Chapter Nine
Brushing your teeth while standing in a moving vehicle was a daily exercise in balance. Doing so with a hangover from Hades? Well, that was an Olympic-worthy achievement.
Hannah groaned as she grabbed hold of the counter top and spit into the sink. Even after the second brushing, her tongue felt fuzzy. As for her head, the aspirin she’d taken an hour ago had dulled the vicious pounding to more of a roaring, constant tap. Still annoying, but not entirely unmanageable. The bottle of water Deacon had forced into her hands before she stumbled into bed last night probably had a lot to do with that, too.
Ugh. This was why she didn’t drink very often. The one other time she’d pushed her luck, and drank more than a glass or two of wine, was during her first week in Paris, and that had ended in a morning much like this one. Only that had been the result of too much merlot and a tattered, broken heart.
Not so this time.
Despite herself, Hannah grinned.
Hangover or not, joy swept her body, healing the remaining broken pieces as she recalled the feel of Deacon’s lips on hers. Every touch, every stroke, every gentle bite of their kiss was forever tattooed on her brain, and she’d been watching it replay in her mind like her favorite movie all morning. Even the way that it ended, with her spewing chunks all over his boots, wasn’t mortifying enough to steal away her happiness.
Deacon had kissed her. Really and truly kissed her. Holy crap!
Hannah slowly shook her head, awed but still nursing a headache, and pinned up her hair with a clip. An explosion of curls fell over her forehead, crowning a face scrubbed bare of any makeup. For the morning, at least, the makeover portion of Operation Joie de Vivre was on pause. As giddy as she was over last night’s kiss, she didn’t have the energy to hum one of her silly little ditties much less pick up an eye shadow brush.
Satisfied that this was the best she was going to look today, Hannah shuffled out of the bathroom, her thoughts on her stomach. Breakfast. She needed breakfast. Cereal, or maybe some eggs, and a whole pot of black coffee.
Thankfully, she had the bus to herself for a few hours as Sherry, feeling needlessly guilty about getting Hannah drunk, had taken the kids to a nearby park. The guys usually had rehearsals and sound check until lunch, which meant she’d have time to become almost human again before having to face anyone. And by anyone, she meant Deacon.
Yawning, she tucked her chin to her chest. She couldn’t help wondering where his head was this morning. They hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about their kiss last night, what with being preoccupied by the vomit and all, but now that he’d had some time to think, how would he play it when he saw her again?
Would he brush it aside like it never happened?
Acknowledge it, but go back to friendship as usual regardless?
Or would he be open to exploring the possibility of more?
At the end of the short hallway, a pair of crossed bare feet entered her vision, and Hannah stuttered to a stop. She’d recognize those toes anywhere.
“Thought you could use this.”
Deacon’s voice settled over her like a warm bubble bath with extra fizzy salts. Her skin heated and tingled, and she closed her eyes against a shiver. Of course this was how he’d see her hours after he kissed her: hungover, and looking like a half-dead orangutan.
Would it have killed her to swipe on a little lip gloss?
“Thanks.” Forcing a smile, she accepted the glass of apple juice and touched the ends of her crazy hair. She bit her lip. “Um, as you can see, I’m not exactly at full capacity yet.”
Why had she pointed that out? Clearly, the man had functioning eyeballs and could see the truth for himself; she didn’t need to go around flaunting it, for Chrissakes! Why didn’t Cosmo ever cover this in their magazine? The awkward morning-after-kiss conversation, complete with monkey hair.
Looking away, she took a tentative sip.
“The sugar in the juice helps,” he murmured, sounding every bit as uncomfortable as she felt, which only made it worse. He coughed and repositioned his feet. “The vitamins and water should rehydrate your body, too.”
At his tight smile, Hannah realized he knew this from years of dealing with his mom’s drinking and his own early days of partying. Great. Guilt heaped on top of her awkwardness. At least no one could say she didn’t fail with style.
