An hour and a half and three orgasms later, I had further proof “vanilla” with Deacon was magnificent.

I still was looking forward to “play.”

Chapter Twelve

Life Was Sweet

The next day, late afternoon, after gutter work at the cabins all day (thankfully, the previous owners took better care of their cabins than their house, meaning the gutters had been cleaned sometime in the last decade; regretfully, some of them were in a sorry state and needed replacing), I was standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store with Deacon.

I had grabbed my oatmeal and was perusing the other selections, bored with oatmeal and wanting to give some excitement to my mornings, not to mention giving Deacon time to pick whatever he wanted, when I asked, “Why is cereal so freaking expensive?”

I received no answer.

Then again, this had no answer since Deacon probably didn’t know.

I still looked his way, or what I thought was his way, except when I looked that way he was not there.

I turned my head the other way to see if he’d gone back down the aisle.

No go. He wasn’t in the aisle with me.

Damn the man!

Teeth clenched, I put my hands to the cart, pushed, rounded the aisle, and found him four feet into the next one.

I shoved the cart in, stopped, planted my hands on my hips, and as his head turned my way, I declared, “Fruit stand.”

He smiled, big and white, the grooves around his mouth deep, the crinkles at his eyes fanning out.

“Do not give me that hot guy smile I’m thrilled beyond belief I’m able to give you, Deacon Deacon,” I snapped. “We had a badass/ornery chick understanding.”

“I was an aisle away, woman,” he pointed out.

“Fruit stand,” I returned.

“You want me to make the only meal I know how to make that’s any good?” he asked.

“A break from cooking would be welcome,” I said by way of answer.

“Then I need to be in this aisle to get the shit.”

“Is your recipe a secret that you’ll have to kill me if I discover the ingredients therefore I cannot be with you when you get them?”

He didn’t reply, but he did smile again.

I kept going.

“Don’t take this as me being a clingy, pyscho girlfriend. I’m not a clingy, psycho girlfriend. I’m a talker. I talk. A lot. And it makes me feel stupid when I say something and find out I’m saying it to no one.”

His smile faded and he said quietly, “Point taken, Cassie.”

“Good. Now, is there any cereal you want in the house?”

He shook his head.

“Right,” I continued. “Carry on with your selections.”

I pushed the cart around him but didn’t get past him when an arm hooked around my belly and I was stopped.

I could feel Deacon’s heat at my back and his lips at my ear where he asked, “You my girlfriend?”

“Yes, just not the clingy, psycho variety, though I am the ornery, stubborn variety,” I replied and just got it out when his arm gave me a tight squeeze.

He liked that (well, the part about me being his girlfriend, he liked, though I had a feeling he liked the ornery and stubborn bits too).

He didn’t say it out loud, but he said it.

He let me go and turned back to the shelves.

But I liked what he said but didn’t say.

So I headed to where I needed to be, five feet away, where the canned diced chiles were located, and I did it smiling.

* * * * *

I sat with beer in hand resting on the arm of my Adirondack chair, Deacon beside me, our bare feet up on the railing and tangled, the only sounds in the gathering dusk those of the river rushing by.

In other words, life was sweet.

“Seriously, I’ve never had tacos that delicious,” I remarked to the trees.

“Told you it was good,” he replied.

“You did say that, but you didn’t say it was great.” I turned my head his way to see he was looking at the trees too. “How did you get the tortillas to do that?”

He looked my way. “Woman, you saw me fry ’em.”

I did indeed.

“Yes, but I’ve had fried tortillas and none of them were that awesome.”

His lips curved up.

“What did you do to the meat?” I asked.

He turned his attention back to the trees. “Used your chiles, added more cumin to the spice packet, the rest, I’d have to kill you if I told you.”

I aimed my eyes to the trees as well, but did it grinning. “I think you inject badass goodness into them somehow.”

He made no reply but I actually felt the humor drifting from him.

This made me happy.

I took a sip from my beer and found I was at the dregs, the part of the beer I refused to consume.

I dropped my hand and turned back to Deacon. “I need another one, honey. You want one?”

“Yeah, but I’ll get ’em,” he said, hands to the arms of his chair, pushing himself up.

“I’ll get them.”

He looked down at me. “Got ’em, Cassie.”

I smiled up at him, even happier.

Gutters cleaned. Someone to go grocery shopping with. One meal every now and then I didn’t have to cook (and it was a good one). Great sex on a more-than-regular basis. Waking up not alone but tucked close to someone who meant something to me. And when I needed a beer, I didn’t have to haul my booty in the house to get it.

Oh yes, life was sweet.

Deacon went into the house and came back with fresh cold ones. Then he sat at my side, lifted his feet, and tangled them in mine.

Definitely.

Life was sweet.

* * * * *

“Seriously, no,” I said low.

“Is this gonna happen every fuckin’ time?” Deacon asked back, openly annoyed.

“No, because we’re gonna get this straight now.”

The gutters were done on all the cabins, cleaned, and the areas that needed replacing were replaced. Now, Deacon wanted to start work on my roof.

And he was intent on buying the shingles.

I was of an opposite mind.

Thus, we were standing in my foyer, facing off again.

I’d let him buy the groceries, no argument, not even to bust his chops because I’d had my words about him wandering off again so I thought that was enough for one day.

But he bought the gutters, including the replacement materials we needed for the cabins.