She peered up at him, his hair wet ropes around his angular face. Even under the beard that tried to soften his face, there was no mistaking those cheekbones. She bumped into his solid warmth, letting him wrap an arm around her shoulders and lead her back the way they came.
By the time they reached the house, she couldn’t feel her toes and Deacon, who never had a cold moment in his life, had a tinge of blue to his lips. They both stripped on the way in and headed right for the shower. She turned the glass enclosure into a ball of steam, and they both washed the sea film off of their skin. There were looks between them, but neither of them seemed inclined to touch.
When the suds from shampoo and conditioner, her body wash, and the ever perfect scent of Deacon’s woodsy scent circled the drain, they both surrendered to the pull that was always between them. Deacon enveloped her with his arms and a bath sheet, bundling her close before sweeping her up and out into the living space. He dropped into one of the over-sized chairs with her in his lap. He tucked his chin on her shoulder. “We need to eat something.”
Food had always been a staple in her life. She enjoyed it as much as she enjoyed sharing her recipes. Now, she gave half a damn about eating at all. She pressed her cheek against his. “So far, cheese has been the only thing that doesn’t taste like all of the wrongs in the world.”
“We might be in luck. When I went to the store yesterday, I got the fixings for pizza.”
“Your idea of fixings, or mine?”
He huffed out a half-laugh. “Top shelf olive oil, fresh dough, and good mozzarella. Oh, and mushrooms.”
“You’re learning, Mr. McCoy.”
“I have a good teacher, Mrs. McCoy.”
The sound of that still startled her. But it was more that it sounded so right. So natural. Harper McCoy. For twenty-three years she’d been Pruitt, and she’d thought she’d be one of those women that held onto her name. But she’d wanted his name. Nothing had felt as right as writing his name after her own.
She tried to lever herself off of him, but Deacon held her there. “We’re going to figure this out.”
She closed her eyes and let him hug her before she stood and headed into the kitchen.
This was her domain. The cool granite top on the island cupboard steadied her like a tumbler lock being reset inside of her. She gathered the ingredients from the fridge and found a few dried spices over the stove as well as flour in a canister. Five minutes later, she had the oven pre-heating and dough stretching on the flour-sprinkled granite top. Deacon had wandered out onto the porch as she worked, the dim light from his phone lighting his face in the growing dark.
A pizza stone was too much to hope for, but she made do with a cookie sheet. When the scents of oregano and the sauce she’d doctored didn’t roil her stomach, she had hope that she’d actually be able to eat something.
She washed her hands and went for her own phone. Answered a few texts from Annie and her mom. The urge to talk to her mom hit her low and hard.
But the idea of disappointing her if she decided not to go through with the pregnancy held her back. She and her mom weren’t exactly the closest of people, but her mom was as traditional as apple pie when it came to having children.
It was in direct opposition to their lifestyle, but then again…what wasn’t odd in her life? She’d snuck into a costume steamer trunk at twelve just to run away with her dad. That wasn’t the action of a well-adjusted child.
Adventure had been her middle name for so long. When had that changed? When she’d gotten her heart broken by Jesse at seventeen? When she’d gotten tired of climbing lighting rigs?
She set her phone down and put the pizza in the oven. When a twitter notification popped up, she flicked her phone alive again.
Come see me and Simon at the Triage Room in downtown LA Sat night. We’re guest jamming with The Purge. xoxo Jazz
Guess Jazz was getting antsy waiting at home for them to figure out studio time. She tapped her phone, staring at Jazz’s name on her screen.
No.
She shouldn’t burden Jazz with this kind of news.
She wouldn’t be able to tell the rest of the band. It was unfair to ask her to keep a secret. Especially when secrets had done such a royal fuck-job on the band this past summer.
Harper turned off the phone and tucked it back into her bag. She put the thought out of her mind and started cleaning up the kitchen.
Twelve
Opening Up
“Babe. Come eat.”
Deacon turned in his chair on the back patio. “Smells great. My gut’s been rumbling since you put the sauce on.” He stuffed his phone into his shorts pocket and stood.
She leaned on the doorjamb, her hair half down in one of her messy braids that she was forever bundling her hair into while she cooked. The cornsilk strands never stayed that way long. He moved to her, coasted his palm down her hair, sliding his fingers in at the nape of her neck.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
He bent down to her, kissing her gently. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to break.”
“You’re the strongest woman I know, Lawless.”