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He pauses at the exit to bundle me in my coat, and one thing thisgoose eggdoes not hinder is the realization that Deacon knew this was my coat. I didn't have to point it out. He just knew. Fishing my keys out of the pocket, he leads us to my car, which is conveniently parked in the staff lot. Then he buckles me in and helps himself to the driver’s seat.
“Fuck, you’re short,” he grumbles as he slides the seat back as far as it can go.
“I’m average height.” I find my voice, and remember that playing hard-to-get has good results in the romance books I read. “And no one asked you to drive me home. I don’t even need to go home. You’re overreacting.”
“The bump on your head says otherwise.”
“Exactly. It’s a bump, not a head wound. No need to freak out.”
“You didn’t know where you were a few minutes ago.” He casts me a sideways glance as we pull out of the parking lot.
“You didn’t give me time to answer the question.”
“Either you know where you are, or you don’t. It’s not a question you should have to think about, and since you didn’t know the answer, I’m taking you home.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I quip, noticing that makes his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. If it were anyone else, I’d think I’m pissing them off, but knowing how dirty Deacon’s mind runs… It’s possible he liked the endearment. And I definitely like the growly sound of his voice when I’m pushing his buttons.
Whether it’s his proximity or the tequila making me feel wild, Iwantto push the envelope. To act without restraint and see what happens. And, if it doesn’t go anywhere, I can always take a page out of his book and pretend I don’t remember. The same way he treated the kiss that ruined me for other guys.
A few minutes later we pull into my driveway, and he instructs me to stay put until he helps me from the car. It’s overkill—my head isn’t pounding, just achy—but since his tone leaves no room for argument I do as he says. Besides, I don’t object to having Deacon touch me, even if it’s in a platonic caregiver sort of way.
We make our way inside and he points to the couch in the living room. “Sit.” He turns to the adjacent kitchen, assuming I’ll follow instructions. And since I’m curious what results listening will have, I do. Sort of.
“Stop giving me orders,” I protest even as I obey.
“Then stop making it so difficult to take care of you. Where the hell are your plastic bags?” Drawers bang shut as he searches in vain.
“There’s an ice pack in the freezer.”
He stops mid-search and spins to face me. “You have ice packs?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” In this town, where there’s no such thing as sitting idle, it’s a given that you’ll need one at some point.
“But you’re a dancer.” The confusion on his face would be priceless if it weren’t so offensive.
“Iteachdance. I also ski and bike and do all the other shit you do. But I’ve had more injuries dancing than anything else.”
Deacon wisely keeps his mouth shut as he wraps the ice pack in a dishtowel and brings it to me. “Lean your head against the cushion.”
Doing nothing to hide my eye roll, I slouch down so my head is resting on the back of the couch. The cushion next to me sinks low as Deacon sits on it and gently presses the ice to my head. “How’s this?”
“Cold.”
“Stop being a brat.”
I try and fail to keep the mischievous smile off my face. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Jesus,” he groans.
The strain in his voice makes me giggle.I wonder what else I can use this bump to get away with?
“You don’t like that nickname?”
“I’m not that much older than you,” he grunts, jaw stiff with tension.
“Old enough you could show me a thing or two.” My voice is thick with innuendo, which he doesn’t miss if the shifting cushion is any indication.
“Stop talking and rest.”
