That didn’t mean I didn’t feel his intensity.

I so totally did.

My insides squeezed when his voice came at me again, not businesslike, not casual, not commanding, but quiet and full of meaning.

“You want me to leave, I’m gone.”

He didn’t mean gone.

He meant gone.

So that was when I blurted, “Don’t. Please.”

And that was when I really felt his intensity, the force of it bearing down on me, making it hard to breathe.

And his voice was still quiet and full of meaning when he asked, “We puttin’ a deposit down on a dog tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I stated immediately, crazily, and down to my bones I knew foolishly, hopefully, and last…inevitably.

Because I knew down to my bones that the feeling I’d been damming all morning would eventually break free and eviscerate me. Just as I knew down to my bones I couldn’t bear a life of longing for him, wondering how it could have been if he gave me what he was offering right at that moment.

The chance to get in.

These thoughts were fleeting and that was good because I only had time for fleeting thoughts.

I barely finished my “yes” before his hands were at my jaw like they were earlier that morning, tipping my head back. But the change was that his mouth slammed down on mine.

I parted my lips and his tongue slid inside.

That was when a moan drifted up my throat and into his mouth as I lifted my hands and curled them into his shirt at the sides of his waist, holding on as he kissed me with a ferocity that made me dizzy.

I tried to kiss him back the same way but I wasn’t sure I succeeded before he tore his mouth from mine but didn’t let go. He didn’t step back. He didn’t retreat.

He stayed right there, my eyes opening to see his burning into me, and he kept hold of my gaze as he rested his forehead against mine.

That was sweet. Unbelievably sweet. Unbearably sweet from John Priest/Deacon Whoever, and being me, I processed it at once. I allowed myself to feel the fullness of that sweetness, that affection, that beauty he was giving to me because I knew down to my bones he didn’t give it elsewhere. I knew down to my bones he didn’t have it in him to give it unless it meant something. And I knew down to my bones that nothing meant anything to John Priest/Deacon Whoever.

Except me.

“Do you want lunch?” I whispered.

And instantly, he gave me more.

I watched up close as his eyes started smiling.

I’d been right all those years ago. His eyes had the power to make you feel what he was feeling. Cold to your soul. Or warm in a way you’d never again feel a chill.

And that was how I felt right then with Deacon’s eyes smiling into mine.

Like I’d never feel cold again.

Like I’d feel warm and right and whole and connected and safe.

Forever.

“Yeah,” he whispered back.

I pushed my forehead into his, forcing him to allow me to slide it to the side, down his cheek so I could roll up on my toes and shove my face in his neck.

He moved his hands as I did this, one going to curl around the back of my neck, the other one sifting into my hair to cup the back of my head.

I simply continued to clutch his shirt.

And standing there, holding each other like that, nonverbally, as Deacon was prone to be, we sealed a deal that elated and terrified me.

On that thought, a knock came at the door and Deacon’s body tensed as my hands gripped his shirt tighter.

Now, that could be Milagros, but only if she felt like taking a break.

He didn’t move his hands even as he let me tip my head back to catch his gaze.

“That might be Milagros, the lady that helps me.”

If I had a guess, I would have guessed that he would nod and step away, stay in the study or absent himself in some way. Keep to the shadows even on a sunny day.

He did not do this.

In fact, he so did not do this he let me go and walked right out of the study.

I followed him and saw him going to the door.

It was then I felt him, the alertness coming off him and filling the foyer, and my eyes went from his back that was twisting, to his face that was turned to me.

“It’s not your girl,” he murmured and I looked quickly to the door to see it appeared there were a number of people standing out on my porch.

“Oh man,” I muttered.

Deacon opened the door.

I hurried to his side and my stomach pitched when I saw who was there.

Two of the people were Annabelle and Peyton. One was a young man older than Annabelle but definitely related to her. And rounding out the lot were two adults that could be no one other than Annabelle’s parents.

None of them looked happy.

“Can we help you?” Deacon asked.

“Are you Mr. Swallow?” the father asked back.

“I’m Mr. Priest. This is Ms. Swallow,” Deacon answered, his head tilting to indicate me, his resuming the name Priest throwing me for a second that I didn’t have a chance to process before he kept going. “Now, can we help you?”

“You were both there last night,” the father stated.

I swallowed and looked to Peyton and Annabelle.

Both had red eyes like they’d been crying but they didn’t look scared.

I glanced at the mom.

She looked like her world had ended.

I turned my attention to the young man.

He looked ravaged.

No one looked angry. The dad didn’t seem happy, but he wasn’t pissed.

What was going on?

“We were,” Deacon confirmed.

The father turned to what I was guessing was his son. “Duck,” he began. “Now.”

The kid stepped forward, his gaze going to Deacon’s.

“It was me. I was supposed to look after my sister and Peyton. We met some kids. Mom and Dad said we could hang with them. I let the girls drink. Then I met someone and I didn’t look after my sister. She made her decisions but I promised I’d take care of her. I didn’t.” He stopped abruptly, his throat convulsing, and his voice was thick when he went on, “I’m sorry what happened to them. And I’m sorry you had to do what you had to do last night. But I’m glad you were around to do it.”

Whoa.

That wasn’t what I expected.

It was a whole lot better.

“It’s our fault, Jayden,” Annabelle called out meekly. “We shouldn’t have gone with them and not told you where we were going.”