But even as I swung my leg off his body, moving slowly so that we didn’t both end up on the floor, we heard slamming car doors—and seconds later, footsteps on my front porch.
The doorknob rattled, and a woman’s voice called.
“Emma? Honey, are you home? Surprise!”
My eyes went wide as I whispered to Deacon.
“Oh, my God. That’s my parents.”
* * *
“Well, I’m never going to forget this day, that’s for sure.”
Standing in the kitchen with me, chopping vegetables, my mother reached for her glass of wine and took a sip. “I mean, honey, that was just . . . the look on your face when you opened the front door. And then poor Deacon comes out of your room, and there’s the both of you, looking just a mess, and there’s still candles and music and that table in the middle of the room . . .”
“You know, Mom, I was there.” I closed my eyes, mortification still fresh. “And that happened, like, three hours ago. Believe me when I say it’s too soon for me to laugh about my parents nearly walking in on me with . . .” With my knife, I pointed toward my back deck, where we could hear the men’s voices.
Deacon and my dad were manning the grill, because my father claimed that was a necessary part of male bonding, and he wanted to get to know Deacon. As he’d passed by me in the kitchen, picking up a spatula and oil, Deacon had murmured in my ear.
“Getting to know me isn’t code for killing me for having sex with his daughter, is it?”
I’d shaken my head, but I was slightly worried about the two of them outside together. Alone. Without me to run interference.
“Emma, relax.” My mother must have picked up on my anxiety. “Your father isn’t a monster, and heisa realist. While you’ll always be his little girl, he’s fully aware that at your age, you’ve probably had sex before.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t need the visual, I’m sure. I don’t want him to picture me answering the door in Deacon’s shirt—and only Deacon’s shirt—every time he looks at me from now on.” I shuddered. “I love you both, but I can’t believe that you chose today of all days to pop down to Florida for a surprise visit.”
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound it. “But we haven’t been down to see you in nearly a year, and Dad had an unusual gap in his schedule, and I’m between deadlines right now . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes lit up. “Oh, my God, Emma. I just had the best idea for a book. And I’m totally going to write in a scene where the main two people are in the throes of passion on a massage table, and her parents surprise them.”
I groaned. “Isn’t that a little trite? Also, no. My life is off-limits as inspiration for your novels, Mom. That’s a boundary I’m drawing right now.”
“Whatever you say, darling. But since you don’t read them, you’ll never have any idea whether I listen to you or not.” She shot me a sunny smile and set down her knife. “All right. The carrots are ready. What’s next?”
“I think we’re done.” Picking up my wine, I took a healthy, fortifying sip. “So . . . what do you think of Deacon? I know you just met him, but . . . first impressions and all that. Do you like him?”
Mom grinned. “I do. I have to say, not many men could roll with a situation like what happened today with as much finesse as Deacon did. He didn’t panic. He just took care of you, and he conducted himself admirably in the face of an unexpected wrinkle in the day.”
“Yeah, not much rattles Deacon, unless it’s me disagreeing with him.”
“Hmmm.” Mom smirked. “Does that happen often?”
“Professionally? Sometimes. Not as much now as it did, but every once in a while, we still butt heads on how we treat our patients.”
“And do you argue? Yell? Get really mad at each other?”
I cringed. “Sometimes, yeah. Is that bad?”
“It depends. Do you feel like Deacon listens to you even then?”
“Always.” I nodded. “He listens, and he respects what I have to say. He just doesn’t always think I’m right.”
“I’d hope not. That would be boring. Who’d want to live with someone who always agrees with her?” Mom wrinkled her nose.
“Sometimes I think we both kind of . . . get off on it when we argue, though. Is that horrible?” I was almost afraid to hear her answer.
“Is that the only time you—um, get off? I mean, do you enjoy intimacy under other circumstances?”
“Oh, hell, yeah.” I pointed to the far end of the living room, where the massage table was folded against the wall. “Exhibit A. We weren’t fighting today.”