As she messed with her hair with one hand, she tugged on the hem of her baggy tee with the other, only now remembering what she’d thrown on. She winced at the picture she made. Deacon’s mouth quirked as he looked at his toes, and she closed her eyes. What a mess.
Resigning herself to the reality of her sloppy appearance—and the unlikelihood of there ever being a repeat performance of their earth-shattering kiss—she lifted the juice to her lips again. Thankfully, sugar helped with heartache, too.
When Deacon raised his head again, his eyes trailed over her face, and a slow, soft smile curved his mouth. “Even at reduced capacity, Cherry, you’re still beautiful.”
Hannah sputter-coughed on her juice.
What did he just say?
Not once in her life had anyone called her beautiful. Sure, she’d gotten a lot of adorables over the years. A handful of cutes and even a couple of prettys. But never, ever a beautiful.
Did it mean anything, that Deacon called her that word now, after their kiss, and when she looked downright scary?
Did it mean he wanted to kiss her again? Or was he just buttering her up to let her down gently?
Gah! Why were men so impossible to read?
“Here, I’ll take that.” His fingers brushed against hers as he took the empty, forgotten glass from her hand, and a tingle shot up Hannah’s spine. He set it in the sink and then turned around, leaning his hip against the counter and shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. “Guess what I found out this morning?”
Hannah blinked at the rapid subject shift, much preferring they stay on the compliment trail and the discussion of what it could mean. But then she noticed a strange glow in his eyes. His soft gray-green irises shined with excitement—and Deacon rarely got excited about anything.
Wondering what on earth he could be up to, she shook her head. “What?”
“Well, I was going over the band’s travel schedule this morning and noticed something interesting.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded, and the suspense built until she was about ready to drag it out of him. Then, ever-so-nonchalantly, “The Charlotte concert is the same weekend as the Harvest Festival.”
Hannah’s entire world stopped.
Deacon smiled, taking in her reaction. “Cool, right? I think we should go. We haven’t gone to the carnival together since senior year.” More like junior year, but who’s counting? “Oh, and get this, Arabella set up a fundraiser in the gym for Charlie’s foundation, Life & Lyrics. A free throw competition and private concert the day before the dance.”
On the outside, she licked her lips and moved her mouth to form words like, “Th-that’s awesome.”
On the inside, only one thought swirled her brain: he mentioned the dance.
This was it. Her chance to walk under that vine-covered pergola. To go to the dance with the love of her life and finally make her longest-held wish come true.
“Since the concert’s not until Sunday, I thought we could bring Max to the carnival on Saturday. Introduce him to the joys of funnel cakes and see if I can’t still kick your ass at Hoops.” Deacon shot her a playful wink. “Afterwards, maybe your parents can babysit while we check out the dance.”
Unsteady hands grasped the table’s edge. “The dance,” she repeated, tasting the words on her tongue.
Was she still sleeping? Was that what was happening right now? It would certainly explain the beautiful remark and this entire dreamlike conversation. But, just in case she was wrong, she decided she should ask anyway. Just to be sure.
“You mean the Harvest Moon Dance?”
“Well, yeah.” The skin between his eyebrows furrowed. “But it was just an idea. We definitely don’t have to—”
“No, no, no!” she interrupted, throwing her hands out to stop him. “I want to go. I do. Really.”
Hannah bounced on her toes, ignoring the pain that sliced through her skull—note to self: jumping and hangovers do not mix—and Deacon widened his eyes. “You sure? You’re acting kind of weird.”
She lifted a shoulder, trying her best to fight back a giddy smile. “I just love dances.”
He chuckled as she continued bouncing on her toes and shook his head like she was a foreign creature. “Since when? I don’t remember you caring one way or the other in high school.”
That’s because no one ever asked me to one, you idiot, Hannah chastised in her head. And because you always went to them with Krista.
