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“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Then where are you going?”
“We need more firewood. I saw some out back.”
“I’ll help.” I reach for my jeans and start tugging them on, only to have him thwart me again.
“No need.”
“But I want to help.”
“And I told you I don’t need any.” He pulls a beanie over his unruly dark hair.
“It’s not like there’s anything else to do here.” I tie on my boots. “I’d rather carry firewood than sit on my ass doing nothing.”
“I’ve got it under control. Drink your coffee.” He yanks the door open and steps outside, forcing me to chase after him as I thrust my arms in my coat sleeves.
“There’s no cream.” I stomp indignantly after him.
“Make breakfast then.” He hops off the porch and strides toward the wood pile as if he didn’t just imply that’s more my place than carrying wood.
“You sonofa…” I mumble as an idea sneaks its way into my brain.
Crouching down I gather a handful of snow and make it into a loosely packed ball. Then I hurl it toward him, hitting him square in the back.
Deacon pauses mid-stride, turning slowly toward me with barely restrained malice in his eyes. “Did you just hit me with a snowball?”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I cross my arms in front of my chest with more bravado than I feel.
“You didn’t seem to mind that last night, Little Girl.”
“So, you do admit we’re still in Vegas.” I give him my most satisfied smirk. “And what happened to Good Girl?”
“Good girls get rewarded. Little girls get what’s coming to them.”
I’d been so busy gloating I didn’t realize he’d made his own snowball until it hits me square in the chest.
My eyes narrow as my nostrils flare, and I bend down to make another right as a second snowball catches me on the knee. Snow trickles into my boots, adding fuel to my fire.
Rearing back, I launch one at his head, which he dodges by diving behind the wood pile. I scramble to make another as he pegs me in the shoulder, stray flakes hitting me in the chin and neck at the impact.
I hurl a snowball toward him, only to have it fall short of the wood stack he’s using as a shield. “No fair, you can’t hide out of range.”
“Not my fault you throw like a girl,” he taunts.
Blood boiling, I scoop a handful of snow as I jump off the porch and race to the wood pile. When I’ve closed half the distance, Deacon pokes his head up, and I pelt him in the face. “Not my fault you’re big and slow.”
Faster than I can blink, Deacon rounds the wood pile and wraps an arm around my waist, toppling us both into the snow. I twist around to face him, pushing a pile of the soggy, wet flakes against his exposed neck in the process. He roars and flips us so he’s straddling my legs, and I squeal as an icy cold hand presses against my throat.
Suddenly it’s quiet. Eerily so. Even our heavy breathing is muted by the snow surrounding us, our faces so close it’s impossible to tell whether the white puffs of air are coming from his mouth or mine. Then I take my breath out of the equation, holding it as I wait to see what he does.
Chapter 11
Deacon
Snowflakesglisteninherlashes as she blinks up at me, a clear invitation to close the distance between us. And I almost do, the craving to feel her plump lips against mine once again damn near unbearable. Then her words from earlier ring in my ears.Would you rather I tell her we’re shacking up?And all the reasons I shouldn’t want her come rushing back.
“I’ve gotta get the wood.” I shove off the ground, leaving her half buried in what almost looks like tangled bedsheets after our little wrestling match.That’s a visual I don’t need.
