Page 33

As we swung together, the rhythmic, heavy impact and the scent of his sweat mixed with sawdust made my heart do a little hammering of its own against my ribcage. It wasn’t just the proximity of his body that was doing my head in. The secret we now shared between kisses in the hollow of that cedar tree felt like an invisible tether.

I was fully aware of Nate’s warning to stay away from Deacon, and yet…

In the corner of my eye, I vaguely registered Nate as he stopped clearing the debris and watched us. “Cut it out, both of you. This isn’t a playground. You’re losing your grip on the handle, Ava. And Matthews, you’re losing your eye on the load. Separate before someone takes a stray piece of timber to the face.”

Startled by his sudden rebuke, I quickly pulled away from Deacon. I reset my stance as he stepped back, allowing me the opportunity to prove myself, because God knew I wanted to try. I wanted to prove I wasn’t a burden to them and that I could actually help. I took a breath and reached out to manually haul away a splintered, shattered piece of the stud we had just cracked.

“Ava—!” I barely registered Deacon’s warning before the pain sliced through my hand. Brilliant me had forgone work gloves. My bare palm scraped angrily against a jagged, pressurized fracture in the old wood. It sliced deeply across the fleshy bit under my thumb, drawing an instant well of dark red blood.

I hissed, dropping the splinter and cradling my injured hand.

“Shit,” Nate hissed and dropped his tools. Ethan also came bounding over, but Deacon quickly took the lead, waving them back. “I’ve got this. You guys keep going, I’ll take her to the truck to get her patched up.”

“You sure?” Ethan asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I could practically see his protective and nurturing instincts wage war with his respect for Deacon’s lead on this phase of the job. Nate also looked conflicted, his eyes darting from Deacon’s face to my hand.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Deacon challenged, already putting his hands on my shoulder to guide me out the front door. “I’ve dealt with this kind of thing a million times. We’ll be back in a second.”

He led me out of the dust-choked cabin, down the porch steps and across the dark, slick clay mud pockets of the perimeter yard. We reached his truck, where it stood near the industrial trailer. Instead of letting me struggle to climb, he put his large hands firmly around my waist and effortlessly lifted me high enough to slide into the passenger seat. He quickly retrieved the first-aid kit from the back cab before joining me in the front cab and pulling both doors shut.

I looked around, taken in by the relative silence of the truck and the muffled thuds still spilling out from my house. The inside smelled intensely of Deacon–worn leather, black coffee, stale rolling tobacco and rain-soaked canvas. A distinctly masculine but not unpleasant smell that sent goosebumps trailing down my back. It felt like we were in our own private little bubble, away from the rest of the world, enclosed in that scent and the warmth of the truck.

He flipped the light on, then held out a hand, looking at me to ask for permission to tend to the wound. I laid my hand in his palm, and he jumped into action without missing a beat, using sterile wipes to clean the dust and debris and blood from the cut. His large hands were incredibly precise and gentle. They were the same hands that worked to pull the loader out of the mud, and the ones that handled that heavy front door of mine like it weighed nothing.

We sat in silence as he disinfected the wound, smiling a little when I barely flinched. As he started wrapping up my hand, he commented idly, “You’re gonna have a wicked-looking scar to show off to people.”

I couldn’t help smiling in return, and I looked at his own hands again. I’d wondered about them, if they told stories like the skin on the rest of his body. I’d been right. He had the knuckles of a man who liked to use them, and small, light cuts on the occasional finger.

My eyes flit up to his and locked on, watching his glaze over. “You know a lot about scars, don’t you?”

He paused, his hands stalling on mine. He dropped his gaze, focusing on finishing the bandage. It took some time before he spoke again, and I almost expected him not to say anything.

Then, “Most of these didn’t come from a job site. Although I’m pretty sure you already knew that.”

I held my breath, scared that if I didn’t, the illusion would burst and the tiny bit of vulnerability Deacon was offering would be snuffed out. But he continued, much to my pleasant surprise.

“I grew up fast, in places where you either hit first or got broken. I was angry, stupid and spent most of my youth looking for reasons to bleed,” he said. His voice sounded heavy, as if this was his own burden to carry and the weight had been tiring him out, too. “When I was twenty-one, a fight went way too far in a parking lot. A guy pulled a blade, I took it from him and didn’t stop swinging until the sirens were blocks away. Aggravated felony assault. Did Nate go into the specifics?”

I winced. “Deacon…”

“That’s okay. You’re his kid sister’s best friend. I don’t hold it against him for telling you. I’d probably have warned you too,” he said, then gave a wry chuckle. “Five years in State. The walls there… they either make you worse or clear your head. This crew, this work, it’s the only thing keeping me steady. Keeps my head straight. I don’t get into trouble anymore. I can’t afford to and I don’t want to, either.”

Now it was his turn to hold his breath. He finally looked up at me.

My heart clenched. He’d dropped this confession like a display of his ugliest parts, and was now checking to see if I’d run. Not likely. My hand was fully wrapped, and I leaned closer, gently brushing the tip of my nose against his.

He started in surprise but didn’t pull away, his pupils dilating in the scant light of the truck’s cab.

“I think just a little bit of trouble can’t hurt anyone, don’t you?” I whispered.

This time, I pushed for the kiss. I pressed my lips to his and let go completely, wanting to let us both explore just how far we could push trouble.

He didn’t seem to disagree.

20

Ava

Deacon kissed me like a starving man who was finally being presented with a feast.