Aloud she said, “I’ve changed a lot since those days. Besides, it’s been forever since we went to the festival. It’ll be fun to see what’s new and what’s stayed the same.” She blinked her eyelashes in what she hoped appeared as innocence. “I can’t believe the concert is that same weekend. What a coincidence!”
A tiny twinge of guilt zinged her stomach at the white lie, but it wasn’t like she’d twisted his arm to ask her. He’d brought up the dance entirely on his own.
But could it really be this easy?
“Well, all right then.” With another dazzling smile, he pushed away from the counter. “Glad I brought it up. I hope you’ve got your dancing shoes, Cherry, because it looks like you and I are hitting up the old Harvest Dance.”
The finality of those words echoed in her brain, almost making her dizzy. Deacon huffed a laugh. “You know, this is something we should’ve done years ago. I sure as hell would’ve had more fun taking you than Krista in high school.”
It was hard, hiding the face Hannah wanted to make as he wrapped her in a loose hug. It was on the tip of her tongue to say no duh, but then, what good would it have done? The past was the past, after all. What mattered now was the future—their future—and the dance was the first step in securing that.
As the seconds ticked, and the hug stretched past the point of friendly, the mood around them shifted. The muscles in Deacon’s strong arms flexed around her shoulders, and Hannah couldn’t help remembering how it felt to have him hold her last night. Not in a platonic hug between friends, but in a real embrace of passion.
Was he remembering, too?
Hannah lifted her face from Deacon’s neck and watched the thick column of his throat bob in a swallow. She licked her lips, focusing on the smooth skin and the base where his pulse fluttered, remembering the taste of salt on his skin. She wondered what he’d do if she put her mouth there again.
The sudden rush of air as he stepped back actually fanned her hair.
Deacon coughed. “I, uh, better get to the arena.” The tightness of his face looked pained, and he gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “The guys are waiting on me.”
“Okay.”
As Hannah watched, he backpedaled and spun around, stooping to grab his boots from in front of the couch and not bothering to slide them on. “But you should eat something,” he told her. “It’ll help. And tell Max I’ll be here to tuck him in before the show.”
She nodded wordlessly, cataloguing the twitching of his jaw and shifting of his eyes as he stopped at the top of the stairs. When he turned to face her, the physical distance across the bus was nothing compared to the strange emotional distance. For the first time in a long time, Hannah couldn’t get a hint of what he was thinking. His eyes were completely closed to her.
“Get some rest.” Deacon’s lips twisted in a sad version of a smile. “You deserve it.”
Then, with a two-finger salute, he bolted down the steps like the hounds of hell were after him. Hannah sank onto the bench seat, more confused than ever.
…
Slow and quiet, Deacon closed the door and toed off his boots. The bus was eerily silent. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, otherwise known as Nap Time at Kids Central, and the only time other than the dead of night you could hear a pin drop. Or hear yourself think. He’d chosen it for a reason.
Picking up his shoes, he treaded carefully up the steps. As much as he loved his son, Max was a tiny terror even the Hulk wouldn’t mess with when he got woken from a nap. The last thing Deacon needed was a meltdown during his chat with Hannah.
They needed to get this over with.
Too much time had passed since the kiss, but they’d yet to discuss it. Admittedly, he’d chickened out in the beginning. Hannah had been hungover the morning after, so he’d brought up the carnival instead, thinking it’d be a safe subject, and they’d hash out the rest that night after the show. Then the bus was put under quarantine.
Lizzie had caught it first, with Max succumbing just after that. A call to the pediatrician ruled out anything more serious than a stomach bug, but he and Tyler were kicked out so they wouldn’t get sick, too. Evidently, concert goers weren’t too keen on vomit.
The next day, Hannah and Sherry got hit, and it wasn’t until late yesterday that he got the all clear to move back. But after squeezing in a few extra stories with Max, he’d barely had enough time to change before heading to the arena for the concert…and this wasn’t the sort of conversation he wanted to have half asleep, either.
