Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Anna,” I tell him idiotically, because he knew who I was when he first opened the door. I blame it on the events of the night because any other given time, I’d have more control over my words and responses.
He gives me a kind smile, somehow reading my uncertainty as we make it to the center of the room.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Brooks asks when he sees my eyes dart in that direction.
I honestly don’t, but the tranquil tone of his voice almost makes me say yes.
“No, thank you,” I answer instead. I couldn’t hold a cup of coffee without spilling it all over my hands right now if I wanted to.
“That’s Ignacio.” Brooks points to another handsome man on the phone. He’s speaking in a language that’s not even close to Spanish even though he’s clearly of Hispanic descent.
Ignacio raises his hand in greeting, never missing a beat of the conversation he’s having.
“Jude.” Brooks points to the other man in the room who merely nods at me before looking back down at a length of rope in his hands.
Is Deacon breeding hot guys down here? Is that his new specialty since clearly, he’s no longer in the military? Military guys don’t have their names emblazoned on marble walls.
“And you’ve already met me.” This charming bastard grabs my trembling hand and presses his warm lips to the skin there, and like an idiot who hasn’t met dozens of celebrities and most of the kings and princes around the world, my cheeks flush at the contact.
“Brooks!” a man snaps behind me, but the charismatic guy doesn’t jerk away. He simply lifts his head and winks. The mini-spell he cast on me doesn’t break until he releases my hand and walks away.
In a daze and questioning everything in my life, I turn in the direction of the gravely angry voice only to be floored again.
I could tell you a million things I remember about Deacon Black. He’s an asshole for starters, but more than that, he’s always had this kind of jokester aura about him. Although it drove me crazy in high school, he was always doing something silly to make Dani laugh.
I hardly recognize the man standing in front of me. I’m not a good judge on size, but he’s much larger than he was at the courthouse that day. His arms are thicker, his chest broader and testing the limits of the gray t-shirt he’s wearing.
The only things that haven’t changed are the sneer on his face and the fire shooting from his eyes.
“Deacon.” I stand tall, knowing that I’m asking this man for help but also not willing to cower from him either.
His eyes are focused over my shoulder, and when a soft chuckle reaches my ears, I know that he’s glaring at Brooks who doesn’t seem at all intimidated by the angry man glaring at him.
“Deacon,” I repeat, never the one to appreciate being ignored. My sister is much older so I practically grew up an only child, and of course I have all the selfish issues that come along with that position in the family.
“Anna,” he grunts, still not looking at me.
I’d say he’s snarly, if that’s even a word, but if I’m being honest with myself, it’s not altogether unappealing. The man has really grown into himself since I last saw him.
When his head turns and our eyes finally meet, I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. Seeing his bright blue eyes as he watches someone else and having their attention solely on me are two different animals. Chills race over my skin, something that has never happened to me where he’s concerned. Most of our interactions in the past have been actively avoiding each other even though our relationships to Dani put us in constant contact. It was a challenge we both excelled at, yet here I am coming to him with purpose and having the gumption to ask for help.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m in the wrong place. His divorce from Dani was ages ago, and I’m a fool for thinking he’d even care that she’s hurt.
“It’s not Daniella,” he says, his eyes boring into me as if he can read my mind.
“Wh-What?”
“The injured person in her condo. It was a man, not a woman.”
“How do you know?” Why did I just take a step closer to him? Is it relief? An invisible pull?
He doesn’t answer. He simply pulls his eyes from mine to look around the room once again like he’s scanning the space for threats. A tattoo of three crosses stretches down his neck from nearly the bottom of his jaw and disappearing into his shirt.
I wonder what Mrs. Black thinks of that? His mother was a no-nonsense English teacher at our high school, but she was well loved and respected because students knew exactly what they were getting. I don’t think she’d be very impressed with him marking his body this way.