Page 6 of Deacon
‘A few weeks ago, to be exact. You remember me?’
‘I do,’ he drawled in his deep, gorgeous timbre, his unusual eyes raking over me. ‘You’re the kind of woman who sears themselves in a man’s soul.’
I huffed at his audacity as he reached into a cooler nearby for two cold bottles of local amber ale.
‘You tell that to every girl you meet?’
He arched a brow, his expression solemn.
‘No, I’m fuckin’ picky.’
His rasp was savage, sending a shiver through me.
He popped the cap off one bottle, then handed it to me.
I abandoned my Coke and took the beer, nodding my thanks.
‘I’m Deacon Vega,’ he rumbled.
As if I’d ever forget.
‘Ana De Stella,’ I said, finding my voice.
He raised his chin toward his bandmate, still caught up in a scintillating debate nearby.
‘Need a rescue from Angel’s rants about musicality?’
‘He’s intense.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he snorted. ‘Angel’s a killer guitarist and a little fanatical about his riffs. Let me whisk you away. With me.’
He reached for me, and I took his hand, spellbound as he led me back to where he’d been sitting.
He found two empty beach chairs on the other side of the fire and set them down, a little way from the rest of the party.
With a dip of his chin, he gestured for me to sit on one, then proceeded to charm me.
First, by fetching me a plate piled high with a burger, corn cobs, and potato salad, complete with a plastic knife and fork and a paper towel.
Then by showing a keen interest in me.
‘You’re unusual, different. Where’d you get that stunning mix from, Ana?’ Deacon asked, leaning back, sipping from his bottle, his remarkable eyes locked on mine.
‘Guess,’ I said, a teasing smirk tugging at my lips. ‘Where do you think I’m from?’
Deacon tilted his head, tracing my features with a slow, intent burn.
‘Brazilian?’
‘Nope.’
‘Dominican, then.’
‘Wrong again,’ I laughed.
It was a game I played with almost everyone, and few had ever cracked it.
He studied me for another beat, his gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes.
