15. Henri
Chapter 15
Henri
Deacon sighs, coming out of the busy meeting room to see me and the Corinth Security agents Cade sent over from the main DC office. “Ooo, another death threat? What did it say this time?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I smile at him, hoping to appease any nerves he may have. “Cade isn’t worried, but with it being our last day here, there was no harm in making sure.”
“Spoilsport. I’m starting to think the death threats are funny.” He steps closer to me, ready to be led off.
It’s the closest he’s been to me in the last two and a half weeks. I mean, not that I’ve been measuring, but after New Year’s Day, since I told him we had to be professional, Deacon has been a complete gentleman, if not entirely indifferent to my existence. Which, well, being what I wanted, is good. It’s not... It doesn’t feel right.
This six-day trip has been filled with so many awkward interactions between us, and there’s only one more night before we’re home and can spend less time with each other. Again, another thing that doesn’t feel right .
“Henri.” The event coordinator calls my name, walking over in a hurry.
He’s been on my ass, adamant about what events he wants the Aldens here for, like he can demand we make an appearance, but I can’t get him to understand I’m calling the shots.
“I really appreciate you both coming today. It’s been great getting to know the Aldens better. I wish you could have made the journey and brought Finn and Lena for the Wolves in Film and Literature feature.”
Even though it’s not an audible thing, I’m pretty sure I hear Deacon’s eyes rolling. He voiced massive distaste for that event, citing that if they were throwing an event about ‘Wolves in Film and Literature,’ one of them in each category, at the bare minimum, should be created or written by wolves. And he’s not wrong. Plus Lena and Finn were in Ireland, so it was physically impossible to get them there even if I wanted to.
“Yes, well, it didn’t quite fit our schedules. We best be going.” I smile at him and gesture to the security agents, bringing them forward with us and ending the conversation.
“Oh, of course. Thank you again.” He gives me a tight smile, which is super fake.
Deacon doesn’t even bother saying goodbye, but as we take steps toward the door, he groans, “I hate feeling judged by pompous assholes like that.”
“Same. It feels like everyone’s always judging me,” I tell him, being even more unprofessional than before the kiss.
It’s like I can’t find my usual buttoned-up self with him. He’s so disarming.
After two months of spending at least four days a week together, it’s become so natural. Like now, I know I shouldn’t be tucked in close to him, but away from the flashing cameras and press that would read into everything, it’s nice to pretend .
“I’m never judging you. I already did. All it took was one time. I judged you, and I fell in love with you,” he says to me, pulling me in for a hug. “Today was a hard day, but you did so good.”
Deacon’s reassurances have absolutely no business being this good.
He’s perfect, my wolf coos. Kiss him again. He loves us. You heard it, right? You heard it.
He doesn’t mean it like that. I correct her, nipping all the bubbly feelings she’s trying to make out of a friendly, platonic interaction between us.
Looking up at Deacon though... it almost feels like an option. The closeness of our bodies pushed together brings dizzying memories of New Year’s Eve back into my brain.
“In a platonic way.” I echo my thoughts, hoping that offering him those words and removing myself from the hug will stop the warmth of desire settling within me. Desire for him.
My wolf wags her tail. Her encouragement for us to be together sends panic slamming into me like a wrecking ball.
We can’t be more, I remind us both. Besides, he might not have realized what he just said. It could be the liquor talking or God knows what he got from the impromptu meeting in a café this morning.
Deacon doesn’t contradict me and lets me go without a fuss. But his eyes hold a deep desire, and I’m not sure how to handle it.
He didn’t say it wasn’t platonic. That means it is. I try to cling to that logic.
“So.”
“So.”
He and I try to change the subject at the same time.
I gesture to the doors that will lead us out of this private space and back out in front of the press, keeping myself quiet to let him talk.
Deacon smiles and rubs his hands together. “There’s that cake place on TV. Think we could swing by and try?”
“I don’t see why not. We’ve got to get dinner anyway,” I answer and shrug. “It would be good for filler posts for your social media.”
“Excellent. Cake and making you happy.” Deacon smiles down at me.
He doesn’t mean happy in anything other than our working relationship. I try to squash down these feelings. I love Nathan. I can be friends with Deacon.
The reminders are hard to keep up while the memory of that look, how he looks at me, is burning its way into my brain.