9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Phoebe
This was the third time I’d come home to a surprise since Deke had moved in, and this one…
Well, I was speechless.
On either side of my doormat were two of the most gorgeous planters I had ever seen, with absolutely no explanation of where they’d come from. Except I knew, without a doubt, they’d come from Deke.
I crouched to run my fingers over the crosshatched details and smooth rims. Some of the wood looked aged while the rest was newer with a darker hue. I had never seen anything like it.
“Beautiful,” I whispered.
These had to have cost a fortune. The craftsmanship was so intricate and skilled there was no way they were from a factory.
I would have liked to have said I wasn’t going to accept them, but I loved them so much I was considering bringing them inside so I could look at them all the time.
I wasn’t giving them back.
But I also couldn’t allow him to give me something so beautiful without letting him know how much I loved them. He might have been tired of me knocking on his door, but he was going to have to handle it one more time.
I threw my things into my apartment, locked my door, and climbed the steps to Deke’s landing. I knocked, and a few seconds later, I heard him moving through his apartment.
He cracked his door, his body filling the opening. “Hey,” he grunted.
“Deacon,” I sighed. “The planters are so beautiful. You really didn’t have to do that.”
He leaned his shoulder against the jamb, slowly crossing his arms. “You needed a spot for your plants. Now you have it.”
I shook my head, wondering if he thought life was as black and white as he made it out to be. Every action had a reaction, and that was just the way it was.
“Well, thank you. I would say you spent far too much, but I love them, so I won’t. I’d like to know the name of the artist, though.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “Why’s that?”
“So I can follow them, and maybe when I save my pennies, buy another piece.”
“You like ’em that much?”
“Love them, Deacon. I’m considering bringing them inside.”
“They’ll do just fine outside.” His gaze traveled down to his socked foot as he scuffed it on the floor. “They’re weatherproof.”
“I wasn’t worried about that, though that’s good to know. I thought I might like to have them where I can look at them more.”
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows first, then his eyes, though they didn’t meet mine. I couldn’t tell if I was bothering him, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to close the door on me. “Then you still wouldn’t have a place for your plants.”
“That is a conundrum.”
His mouth moved, and I stopped breathing when I realized he was silently forming the word “conundrum.” When he didn’t say anything else and the silence stretched to a point where it might have been uncomfortable if I didn’t like looking at him as much as I did, I broke into a gentle grin.
“The artist, Deacon? Will you give me their name?”
He jerked, running his hand down his chest and abdomen. “It’s me. I built ’em. You want something else; all you have to do is ask.”
My breath caught in my throat. “ You ? I—wow, you made them? That’s incredible.”
He lifted a shoulder. “They’re just planters.”
“I don’t know a lot about carpentry, but it takes a special talent to make an everyday item beautiful, and you did. I’m so impressed.” I bit down on my bottom lip, giving him room to speak if he wanted—he didn’t—while considering my next words. “You don’t eat sweets at all? Or not my sweets?”
He chuffed. “It’s not personal, swear it.”
“So, no sweets.” I snapped my fingers in disappointment. “You build beautiful things and give them to people. I bake delicious things and give them to people.”
Arms falling to his sides, he worked his jaw back and forth. “I’d eat ’em if I could.”
My head tipped to the side, curiosity piqued even more. “Why can’t you?”
“Nut allergy.” He looked like it pained him to admit that, and I felt bad for having pushed the issue.
“I see. Well, in that case, we’re both in luck. Sugar Rush is nut-free. My nephew can’t have peanuts or tree nuts, so I’m about as mindful as they come. Everything I make at the shop is safe for you to eat.” I pressed up on my toes, excited I’d be able to feed him. “I have a box of pastries I brought home. Wait right here. I’ll be right back.”
Before he could reply—or, in Deacon’s case, stare at me in silence—I darted down the stairs. When I got to my stoop, I took a moment to sigh over the pretty planters then unlocked my door, grabbed the pink box I’d set inside, and returned to Deacon.
He frowned at me and practically scowled at the box I held out to him. “You sure?”
My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again to ask, “About what?”
He eyed the little pink box like it might’ve been a bomb. “It’s safe?”
“It is.” I tapped my fingertips on the lid. “Is your allergy really severe?”
Nostrils flaring, he jerked a nod. “Surprised it hasn’t killed me yet.”
