I said not a word as he tossed the box to the table, went back to the bag, and came out with another box, holding it up like the last one and turning again to me.

“Stun gun. Taser won’t do long range but you got range. A few feet. This is short range. By that I mean, the guy’s close enough to reach. Activate it and touch it to him, again, three seconds. This will take him down. Then you go. You have a situation, you take the spray, the stun gun, the Taser, and your phone. Your phone is most important. When you slow them down or incapacitate them, you haul ass back to the house and you do it calling the police.”

“Right,” I whispered, not entirely clear on what was happening except for the fact Deacon really, really wanted me to be prepared should another situation happen at my cabins.

I didn’t have a chance to share with him that in six years, I’d only had two and only one of them I was involved in (and I would never share with him that that didn’t mean I didn’t have annoying, loud, rude, or dishonest people who attempted a variety of scenarios to bamboozle me).

I didn’t have this chance when he tossed the stun gun box on the table, his hand shot out and wrapped tight around mine.

I also didn’t have the chance to process the feel of his big mitt wrapped around my hand, as in, how marvelous it felt. This was due to the fact I was following him out of the kitchen mostly because he was dragging me.

We went right to the study, right to my computer where he stopped us and let me go. He then shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a scrap piece of paper. He smoothed it out perfunctorily and tossed it on my desk as he rolled my chair out of the way and leaned over my PC.

I watched with some fascination as he pulled up my web browser and started typing.

Not surprisingly, he typed by jabbing just his two beefy forefingers on the keys.

What was surprising was that this wasn’t hunt and peck. He went fast.

He hit enter and straightened.

“Called them,” he declared, pointing toward the computer screen. “Closest breeder that’s got a litter coming. Expected about two weeks until delivery, you gotta wait six weeks after that. They had three people who already put a deposit down but I convinced them to give you first pick. Tomorrow, we drive out there and give them what I promised in order to convince them to let you have that.”

I blinked at the website that was for a breeder of German Shepherds, Deacon’s words blasting through me because he said we had to drive out tomorrow to put a deposit down on a dog.

And the part of that that blasted hardest was the word we.

Okay…

What was happening?

Stiltedly, my gaze lifted to his and he continued to shock me by continuing to speak.

“Thought about a Rottie or a Doberman. Your business, you don’t need a dog around that’ll freak the clientele. They’re great dogs, great company, but might not be good for business. Shepherds are loyal, protective, but also friendly and less threatening. So you’re getting a Shepherd. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter, both are strong, smart, and affectionate and both can be fierce. If you need to find someone to look after the place tomorrow, find them. The breeders are seventy-five miles away, country roads, it’ll take time.”

I opened my mouth and shut it.

I opened it again and shut it.

I looked down at the website, taking in a big picture on the home page of a gaggle of utterly adorable German Shepherd puppies that I wanted to scoop up and cuddle. All five of them. At the same time.

I looked back to Deacon, opened my mouth again, and asked, “What’s happening?”

His brows drew together (slightly) and he stated, “I’m gettin’ you a dog.”

I shook my head and repeated, “What’s happening?”

Something shifted across his face so fast I didn’t catch it before he declared, “We’ve changed.”

He said no more.

So I pushed, “How have we changed?”

“Don’t know. Reckon we’ll find out.”

Was he crazy?

“You don’t know? You reckon we’ll just find out?”

“That’s what I said.”

My voice was pitching higher when I asked, “What does that mean?”

“After last night, we changed,” he responded immediately. “And that change can go two ways. Either I drive away and we never see each other again or I don’t and we find out what that change is gonna mean. Read down to your bones, woman, and do it now. Which way do you want that change to be?”

I clamped my mouth shut so I wouldn’t blurt out which way I wanted that change to be.

That being him never driving away so I wouldn’t see him again and we find out what it was going to be.

Then he again threw me when he asked suddenly, “How many men have you had?”

“What?” I breathed.

“How many men have you taken?”

I knew what he meant but I asked for clarification anyway.

“You mean lovers?”

“Yep,” he confirmed indifferently.

“I…you…uh…” I stammered then got myself together. “Why are you asking?”

“Just answer.”

I straightened my shoulders and asked, “How many women have you had?”

“Thirty-eight.”

I blinked.

“Back at me,” he ordered.

“Five,” I whispered.

He nodded like he already knew the answer. “Right. Five. Just five. That means a woman like you would not spread your legs for a man like me if she didn’t want the cock she was taking. By that I mean a woman like you would not spread her legs for a man like me if she didn’t want to find out what bein’ with that man might mean. And you spread your legs for me.”

My eyes dropped to his throat as I muttered, “Actually, you kind of were the one doing the spreading.”

“You didn’t fight me.”

I looked back at him and agreed softly, “No.”

“So, down to your bones, Cassidy, which way do you want that change to be?”

I backtracked necessarily. “What do you mean by a man like you?”

“You know precisely what I mean.”

Okay, I had to admit, he was right. I knew exactly what that meant.

Well, not exactly exactly but I got the gist.

I clamped my mouth shut again.

He stared down at me, expressionless, distant, and not just the three feet that separated us physically.