Unfinished Hero 04 Deacon (6 page)

“We’re about to go to church,” she told me.
“But we’ll call tomorrow after the mayhem. You can get a good gab
in with everybody.”

“Okay.”

“And you have plans tonight?” she asked.

I had plans.

They included eating myself into a
pre-Christmas stupor, while drinking myself into an alcoholic one,
and watching Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock miss each other
repeatedly and heartbreakingly until the universe guided them
together. After that, I was going to continue on my Bullock-a-thon
watching
Hope Floats
and reminding myself it’s never too
late to find happiness while hoping the likes of Harry Connick, Jr.
showed up at my cabins sometime in the near future. It could be the
likes of the real him who was cool and handsome and could croon and
play piano or it could be the likes of his character in that movie
who could be hot and honest and take on me and all my crap. If
either opportunity was afforded to me, I wasn’t going to
quibble.

Tomorrow, I’d break out the new DVDs for more
romantic torture.

“I have plans tonight,” I confirmed with my
mom, forcing a chipper tone into my voice and not doing half
bad.

“Okay, honey. We’ll call tomorrow.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Have a good night.”

“Don’t let Dad heckle the choir this
year.”

She burst out laughing and shared, “I haven’t
allowed him into the eggnog yet.”

“Good call,” I muttered.

There was still humor in her voice when she
said softly, “Love you, angelface.”

“Love you too, Momma.”

She rang off and I stared at my phone.

Then I jumped when it rang.

The screen said
Blocked
but since it
was not only my cell but also the cabins’ business number, I took
the call.

“Merry Christmas!” I greeted,
force-cheerfully.

“Woman.”

At that word and who I knew was saying it, I
blinked at my lap.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You open?”

“Yes.”

“See you in thirty.”

Then I heard the disconnect.

It was a whole minute later when I finally
pulled the phone from my ear that I realized I’d just had my first
phone conversation with John Priest, he was coming to Glacier Lily,
and for the first time since he started coming, cabin eleven was
not open.

No cabin was open.

“Oh man,” I whispered to my phone.

And it was then I realized I was already in
my pajamas.

So I flew off the couch and dashed to my room
to put some clothes on.

* * * * *

An hour later, I opened the door, looked at
John Priest standing there, noted the flakes of snow on his broad
shoulders and in his dark hair, then I caught sight of what was
happening behind him.

It was snowing.

Hugely.

“Holy cow!” I cried. “It’s snowing!”

“Bad. Roads are shit,” Priest replied, moving
in, and I moved back.

“How shit?” I asked as I closed the door
behind him.

“Barely got here and I got a snow kinda truck
shit.”

Oh man.

“I, uh…well, Jo…I mean, Mr. Priest, eleven
isn’t open,” I told him.

“Take what you got,” he told me, already at
the registration book.

“I don’t have anything,” I said quietly. “I’m
full up.”

He straightened and turned to me. “No
shit?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I would have told you
before but you disconnected the call before I could share that
information.”

He looked beyond me, his expression vague,
his thoughts elsewhere, likely where he could find a place to crash
on Christmas Eve in the middle of a blinding snowstorm, but still
he managed to mutter, “Fuck.”

At the look on his face, the lights twinkling
on the tree in my living room that could be seen from the foyer,
the snow falling heavy and soft outside the window, and having the
knowledge that Priest, just like me, was alone on an important
holiday, I blurted, “You can stay here. I have a guestroom.
Actually, I have two.”

He focused on me, and when he did, I sucked
my lips between my teeth.

“You crazy?” he asked.

I shook my head, let my lips go, and stated,
“It’s snowing.”

“It is, woman, but you don’t know me.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked.

“Fuck no,” he answered inflexibly.

Well, that was good.

“It’s also Christmas Eve,” I noted.

He made no reply to that.

“And, I, well…have enough food for two.
Though, I have mostly romantic movies to watch but all the other
DVDs haven’t been checked out and there might be something you’ll
wanna watch.”

He said nothing.

“Or you can be by yourself,” I offered. “Stay
in your room and brood or sleep off the road. You just can’t build
bombs in it or plan government takeovers.”

