Four loud, hammering knocks rattled her apartment door.

Had to be Nina. She’d sent Molly several text messages since she’d run into her Friday night.

Molly tightened the belt on her robe as she carefully walked on her heels, trying not to smudge her toenail polish. She detached the safety chain and unlocked the door, not bothering to check the peephole. She should have.

Because it wasn’t Nina standing in the hallway, but Deacon.

A wide-eyed Deacon as his gaze roved over her from her forehead to her toes and back up. Then he said, “Babe. Why did you hit yourself in the face with a cream pie?”

She screamed and slammed the door in his face.

This was not cool. He did not just show up unannounced and interrupt her personal time after she’d told him last night that she couldn’t see him today!

Two knocks sounded, less forceful than before.

“Molly, let me in.”

“Go away.”

“I’m worried about you.”

She frowned at the door. “Why?”

“Did you hurt your feet or something? I saw those splints between your toes.”

For the love of god. Seriously? He thought she was injured? Had he never seen a woman give herself a pedicure before?

Then she remembered his confession she was his first girlfriend in fifteen years—so he’d probably never seen this girly shit, either in real life or on TV. She doubted Deacon McConnell watched anything that didn’t have explosions, car chases, gratuitous sex, and violence.

But the pie-in-the-face comment was insulting.

So educate him.

Molly slid the safety chain back on and opened the door as far as it’d allow, but she stayed out of his line of sight. “Deacon, I’m fine. I’m having a home spa day. Painting my toenails, conditioning my hair.”

No response. Then, “That gunk is conditioning your face, too?”

Don’t beat your head into the door. “It’s a mask.”

“You’re beautiful. Why would you need to wear a mask?”

“Now you’re just being”—sweet, damn you—“obtuse.”

“Whatever that means.”

Be nice, Molly. “Why are you here?”

Deacon slid his big hand in the opening, curling his fingers around the door. “I don’t like not seeing you every day.”

“In other words . . . you missed me.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” His fingers tightened on the door. “I’m tired of talking through this damn crack. Let me in.” He paused. “Please.”

So much for her personal spa day.

“I’ll let you in only if you don’t make fun of me.”

“Tall order, but I’ll try my best.”

As soon as he moved his hand, she opened the door.

But the second he crossed the threshold, she slapped her hand on his chest. She wrinkled her nose. His shirt was soaked clear through. “Deacon. You reek.”

“Well, yeah. I just got done training.”

“And you didn’t think you should go home and shower before you showed up unannounced at my door?”

“I needed to see you. I didn’t think. I just drove.” He leaned forward, like he wanted to kiss her, but his eyes were wary, scrutinizing the clay mask.

Molly grinned and smashed her lips to his. And yeah, maybe a little bit of the clay crumbled onto his face as she kissed him.

“You’ve got a mean streak, babe,” he said when they came up for air.

“Mmm-hmm. I’m going to wash my face. Then you’ll scrub the stench off in the shower while I put another coat of paint on my toes.” Her gaze dropped to his gym bag. “You have clean clothes in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She drilled her finger into his chest. “Do not sit your sweaty self on my couch or I will kick your butt.”

Deacon wrapped his hand beneath her jaw and held her in place while he ravaged her mouth. Then, after he finished blowing all her circuits, he pressed his forehead to hers, heedless of the mask. “I like this. I like us together. I’ve gotten used to it and missed it when I didn’t have it. So I came over.”

“So you’re not here just to fuck me senseless?”

“Babe. I’ve told you it’s more than that between us. When are you gonna believe it?” He paused. “Ah, hell. Do I have to keep my hands off you for a couple of days to prove it?”

“God, no. I like us together out of bed too. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you by expecting we’ll spend weekends together.”

“Everything about you overwhelms me, so it’s too late for that,” he said softly. “And I’m really fucking sick of spending my weekends alone.”