Today was the day, though. There were no media events to do, and rehearsal was over. Deacon was staring at two full hours of uninterrupted Hannah time, and he was eager to finally have it out so they could push past the tension and get things back to normal.
At the sound of Sherry’s voice in the back bedroom, he headed in that direction. Hannah’s bunk was empty, which meant she was probably back there, too. The women had grown close over the last month of traveling. Deacon lifted his hand to knock, ready to interrupt their girl time…then let it hover in the air, hesitating.
You’d think after four days, he’d know what he wanted to say by now—but he didn’t. Somehow, even after the nonstop thinking, he was less prepared for this conversation than he’d been for the first one they’d ever had.
Christ, that day felt like yesterday. If he tried, he could still feel the phantom sunburn on his skin. That summer had been brutal, and by the time Hannah had come out to say hello, he’d already been outside for hours. When you didn’t have food to eat, things like the risk of skin cancer didn’t exactly rate a high priority.
He and his mom had just moved to Willow Creek a week before that, and Deacon had spent most of that time alone. While Mom hung out at the bar, doing God knows what with God knows who, he’d eaten everything remotely edible in the kitchen. He’d been this close to boiling the macaroni off an old handmade cross from kindergarten when a long shadow crossed over his feet.
“H-h-h-hello.”
That one, halting word had changed everything.
To this day, he didn’t know what had made Hannah cross the street. He’d never told her just how bad it had gotten, either, but it’d been bad enough for an angry kid with trust issues to follow her home…and the hunger pains tightening his stomach had only been half the reason.
Even then there’d been something about her that made him stop and pay attention. That had him thinking she was the sweetest, most honest thing he’d ever seen, or would ever see, in his entire life.
It was crazy to think how much his life changed because of one decision. It could’ve just as easily gone the other way, too, with him pushing her away like he had everyone else, and her leaving him alone again.
Now he had Max, so he’d never be alone again, but Deacon knew what it was like to live without Hannah. They’d kept in touch while she’d been in Paris, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t seen her face every day, or heard her laugh, or felt that sense of peace. He needed that in his life. His son needed that.
Deacon hung his head. Hannah was under his skin. There was no forgetting the taste of her lips, but this was bigger than the two of them. They had Max to think about, and he’d be devastated if Hannah disappeared or if things suddenly got weird. There was also the band.
As Tyler reminded him that morning, Hannah only signed the first half of the contract. The Steel Drum tour had two more months left in the U.S. and then another six weeks overseas. If they pushed the boundaries of their friendship again, and things went south, he’d be leaving the guys in the lurch. With his own extended contract still on the line, he couldn’t take that risk.
Deacon released a heavy breath. Sometimes the right thing felt a hell of a lot like nausea, but if it meant keeping Hannah in his life, his son happy, and his job secured, then it was what he had to do. This was the best decision for them both.
Resolved with that, he looked at the door…then slowly dropped his hand.
He’d give it another few minutes.
Calling himself ten shades of coward, he redirected his steps. A hot shower would clear his head. Maybe he’d even pull a Hannah and rehearse what he’d tell her in advance. It always worked for her, helping her control her stutter, and though Deacon didn’t have that particular problem, he was nervous as hell. If her head was even half as muddled as his was, this conversation wouldn’t be easy.
Frustrated, he shoved open the bathroom door harder than necessary. Fog and heavily scented air rushed to greet him, and it took a second for the reason to register. When it did, he came to an abrupt stop with one hand on the doorknob and one foot still in the hall.
Candy and flowers.
As the steam disappeared through the crack in the door, a vision appeared, plucked straight from his recent fantasies. Creamy skin, pink from the shower and wet with liquid drops, topped anything his imagination could’ve conjured. Damp ginger curls clung to a slender throat that was arched back, making a sexy silhouette as full lips trembled in a silent speech to the ceiling. Dark, spiky lashes lay across a flushed cheek, hiding a pair of expressive eyes he’d know anywhere.