His brows moved up slightly. “Government
takeovers?”

“I’m being funny,” I explained.

He didn’t confirm or deny he agreed that I
was funny. He just kept staring at me.

I straightened my shoulders, held his gaze,
and stated, “You’re welcome. It’s Christmas and I’m alone. It’ll be
nice to have someone around, even someone I don’t know. And it’ll
be nice to do something nice for someone on Christmas, like give a
weary traveler somewhere to lay his head and food to fill his
belly.”

This particular weary traveler’s head tilted
a bit to the side and his gaze on me was sharp, even if it was
void, when he asked, “You think you’re livin’ one of those romantic
movies?”

“I absolutely, one hundred percent know for a
fact that I am
not
living one of those romantic movies,” I
answered immediately and resolutely. I then went on to point out,
“I’m alone on Christmas, Priest. How romantic is that?”

His face changed, I swear, it changed, as in,
it went soft for a heartbeat before he said quietly, “Pie.”

Not a fun memory.

But…whatever.

I drew up a hand and waved it in front of my
face in a “pshaw” gesture.

“I was being nice. You’re immune to nice. I
won’t try that again but, just saying, the caveat is that it’s
Christmas and you can’t
not
be nice on Christmas so you’re
gonna have to suck it up and accept nice. Even if it’s me setting a
sandwich by the door of your room while you stay in it, badass
brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” he stated and I looked to
his shoulder before muttering an openly disbelieving, “Right.”

That was when he asked, “What’s for dinner?”
and my eyes shot to his, something bubbling inside me at his words,
words that meant he was staying. It was something dangerous.
Something I knew I should not feel. Something I immediately denied
I was feeling.

“I already had dinner,” I told him. “But I
was about to break out the chocolate-covered almonds. And the tin
of macadamia nuts. And it was time to arrange the Christmas cookies
for easy reach. I have five varieties. And I could throw together
some of my cream cheese corn dip and rip open a bag of tortilla
chips.”

“Jesus,” he murmured but I wasn’t done so I
spoke over him.

“Or I could make the cheesy, green chile,
black bean dip I had planned for luncheon-esque time tomorrow. It’s
heated. Or I could whip up some parmesan sausage balls. Or those
garlic, sausage and cheese things in the wonton wrappers, though
that takes some prep and baking. I could also unfreeze some of the
beef stew I made last week.” My eyes drifted away. “But that’ll
take time seeing as I’ll have to make fresh dumplings so it’ll have
to simmer awhile.”

“Woman,” he called and I looked to him. “No
stew. Your green chile shit can stay on tomorrow’s menu. Nothing
with sausage in it ’cause I’m hungry and I don’t wanna wait for
anything to cook or bake. But all the rest would not go
wanting.”

I smiled at him, that something inside me
bubbling stronger. So strong, I had to clutch on to the denial so
it wouldn’t burst inside me like a geyser.

“Go grab your stuff,” I ordered and kept
bossing. “Then take off your coat. Make yourself at home.” I
started to dash to the kitchen and stopped, turning back. “Your
room is the first on the left at the top of the stairs. You could
pick the other one but that one’s your best bet. It’s less girlie.
Though, warning, the ex-owners of this house had a psychotic
affinity to chintz and flowers so it’s only
slightly
less
girlie.” I resumed my dash, stopped, and again turned back.
“Bathroom is across the hall from that. I have my own bathroom,
FYI.”

Then I resumed my dash, finishing it by
skidding to a halt on the kitchen floor on my thick, woolen socks,
wondering where my dip warmer thingie was.

And since I was in the kitchen, and before
that had been babbling and not paying attention, I didn’t see John
Priest watch me through the whole thing, unmoving. I also didn’t
see him stay that way after I disappeared from the foyer.

And last, I didn’t see his big hands ball
into tight fists and his strong jaw go hard before he turned to the
door.