Flat, emotionless, like it didn’t mean anything. But it did. Trusting food was safe wasn’t easy when one wrong ingredient could be the difference between life and death. Deacon didn’t know how careful I was. Couldn’t understand the love I had for my nephew was my driving force.
“Okay.” I pulled the box into my body. “I completely get it. Eating something from a kitchen you’re not familiar with is too big of a gamble. I’ll stop trying to feed you, I promise. Just…thanks again for the planters. They’re amazing.”
I turned to go, determined to really leave him alone this time, getting one step before his fingers ghosted over my shoulder.
“Wait…Phoebe. I’ll try it.”
I swiveled around, locking eyes with him, hoping he could read the sincerity in mine. “You don’t know this about me, but I love my nephew Jesse most in the world. I am meticulous about my ingredients because if anything I made sent him into anaphylaxis, I’d never be able to live with myself. Do you understand?”
His eyes darted back and forth between mine, solemn and serious. Then he nodded, seemingly finding what he was looking for, stepped back, and swept his arm out.
“You wanna come in?”
“Yes.” I smiled at him. “I’d love to.”
I’d been in this apartment countless times, but when Hannah lived here, it had been warm and cozy. Our mom had helped her decorate since she didn’t really care about that kind of thing, so she’d had pretty curtains and lots of plush throw pillows on her comfortable sofa.
By any standard, Deacon’s place was barren. Nothing on the walls, and all he had for sitting were camp chairs. He’d lived here for a few weeks, but it looked like he’d just moved in.
Stopping in the middle of the living room area, he glanced around like he was just seeing it for the first time. “It’s not much.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed.
He twisted his head around, forehead crinkled with surprise. “Didn’t expect that. Thought you’d drop some niceties.”
I went to his kitchen, placing the bakery box on the counter. “What’s the point of blowing smoke when we can both see you’re living like you’ve got one foot out the door? Do you need furniture? I’m sure I could ask around—”
“You’re right. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.”
A sliver of disappointment cut through my gut at the thought of him moving away. “Oh. Well, even if you’re only in Sugar Brush for a short time, you should at least have a couch.”
“I’m not leavin’ town anytime soon.” He rubbed his nape, his expression somewhat sheepish. “I want a house with another bedroom and a workshop.”
“A house? So you’re staying?”
“That’s the plan.” He moved to join me at the kitchen counter, frowning at the bakery box. “We’ll see how it pans out.”
“Then you should definitely buy a couch. You can take it with you when you find your house. No sense in being uncomfortable in the meantime.”
He shrugged. “I don’t need much. I’m used to living without.”
“That might be, but the point is, you don’t have to.” I tapped my chin. “Actually, my sister put her furniture in storage when she moved in with her boyfriend. I’m sure she—”
“I can afford to pay for my own things,” he said softly but with a firmness that brooked no argument.
Rightfully put in my place, I pressed my hand to my chest. “Sorry. I can’t help myself sometimes. When I see a problem, I like to fix it. I’ll butt out, though. That camping chair looks pretty comfortable.”
That got his eyes on me, something like curiosity tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re being sarcastic.”
I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A little. But I really won’t bring it up again. Your furniture is your business. Even if it sucks.”
The laugh that shot out of him froze me solid. A powerful blast of surprise and mirth that broke free without warning, there and gone so fast, I could have convinced myself I’d imagined it if not for the goose bumps crawling up and down my arms.
“Don’t spare my feelings.”
I grinned back at him. “My other bad habit is being honest to a fault.”
“I don’t think there’s anything bad about that at all.”
All traces of his frown had disappeared, unveiling a light in his amber eyes that made me want to lean in to feel its warmth. Then he flipped the lid of the box open, turning his attention to examining the contents.
“Tell me what’s in here.”
Edging closer, I pointed to each item, naming them and their main ingredients. He considered for a beat then selected a s’mores brownie. As he brought it to his mouth, I fought the urge to knock it from his hand. His first bite of my baking, and it wasn’t fresh from the oven. I wished he were trying a warm, gooey brownie with oozing marshmallow and melted chocolate.
Deacon’s low groan brought me out of my mental spiral, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I watched his mouth move as he chewed, taking his sweet ol’ time. His throat bobbed when he swallowed, and I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Without saying a word, he took another bite, this one bigger. We stood facing each other, my eyes on his mouth, his on the floor, as he slowly but eagerly consumed the entire brownie. No words passed between us. Neither of us moved any more than necessary. I didn’t ask what he thought, and he didn’t offer his opinion.
