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Deacon’s jaw works, brows creased. “Were you going to get engaged anyway?”
“Of course,” I say. “But it would break Diane’s heart if she thought it wasn’t sincere.”
He lets out a deep sigh and sinks into the seat. “You’re right. And she probably wouldn’t want her brother at her wedding if he’s as bad as you say. Let me think on this. I’ll come up with something.”
I put my hat on and empty my mug. “I’ll start working out the particulars.”
We head out the door, and Deacon looks out over the snowy street.
“What’s your plan for today?” he asks.
“I got some more errands,” I say, taking out a pack of cigarettes.
He takes one. “I’ll come with you. I got a meeting in town early tomorrow, so I’m not driving all the way home. You got a couch I can crash on?”
I sigh, shoving the package into my breast pocket. “Yeah, but you better not embarrass me in front of Diane. You act like a gentleman, okay?”
He pulls his hat lower. “I’ll be a saint.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
DIANE
The door downstairs crashes open. In a second, I’m bolt upright in bed, heart in my mouth.
There are men downstairs. Their boots clatter, and they’re talking loudly. It takes a moment, but I pick Westin’s voice out of the conversation, and my tight muscles ease. Whoever is downstairs, he has it handled.
I wait, my arms wrapped around myself. After a bit, his boots move up the stairs and the door opens. He looks like he’s been busy, and he has a paper bag under his arm.
“Where’ve you been?” I whisper.
He sets the bag down and leans over the bed. His hand goes around my throat, and he kisses me almost savagely. Excitement runs through him like a current and makes my scalp prickle. He pulls back, eyes glittering. Something is different about him tonight, but I don’t know what.
“Goddamn, you’re pretty, Diane,” he says.
“Are you drunk?” I whisper, my heart sinking.
He shakes his head, kissing me again and swiping his tongue against mine. He doesn’t taste like whiskey, just Westin. Then, he puts the paper bag into my hands and starts taking his shirt off.
“What’s this?”
“Way back, I saw you wear a dress made from curtains,” he says, shrugging out of his shirt and starting on his belt. “I told myself I’d get you some real fabric.”
My chest warms. It always takes me aback when he notices little things. Overwhelmed, I open the bag, and out spills cloth of all different colors. At the bottom is a stretchy, silky fabric that’s buttery smooth and edged with yellow lace.
“Westin,” I say, giving him a watery smile.
He touches the cloth in his calloused fingertips. “You’d look pretty in this, darling.”
“I think this is for lingerie,” I say.
“Even better. I’ll ask Keira for a sewing machine, and you can make something that’ll stay on for less than a minute.”
My eyes fall. He’s horny; I can see his arousal under his zipper. That doesn’t surprise me—he’s always turned on when we’re alone, always touching me, kissing me.
I tear my eyes from his groin. “Who’s downstairs?”
“Deacon Ryder. He’s a friend,” he says. “Sort of.”
