12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Phoebe
As luck would have it, I didn’t have to go knocking on Deacon’s door. He pulled in moments after I did, so I waited at the rear of my car, my canvas bag hooked on my elbow.
He climbed out of his truck and ambled toward me. “Need help with something?”
“No, I don’t. I wanted to see if you’ve eaten dinner yet.”
He rubbed his nape, his gaze dropping. “Got caught up in a project and haven’t had the chance. I should probably get on that.”
From the look of him, he’d been doing some carpentry. Chips of wood were scattered in his hair, and a fine layer of sawdust coated his navy-blue hoodie. His jeans were old and worn, ripped at the knees and stained here and there.
He looked like he’d been working hard all day with his hands, and I liked that very much. So much so, I became preoccupied in my perusal of him and forgot to reply.
He took a step toward our house. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up. Have a good night, Phoebe.”
“Wait.” I grabbed the back of his sleeve. “I brought you leftovers from dinner with my family. Are you interested? It’s pasta, roasted chicken, salad, rolls—”
He cocked his head. “You brought food for me?”
“Well…yes. My mother would be pretty offended if you didn’t eat it,” I teased.
“She knows who it’s for?”
“She does.”
He scuffed his work boot on the pavement. “I appreciate it more than you know, but I can’t eat it.”
I moved in front of him, catching his lowered gaze. “My whole family is nut-free for Jesse. He ate this meal with us. It’s safe.”
It took a moment for him to agree, but he finally did. “All right. Thank you.”
“Do you want to eat at my place? I can warm it up for you, and I have an actual table and chairs. Not to mention cutlery and real plates.”
He chuckled, smoothing a hand down his front. “I’m filthy. You don’t want me in your apartment.”
I wanted to tell him I didn’t mind that at all. That his version of filthy was sexy as all get out to me. But I had a feeling he’d get spooked if I was that forward with him. “Get cleaned up then. It’ll take me a few minutes to heat up your dinner anyway.”
We parted at my door, and I bustled around my apartment, straightening pillows and putting away the few odds and ends I’d left around.
He was back in under ten minutes, in a fresh band T-shirt and clean jeans, his hair wet and combed away from his face. I let him in, catching a whiff of soap and something spicy. Maybe aftershave or cologne. I liked that he’d taken that extra step before coming over.
He stood at the edge of my living room, his head swiveling left and right. The bones of our apartments were identical, but everything else was different. Tapestries and prints I’d picked up at fairs and markets hung on the fresh celery-painted walls. A comfy couch piled with plush pillows sat in front of a thick wool rug, facing a small TV on my vintage credenza.
“Looks like someone really lives here,” he said.
“Well…I do. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I don’t have any plans to move. I like pretty things.”
“It’s nice. I’m guessing you decorated your bakery too.”
“I did. Camille and my mom gave a lot of input and helped me shop, but the basics were all me.”
He nodded. “It smells good in here.”
“Come eat.”
I waved him over to the kitchen and ordered him to sit down while I dished up his food. I piled the plate high and placed it in front of him.
“What do you want to drink? I have water, beer, an open bottle of wine…”
He looked up at me, the ruddiness in his cheeks deepening. “I’ll have a beer if you’ll join me.”
“Sure.” I smiled at him. “I like the sound of that.”
I grabbed one for us both and settled across from him, watching him dig into his food. He started slow but once he’d gotten his first taste, his speed picked up, shoveling huge forkfuls of pasta and chicken into his mouth. There was something about the way he ate, an urgency that pricked at my nerves like he was worried it would be taken from him at any moment. I wondered if that was something from a shitty childhood or a habit he’d picked up in prison. Or maybe he was simply hungry after a long day at work.
“Can I ask you a question about prison?”
He paused midchew, lifting his eyes to mine. I thought he’d turn me down, but after a moment’s hesitation, he jerked his chin.
“How did they handle your allergy there? Were you able to eat what everyone else did or…?”
Swallowing hard, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “There are supposed to be procedures in place, but they don’t follow them. My first week on the inside, I went into anaphylaxis from contaminated food. Almost died because no one knew where they kept the EpiPen.”
“Shit.” My fingers tensed around my beer bottle. “I’m not surprised, but I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I won’t pretend it’s not scary as hell to feel my throat closing up, especially in a place where I had no autonomy. Couldn't carry my own EpiPen, no access to check ingredients in food, nothing. Just had to trust people who didn’t care if I lived or died.” He stabbed his pasta with his fork. “After that, they served me prepackaged food. It was terrible, but I didn’t have to worry about it killing me.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s awful. God, I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Some would say I deserved it. Part of my punishment.”
“And some people are assholes, so there’s that.”
One beat. Two. Then laughter burst from somewhere deep within Deacon. Dropping his fork, he tossed his head back, letting it roll out of him.
Delight curled inside me. Giving that to him felt so good I could have melted into a happy puddle. Something told me Deacon hadn’t done a lot of laughing in his life. I didn’t consider myself an especially funny person, but I’d gotten him to do it twice since we’d become reacquainted, so I must have been doing something right.
He grinned at me as his laughter died off. “You’re right, Phoebe. A lot of assholes out there.” Picking up his fork, he paused. “That wasn’t the question I’d expected you to ask me about prison.”
“What’d you think I’d ask?”
“I dunno. What I did to get in there, what it was like—that kinda thing.”
“I’m curious about that too, but what I asked seemed less invasive.” I nodded toward his plate. “Maybe I’ll ask something else in a bit. Eat first.”
He waved his fork over his food. “Besides your baking, this is the best thing I’ve ever had.”
I had to stop myself from showing any reaction. My mother was a great cook, but this wasn’t anything special, just an everyday dinner in the Kelly house. That pasta and roasted chicken were a big deal to Deacon killed me. I wished we’d been better friends when we were younger and I’d invited him over. I wished he’d had a better life. I really wished things had been different.
I swallowed my emotions and smiled. “I’ll have to tell my mother. She’ll be honored.”
“She really knew this was for me?” he asked.
“She really did.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your family’s okay with you spending time with me?”
“They had questions, but in the end, they trusted my judgment. If I’d been able to tell them you were the one to rescue me that day, you’d be invited to family dinner every week.”
He lifted a brow. “In that case…”
I laughed. “If you’re free next time I go, you’re welcome to join me. My family is protective, but they won’t bite.”
As soon as I said it, it was like a curtain fell between us. Deke concentrated on his food, answering me with a grunt I interpreted as, “No way in hell is that happening, lady.”
“Or I can bring you leftovers again,” I added.
“I won’t turn that down.”
When he finished, he washed his plate and utensils, even though I told him he didn’t have to, then turned to me as he dried his hands.
“Ask your questions.”
“All right.” I opened the container of blondies I’d brought home from my parents’ house and slid them across the counter toward him. “First one: do you want dessert?”
Huffing a laugh, he grabbed a blondie. “If you’re making it, the answer is always yes.”
“I like that.” I tipped my head toward my living room. “Would you like to sit down and hang out for a while?”
His eyes darted back and forth between mine. “I’m having trouble not wondering what’s in it for you.”
“Remember what I said the other night? If I get tired of your company, I don’t have a problem asking you to leave.”
He grinned and bowed his head, following me to the couch. “You’re forthcoming.”
“I am.”
“It’s a good thing.”
I hoped he still thought that after I asked him everything on my mind.