* * * * *

Early the next morning, I sat on my side
porch, jeans on, pink thermal with its tiny blue and green flowers
on under a western style jean shirt with pearl snap buttons, fluffy
wool scarf wrapped around my neck, my feet encased in very thick
wool socks up on the top railing. I had a dusky blue knit cap
pulled down over my hair and my fingerless, fuzzy woolen gloves
were wrapped around a huge cup of steaming coffee.

I stared at the landscape, the trees
surrounding my cabin, evergreens tufted in snow, leafless aspens
gilded with it. To the left, the river was running over its red
rock, beginning to twinkle in the rising sun. To the right through
the trees, my winding lane leading to the cabins one way, the
street the other.

We’d had a dump of snow. I needed to get the
little tractor with the blade out and clear the lane and parking
lot in case any of my patrons wanted to take a Christmas day
jaunt.

But I sat there, deciding to do it later. No
one in their right mind left their house early on Christmas
morning.

On that thought, I heard the door open behind
me and I twisted in my chair, keeping my feet where they were, and
watched John Priest walk out.

He, too, was wearing thick woolen socks but
his were a marled gray and black, whereas mine were a light mint
green.

He was also wearing faded jeans, a white
thermal under a padded, navy blue flannel shirt, the navy blue
somehow making his tawny eyes turn an appealing amber.

He had thick stubble.

It was hot.

And last, his hair was a mess like he hadn’t
even run his hand through it to tame it after rolling out of
bed.

That was hotter.

He was holding a heavy, toffee-colored
earthenware mug of my coffee in his meaty fist.

I felt the pull of his magnificence,
instantly denied that pull, and smiled at him.

He just looked at me then he looked to the
chair beside me, a chair no one had sat in except Dick Grant, and
Grant hadn’t sat in it often. Then he made his way there.

I looked away as he sat down but I couldn’t
miss his feet going up on the top railing, two feet from mine.

My legs were bent. His long legs were
straight and he crossed them at the ankles.

Sitting beside him in silence, something
settled in me. Something just as good and right as I knew it was
bad and wrong.

I tried to ignore it.

It was hard to ignore.

I managed it, brought the cup of coffee to my
lips, and said softly into it, “Merry Christmas, Priest.”

He surprised me by replying in a gentle
rumble, “Merry Christmas, Cassidy.”

He said my name.

He knew it and he said it.

I smiled into my coffee before I took a
sip.

* * * * *

I hit the off button on the remote and turned
to Priest.

“Well?” I asked.

“It sucked,” he answered.

I felt my eyes grow round. “Sucked?
Sucked
?
Love Actually
doesn’t suck!” I got up to a
forearm in the couch and my gaze on him turned to a glare. “It’s
perfect Christmas viewing. It has Christmas and it has romance and
it has Alan Rickman. Anything with Alan Rickman
does…not…
suck
.”

Priest’s expression remained the same. “That
does.”

I rolled my eyes on my, “You’re
impossible.”

He gave a slight shrug indicating he didn’t
give a flying anything what I thought he was.

I wasn’t offended. That was Priest.

“Right. This time, you pick,” I stated,
tossing the remote on my coffee table. Then I looked back to him.
“Or do you want me to start making dinner?”

His brows drew together a centimeter before
he reminded me, “We had that green chile bean dip during the last
movie.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, you stopped stuffing that shit in your
face an hour ago.”

This was very true. In fact, I had to stop
myself from licking the bowl clean and only did that because the
bowl was heated and I might burn my tongue.

“It’s Christmas, Priest. It’s a moral
imperative to eat constantly and copiously, maintaining a food
stupor in order to lapse into the ultimate stupor, that being a
food coma after dinner. This lasts exactly one point five hours
whereupon you wake up and eat Christmas dessert.”

“How about you eat another fifteen cookies
while I take some time to make a hole in my gut to fit dinner while
we watch another movie?” he suggested.

My eyes dropped to the opened tins of cookies
littering the coffee table, cookies I noted he had not touched (not
one), while I muttered, “Works for me.”

“Jesus,” he muttered back.

I looked again to him. “Go. Movie. Pick.”

He heaved himself out of my armchair and
walked to my shelves that held my library of DVDs.