I started giggling.
He looked to me. “Disagree?”
I stopped giggling and replied, “I think people can like what they wanna like. Though, I don’t really understand not being a dog person. Or a cat person. Actually, an animal person.”
Deacon looked back at the trees, asking, “So why am I buyin’ you a dog six years down the road?”
He’d done that too. Bought the dog for me.
Pure breed dogs were not inexpensive. Pure breed dogs with an incentive to jump the list and get first pick cost fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills.
Fifteen.
When I saw the cash, I’d wrapped a hand around Deacon’s forearm and opened my mouth to protest. But the second I touched him, he tipped his chin down at me and gave me a look that needed no words whatsoever. So I didn’t say anything.
At the time.
I brought it up in the Suburban.
His response was, “Done, woman. No use talkin’ about it.”
This was true.
And false.
I went with the false bit, continued my protest, and got a different response.
“Right. What I meant by no use talkin’ about it is we’re not talkin’ about it.”
And then he didn’t talk about it.
At all.
Even though I did.
Which meant I had no choice but to quit.
He wanted to buy me a dog, I’d let him do it, partly because it was sweet, but mostly because I had no choice.
“I didn’t have the time for a dog,” I told him.
“Cabins take a lotta upkeep?”
“Not really. I have them the way I want them. It’s mostly puttering around, making the space nice, welcoming. A place people drive up to that makes them think immediately they made the right choice. And Milagros helps a lot. It’s just that, once I got the cabins the way I wanted them, I started working on the house.”
“House looks sweet, Cassie,” he said softly.
I was glad he felt that way. Actually, I was glad he noticed at all.
“Thanks, honey,” I replied softly. Then I sighed and said, “I guess what I’m saying is, I didn’t think I had the time. But now that I have pick of the litter, the time is right.”
He didn’t reply. He just took another sip of bourbon.
I did too.
We lapsed into silence.
I broke it.
“Since I was thirteen, this was all I wanted.”
I felt his eyes on me but I kept mine on the trees and continued speaking.
“My own business in Colorado. My parents brought us here when I was thirteen and because I begged, they kept bringing us. I fell in love and knew this was where I’d live my life, doing something I enjoyed doing, close to the slopes so I could snowboard. But mostly this, the day being done, taking a load off, surrounded by beauty.”
“Thirteen?” he asked and I looked to him.
“Thirteen.”
“Not the usual little girl dream,” he noted.
“I wasn’t the usual little girl,” I shared.
He looked back to the trees, murmuring, “You’re not a usual woman.”
I turned my attention to the trees, murmuring back, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Meant as one.”
I grinned into my glass and took a sip.
Then I kept talking.
“A lot of people would think I’m crazy, but this is all I want. I want to be sitting right here when I’m eighty, listening to the river, gazing at the trees.”
“Nothin’ crazy about that.”
Oh man.
I liked that he thought that.
I took in a deep breath and let it out, asking, “Where do you wanna be when you’re eighty?”
“Don’t fuck up and blow my shot, sittin’ on my ass on a chair that I’m glad now has a pad, next to a decent woman with beautiful eyes, lips made to be kissed, and phenomenal hair, listenin’ to a river and starin’ at some trees.”
Yes.
I was crazy.
Absolutely.
Because I was filled with glee that he wanted that.
Not to mention the sweet things he said to me.
“Though,” he continued, “only if she doesn’t turn out to be a crazy bitch who loses her mind if I don’t put my towel on the rail the exact way she wants it to be.”
I looked to him, grinning.
“Towel placement is super-important, Deacon.”
He said nothing but in the dim light coming from my lit kitchen, I saw his eyes crinkle.
“Coaster usage is too,” I went on.
The eye crinkles stayed where they were even as he took a sip of bourbon.
“Not to mention, appropriate care and cleaning of your vehicle.”
He had something to say to that.
“A truck that’s not dirty is not a truck. It’s a * wagon.”
I burst out laughing.
“I’m not joking,” he said through my laughter, which made me laugh harder.
It also made me get up, put my glass on the railing, and move to him.
I saw his head tipped back, watching me, but he didn’t move an inch as I maneuvered over him, tucking a knee into the seat at his hip and swinging a leg wide to straddle him.