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My chest rose and fell in an exaggerated movement, and a longing to hear those two words rose up inside me at the same time I wanted to demand he never call me that again. Instead of turning around, I looked up at the suspicion crossing Graham’s face.
One of his eyebrows lifted slowly, but otherwise he didn’t say anything as he stared at his best friend.
“Can I cut in?” Deacon asked.
Graham’s lip curled to match his brow. “Can you be nice?”
Something silent passed between the two, and seconds later, Graham’s face relaxed and he took a step back.
I glanced over my shoulder to find Deacon watching me patiently, his hand slightly extended toward me.
“What do you say?” he asked gruffly.
“I don’t slow dance.”
“Neither do I,” he responded immediately, but still he took a step toward me and slid his hand around my waist.
Deacon turned me slowly and pulled me closer until our bodies were pressed against each other. He grasped my hand in his, and brought our joined hands between our chests as he began rocking us.
Whether or not we were moving to the music, I didn’t know.
Because at that moment, I couldn’t look away from his eyes.
For the first time in so, so long, there was something missing from them. Coldness. Anger. Everything I’d come to expect from Deacon, and everything I’d been shying away from was now replaced with guilt and confusion and wonder.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. My words were so soft they almost got lost in the music filling the outdoor tent.
“I’m sorry.”
If it weren’t for Deacon leading us, his apology would have halted our movements the way it halted the pounding of my heart.
“I’m sorry for what I said to you. You didn’t deserve it—”
My head tilted to the side and shook once in a subtle plea for him to stop talking. I tried to pull away from him, but he held me tighter, his eyes pled with me to stay as his words tumbled from his lips quickly and quietly.
“—the way you looked at me that day, I can’t stop thinking about it. I hate that you looked like you—”
“Please stop.” My head shook faster as panic started rising in my throat. My gaze quickly moved through the couples on the floor, searching for Jagger and Grey, making sure they weren’t close enough to hear Deacon.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I was stressed out over this—”
“Deacon, stop,” I demanded, my voice still as soft as a whisper.
I finally succeeded at shoving away from his hold, and turned to walk away from him, but he was still there.
Within seconds his arm was around my waist and he was guiding me from the dance floor, past the tables, and out of the tent. As soon as we were a dozen feet away, surrounded in equal parts night and light from the reception, Deacon pulled me into his arms as if we were dancing again.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you talk to me.”
In the back of my mind, I knew it was because he thought I would walk away again, but something about the darkness, his voice, and being with him like this made me shiver again.
Before he could begin talking again, I shook my head quickly to clear my mind of the way he made me feel, and grit my teeth as I focused on my anger. “I don’t want your excuses.”
“They aren’t excuses, I’m explaining why—”
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