46. Henri
Chapter 46
Henri
Deacon and I took turns in the shower. It seemed like he wanted to join me, but something stopped him, and I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad about that. It’s a battle between jumping into another relationship, which my wolf wholly supports, or taking things slow and trying to date Deacon, whatever that might mean.
Whatever I choose, though, based on Deacon’s behavior, he’s not in a hurry to rush me. Which I appreciate.
Then why does it feel like he doesn’t want us? my wolf argues.
I try telling her to shut up again, my own thoughts getting ahead of me.
I’m finishing drying my hair when Deacon emerges from the closet, completely dressed and ready to go. He’s wearing the same band T-shirt from the first day that we worked together. The difference is he swapped out black skinny jeans for dark blue bootcuts today.
He leans against the doorframe, watching me, but it’s not the menacing glare that Nathan would wear as he rushed me. Deacon’s just watching, his gaze contented with a curious head tilt.
I finish at my own pace before turning to look at him and gesturing to the clothes he brought me. “I look okay? It’s not my usual style.”
“More than okay.” Deacon nods.
The clothes don’t smell like anyone else. They’re too small to be Thalia’s, and while they seem like something Lena might casually wear, I’m still not certain they’re hers. The colors are lighter, more neutrals and pastels.
“You bought these for me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, Hen.” He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “After the second time you came here, I got some stuff for you to keep here. While I wouldn’t want you to be back here under the same circumstances, it was wishful thinking that you’d ever wear them.”
“Are you...” His face is turning a little pink. “Are you embarrassed?”
“Yeah, I kinda am. It’s like being caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I hoped you’d be here, and you are. Busted. Didn’t think it’d ever go quite like this though.” I step toward him, and Deacon offers me his hand. “Come on, the yarn places wait for no one.”
“We don’t —”
“I want to. Please don’t fight me.” Deacon tips his head. “We’re in this super awkward place where we don’t know what we’re doing and how to define what we are to each other. But one thing is for sure, I’d really like to spoil you more than a little bit. Besides, I didn’t get you a birthday present while I was out of the country.”
With a sigh, I accept, putting my hand in his. “Okay. But let’s not go over the top?”
Deacon just smiles. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m the criteria by which all over-the-topness is measured.”
He leads me out the door to the garage, grabbing our jackets on the way, and into the heated garage. I climb in when he opens the passenger door for me. Once I’m buckled, he drapes my jacket over my lap and closes the door.
After tossing his coat in the back seat, Deacon climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car. “Okay, so there are two farms nearby, and then I figure we’d grab dinner and come back home. You can spend all night showing me how good of a hooker you are.”
“You’re not gonna let the hooker thing drop, are you?” I groan.
Deacon laughs. “Only because you asked so nicely.”
After ten minutes of comfortable silence, Deacon pulls us off the road and into a driveway with a sign that says ‘alpaca crossing.’
There are fields of what I’m guessing are alpacas—because of the sign. They’re all happy out and about, munching with little sheep friends.
“They’re so cute!”
“Just wait until you see the shop.” Deacon encourages my excitement, his chaotic nature building.
The shop is a whole experience, not simply a yarn store. Deacon buys little cups of feed to take out to the alpacas. And thankfully it’s not too cold with the sun in the sky.
Once outside, little signs are displayed, telling us the alpaca’s names. They all get in as close to us as the fence between us allows.
“Who’s your favorite?” Deacon asks over my giggles when an alpaca licks my hand, their tongue leaving a wet, slimy trail behind .
“Well, I think Bertrand likes me the most, but look at how cute Willow is.” I sigh in lamentation.
Animals are so much work to care for, but I could easily come back and do this regularly.
“Alright, let’s go inside and buy Bertrand and Willow yarn.” Deacon ushers me back to the shop.
And sure enough, inside and out of the cold are little fiber art models of each alpaca on displays around the room. Skeins of yarn dyed in fun colors are all twisted up with labels and tags.
Pretty much any yarn I touch, Deacon picks up and holds in his arms, sometimes picking up multiple bundles of the same ones.
“You don’t have to—” I start to argue.
“I’m spoiling you. Plus, there’s a competition to see which alpaca sells the most yarn. We wouldn’t want the favorites to lose.” He grins.
They even have stitch counters and crochet hooks in sizes that match the spun-out yarn. And Deacon makes sure I get the cute alpaca charms and counters rather than the plain ones.
Our skeins push both Willow and Bertrand to the top of the alpaca contest charts, and we walk out the door with two packed bags of supplies.
On the way out the door, Deacon wraps his arm around my shoulder. It’s warm and comforting. He places a kiss on my hair, and I swoon. Physically swoon at the touch. It feels...
Right? my wolf offers.
Scary, I correct.
It’s sweet and cute, and I like it, but I feel equal parts anxiety. What if this doesn’t work out?