Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Magda moves to the side to allow me access to the booking system. Most of the rooms in her category are already occupied. I click over to Mrs. Melia’s profile. This is her second stay with us. “Delighted to have you back, Mrs. Melia,” I say, directly to her, across the reception desk. “We’re just trying to find a solution for you because the hotel is very busy this evening.”
“I understand,” she says. “I don’t mean to be any trouble.” She’s a neat, small lady, with pearl earrings and a single strand of pearls that sits on the neckline of her baby-blue sweater.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I say, indicating that Magda should program a key for Room 729. It’s a junior suite and unlikely to get booked up today.
“Can you arrange for her bags to be moved,” I say, as I round the counter. “We’ve found a room for you, Mrs. Melia. Let me show you the way, and you can tell me if it works for you.”
We head to the elevators and there’s one waiting for us. As we get inside, the doors are just closing when someone presses the call button, which stops the doors closing and reopens them.
Something shifts in me, and it feels like there’s about to be rain outside, and I’m not surprised when the doors open and reveal Deacon standing there.
My stomach corkscrews into the floor, and I bunch up my hands in a vain attempt to regain my composure.
I’m fine, I tell myself. I’m feeling much stronger. Life goes on.
His eyes meet mine, and I look away, trying to steel my strength. I focus on the panel of buttons on the wall of the lift.
As Deacon comes into the car and stands behind me and Mrs. Melia, I press the three and the seven and face the doors as they close.
He’s standing so close, I can hear his breathing. I can smell that faint scent of sandalwood and lime that had become so familiar to me.
Why had I decided that I was strong enough to move freely through the hotel today? I’m not strong. Not where Deacon Black is concerned.
I’m oh so weak.
I start counting in my head…when I feel the heat of his body behind me. Am I imagining it? Has he moved so he’s standing right behind me?
I take a steadying breath and will the lift to move more quickly.
Finally, after what feels like forever, it reaches floor three and the doors ping open. I move to one side to let Deacon out and keep my gaze on the floor.
As he passes me, his fingers find mine, just for a second.
My hand heats, my skin flashes hot, and my entire body turns boneless.
It was just more than a hint of a touch, a brief acknowledgement that we were something more to each other once.
And it completely ends me inside.
Heartbreak and longing balloon in my chest, and I have the urge to run again. Run out of this lift and down the stairs. Out of this hotel. Back home.
It’s so difficult to have come so close to something that was almost perfect. For me.
If I’d never known him, I could have passed his touch off as an accident.
But Deacon doesn’t touch women in elevators by mistake.
He meant to touch me.
He didn’t know it would bring back the rush of pain.
I’m not sure if it was an I’m sorry. Or I hope you’re okay. Or I miss you.
Maybe it was all of those things.
I have no doubt that Deacon felt something for me. I believe in our connection. I just think he was so terrified that his daughter would feel what he felt as a kid, because of the death of his sister and his home life, that he couldn’t let himself focus on anything but her. But what he couldn’t see was that he was really trying to rewind time and stop himself from being hurt—an impossible task. All it did was to stop him from fully living.
There are worse flaws to have. There are worse men to be. He’s entirely devoted to his daughter and I can’t hate him for that.
I just wish it could have been different for us.
He steps out of the lift and instead of continuing to his room, he stops, as if he’s waiting for the doors to close. I can’t tear my gaze from him. It might be the last time I ever lay eyes on him, and I want to draw it out and make it last.
Maybe he realizes it too. Maybe that’s why he stays as the doors close.
At the last minute, just as there’s just a few inches between the closing doors, Deacon turns and we lock eyes once again.
For the last time.
And inside, I break in two.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Deacon
On Sunday morning, I roll the bright pink suitcase into Willow’s room. “I bought you something,” I say.