Torture, thy name was Hannah.
Gone was the girl he’d known in high school. Erased was the rock he’d depended on in college. The goddess in the shower was a woman, a beautiful woman, with tantalizing curves, shapely legs, and the most incredible smile he’d ever seen.
The arousal flowing through his veins mocked his previous so-called resolve.
“Cherry.”
Her name came on a choked breath, but Hannah’s eyes snapped open. Smooth skin turned to stone as she stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, before slanting those green eyes toward him in horror.
“Deacon!” Frantic, she tried to cover her body, slinging one arm over her perfect breasts while reaching for the folded towel on the counter with the other, only to quickly draw back her hand and slap it over her lower half as well.
It was the hardest thing he ever did, keeping his eyes above her waist. Taking one step forward, he grabbed the terrycloth and handed it over, not trusting himself to get any closer. When she took it from his hands, she could hardly look into his eyes. Deacon’s chest gave a hard kick.
Hannah made quick work of the towel, wrapping the terrycloth around her torso and clinging to the edges. She bit her lip and stammered, “Wh-what are y-you doing?”
It wasn’t remotely funny. The reappearance of her stutter meant she was either stressed or anxious, two things he never wanted to be the cause of. But he couldn’t help the laugh that broke free at the innocent question.
A full-bodied, unstoppable laugh that threw his head back with the force of it.
“What am I doing?” he repeated in amusement, hearing the gruffness of his own voice and dragging in a deep, floral-scented breath. “Oh, Cherry…I’m losing my ever-loving mind.”
“Wh-what?”
He shook his head, too wound up to explain. It was time to go. Clearly, their conversation wouldn’t be happening today—there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d make it through telling her the kiss was a mistake with a straight face. Not after seeing her naked. Nope, what he needed right now was distance. Distance and a lobotomy.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Deacon turned on his heel. Later, he’d apologize and try to find some way to explain his behavior, but the important thing was getting out of there before he made things worse. He was halfway through the door, eyes still closed, when a voice had them popping open.
“Hey, D-man, sound check over already?”
Too late to leave without opening the door any wider and risk exposing Hannah, he shifted back to block Sherry’s view and grunted in response.
She snickered near the bedroom door. “Good talk there, caveman.” She sauntered forward, then eyed where he stood with a strange expression. “Say, whatcha’ doing standing in front of the bathroom? Waiting for a written invitation?”
She laughed again, ever the smartass, and at the nearness of her voice, Hannah released a high-pitched squeal behind him. Panicked, he rushed to close the door tighter around his leg…and that’s when Sherry understood.
“Oh, snap!”
Even in his basketball days, Deacon hadn’t seen anyone move that fast. Double-timing it back to her room, Sherry called out, “Sorry, Hannah!” just before slamming the bedroom door…
And that awoke the miniature Hulk and Princess sleeping in their roosts.
“Hannah!” was quickly followed by Lizzie’s, “Mama!”
As for Deacon, his feet were glued where he stood, halfway between his best friend and his wailing son.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Hannah’s eyes were wet with unmistakable vulnerability. He shook his head, wishing she saw what he did when he looked at her now. She didn’t need that expensive makeup or fancy Parisian crap she’d been clinging to lately. She was beautiful exactly as she was. It was crazy that he hadn’t noticed just how much before.
Max’s cry pierced the air again, seconded by Lizzie, and Deacon fisted his hands. Sherry ran back out of the bedroom, muttering fresh apologies as she rushed to her daughter, and he released his death grip on the door.
“You’re gorgeous, Cherry.”
He waited until the message hit home and a softness entered Hannah’s eyes, then turned around and closed the door with a firm tug behind him. Wiping his hands on the front of his jeans, he quickly made it over to his son to comfort him…walking away before he crossed yet another line that couldn’t be uncrossed.