit this time. That’s just taking things too far when it comes to expecting gentlemanly manners.
Deacon exits and meets me on my side, taking my hand and leading me up my front porch steps. I have a single porch light with a yellow bulb, which casts a warm cheery glow over the area. In the summertime, it will be swarming with moths and gnats.
When I open the screen door, Deacon, who still has my keys, holds them out so I can identify the house key. I point it out, and he unlocks my front door.
He hands the keys back to me, and I take them with a smile on my face as we stare at each other.
We just smile with mild expectation.
And stare.
“Are you going to invite me in for a drink?” he asks me curiously, his head tilted slightly to the side. I can tell by the tone of his voice he had expected me to make this offer already.
But I’ve learned my lesson on inviting him into my house and misjudging a situation. I’m not going to do that again. “Would you like for me to invite you in for a drink?”
Something flashes in his eyes, and I can tell he likes it when I’m a smart ass. I merely look at him blandly, leaving the ball in his court.
“Yes,” he drawls slowly. “I would very much like for you to invite me in for a drink.”
I don’t like guessing what the night might hold. The last time I thought I’d known what would happen hadn’t, and that had left me with all kinds of doubts. I decide to get things straight up front.
“Do you expect anything more than a drink?” I ask plainly.
Deacon’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I might need to use your bathroom at some point. Wouldn’t say no to a snack, either.”
“Anything else?” I prompt.
Deacon’s eyes flick back and forth between my own as if the world’s biggest mystery stands before him and he can’t figure it out.
Finally, he asks, “Do you want a play-by-play of how I anticipate the evening will go?”
Hitching my purse up on my shoulder, I stand my ground. “Sure.”
“Seriously?”
I give a casual shrug. “It would help to set expectations.”
Deacon lets his gaze move past me across my yard, out toward the street. Perhaps he has realized I might have a level of crazy he doesn’t want to deal with. Maybe he’s considering bolting. If he does that, I need to let him know there are several depressions in the front yard from pesky moles over the summer, because I don’t want him to twist an ankle.
Deacon’s eyes come back up to me, don’t even linger for a second before focusing on the door. He reaches out, turns the knob, and pushes it open. Then his hand goes to my back and he pushes me—quite gently—across the threshold, where he follows me in. The screen door slams shut, and he closes the front door and locks it.
“I guess you’re coming in for a drink,” I mutter, dropping my purse on a small antique table that sits in front of the window beside the door.
“Let’s start with the drink,” Deacon says with a grin. “Then we can figure out things as they go along.”
I give a tiny sigh, giving up hope he will spell out what his intentions are. But I really didn’t expect anything different. Deacon likes to keep me a little bit off guard. Not to torture me. Not to amuse himself. He does it simply because he knows I like it.
That I like not knowing and enjoy a little suspense.
Although I would never admit that to him.
“So what do you have to drink?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
I start toward my small kitchen. This house was built back in the forties, and it isn’t much on space. I’ve since had Lowe do a little remodeling for me, but I’ve tried to keep it as true to form as possible. My cabinets are original, as is the huge farmhouse sink.
I open the refrigerator, scan the contents, and glance at him. “I’ve got wine. A half-opened bottle of Chardonnay.”
Deacon wrinkles his nose. “What else?”
I look back in the fridge, then at Deacon. “Water. Milk.”
“No beer?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“A dusty bottle of Jack Daniels hidden in your back closet?”
I wrinkle my nose in return.
“I think I’ll just take the water,” he says blandly.
I reach in the fridge and pull out two bottles, making a mental note to pick up some beer and perhaps a bottle of liquor in case this isn’t the only time Deacon is at my house.
“Sorry,” I say as I hand him the bottle.
Deacon chuckles as he takes it. “Not a big drinker, Larkin. I really only asked to come in for a drink just to be cliché.”
“So what do you want to do?” I ask, having been put strangely at ease with his teasing.
“What I’d like is to handcuff you to your bed and do all kinds of dirty things to you.”
My jaw drops. I blink at him once, twice, three times.
I make a mental calculation to see if I can remember whether I put on a pair of panties that were not granny style. I can’t conjure anything. No recollection whatsoever.
I start to panic.
“Easy there,” Deacon soothes with a deep chuckle. “I was just teasing, and you’re clearly not ready for that.”
Something competitive takes hold deep within me, and I lift my chin. “I can so be ready for handcuffs.”
Deacon snorts. “I meant you’re not ready for that level of joking. But we are so not ready for handcuffs.”
Groaning, I cover my eyes with my free hand, the heat of embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck.
“Scrabble,” Deacon says out of the blue.
Moving my hand, I look at him curiously. “Scrabble?”
“Let’s play a game,” he suggests. He glances around my kitchen, which is done in creams and yellows, although I have some green and blue in my cheery curtains. “Let’s sit at the kitchen table and play games.”
My tone is dry when I say, “You’re kind of a dud date.”
Deacon’s eyes flash with heat. “Don’t make me disprove that right now. I’m enjoying taking things slow.”
Laughing, I turn my back on him. “Make yourself comfortable. I think I’ve got some board games in my bedroom.”
I take my first few steps down the short hallway to the master bedroom, wondering if he is going to follow me back.
He doesn’t, and I’m not sure if I am okay with that or not.
♦
I carefully lay out my tiles, trying to keep the smugness out of my smile as I spell out juxtapose.
Deacon groans, flopping back on the couch.
“I give up,” he mutters. “You’re too good at this.”
We didn’t play Scrabble in the kitchen. When I realized there was a marathon of A Christmas Story showing, I insisted we play at my coffee table so we could watch it. Plus, my Christmas tree is so pretty all lit up, and I much preferred the intimate glow of my multicolored lights than the harsh fluorescent lighting at the kitchen table.
Deacon took the couch, and I sat opposite him on the floor. He got a wood fire going in my fireplace, which crackles merrily, and we p
layed three games in between watching Ralphie say the “F” word when he spilled all the bolts, a tongue getting stuck on the flag pole from a triple-dog dare, and the Bumpus hounds eating their turkey.
I freaking love this movie, and so does Deacon.
I lean back, stretching my legs out under the coffee table and planting my hands into the plush rug that sits on my weathered hardwood floors. “It’s getting late.”
His eyes come to me across the Scrabble board. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
I take him in. The way he’s reclining on my couch, legs slightly spread. He didn’t dress up for my family’s supper. Dark blue jeans, biker boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt in dark gray, over which he had his black biker jacket. But I suppose when someone has limited room on a bike to carry clothing, they make do with what they can. I personally love the look on him, and I hope to God I never see him in a suit.
No, I am most definitely not ready to get rid of him tonight.
I don’t tell him this, though. I have figured out Deacon likes to be in charge. He likes to drive—literally and metaphorically. I also think he likes the tiny bit of stubbornness within me, just as he sees now when I refuse to answer him.
Deacon slowly lifts a hand, then crooks his finger at me.
“What?” I ask, all innocently. But the mere fact he wants me to come on the couch with him has my blood rushing through my veins, and I’m a little dizzy.
“Come here,” he orders.
I don’t think to disobey. I refuse, however, to consider myself to be obeying despite how quickly I jump up.
When I move around the coffee table, he holds his hand out. I place my palm against his, and he tugs me right onto his lap. Deacon’s arms come around my waist, and I put one hand against his chest as we stare at each other with our faces only inches apart.
Deacon’s eyes drop to my mouth, but he doesn’t move in any closer. Instead, he brings one hand to the back of my head and draws me in until I’m pressing my mouth to his.