He didn’t need to, though. He’d put away the huge brownie in four bites then searched through the box for something else. Finding a strawberry shortcake cookie, he broke it down the middle and offered me half.
“Don’t make me eat by myself,” he gruffed.
“Oh, all right.” I slipped the piece of cookie from his hand and brought it to my mouth. This time, he watched me take a bite. Only when I started to chew did he tuck into his, making a sound of pure pleasure that I felt all the way down to my toes.
“Good?” I asked.
“Best thing I ever tasted.”
My breath caught for a moment. “Then I’ll make you your own batch.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Just like you didn’t need to make me the most gorgeous planters I’ve ever seen.” I lightly touched his forearm. “I want to. It’s kind of my thing.”
The sinews in his arm rippled under my fingertip. I wasn’t sure if it was from discomfort or something else, so I dropped my hand to my side. Deke glanced around his apartment then set his gaze squarely on me.
“Thinking you might be right about needing a couch.” He scratched his jaw. “I’d offer you a seat right now, but you deserve better than a flimsy camp chair.”
I laughed. “Wow, all it took was a brownie and half a cookie for you to see the light. Don’t worry about me. I’m used to being on my feet all day. Anyway, I’m not going to stick around bothering you for much longer.”
“You’re not a bother.” The corners of his eyes pinched. “You remember me? From when we were younger?”
“Of course I do.” I brought my hand to my chest. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you?”
He gripped the edge of the counter, his index finger tapping the grout between the tiles. “It was a long time ago. We weren’t friends, and I was a year ahead of you.”
His saying we hadn’t been friends wasn’t false, but it was still a light punch to the gut. Back then, I’d wanted to be so much more than friends with him; I’d scribbled his name all over my notebooks like the little starry-eyed teen I’d been.
“And you introduced yourself to me,” he added.
“Well, I couldn’t tell if you remembered me .” He chuffed as if the idea was preposterous, but it had been a long time since we’d last seen each other. What reason had he had for me to be a memory he’d kept? “I knew exactly who you were when you opened the door, Deacon Slater.”
“You knew me.” He turned his head, giving me a full view of his rippling jaw. “Then why the hell do you keep coming around here, Phoebe Kelly?”
I jerked, staggering back a step. “What’s that mean? You said I wasn’t a bother.”
“You aren’t. Not to me.” His jaw clenched so hard I was concerned for his teeth. “But you know who I am and where I was the last few years, and where I came from before that. Why are you wastin’ time with me? If you feel some kinda obligation because I stepped in when that asshole was hassling you, forget it. You’re absolved. We’re square.”
“You just said a lot.” I sucked in a breath, measuring my response. “I’m glad we’re square. Anything I do going forward, like bringing you your own batch of cookies, you’ll see as an act of friendship, not obligation. Further, I don’t have a lot of spare time, Deacon. If I choose to spend some of it with you, it’s because I want to. But I am good at taking hints. I’ll go. Next time, if you don’t want company, simply don’t open the door, and I promise I’ll leave you be.”
He followed me to the door, putting his hand on the knob before I could. My back was to him, but I felt his warm, solid presence close. His breath ghosted near my ear, and my pulse tripped over itself.
“I’m just trying to figure you out.”
The next breath I took was shuddery and deep, drawing me back just enough my shoulders brushed his chest. The contact was fleeting, barely there, but his body went rigid, his fingers flexing on the doorknob.
“I don’t have ulterior motives,” I said softly.
Time stretched as my heart stuttered. Neither of us moved. We barely breathed. We weren’t even really touching, but those inches of fleeting contact had felt electrified and important.
Then, as if snapping himself out of it, he took a step away and twisted the doorknob. Moving aside for him to open the door wider, I dared a glance back at him. His cheeks were flushed, and tension radiated from the corners of his eyes and the clench of his jaw.
“I’m gonna go.” I offered him a smile so we didn’t end on a sour note, then barely made it two steps onto the landing before his voice caught me.
“Phoebe.”
Heart in my throat, I turned back. “Yeah?”
His fingers curled at his sides. “I’ll answer the door.”
A thousand butterflies took flight in my belly.
“Okay,” I whispered.
One shoulder braced against the jamb, the weight of his gaze followed me as I slid my key into the lock. Before stepping inside, I hesitated, my eyes flicking up to him.
He nodded to me. “Night, Phoebe.”
“Good night, Deke.”