The way her typically rigid shoulders slumped made Deacon take a step back from his own irritation. “Mother? Is everything all right?”
Her hands fell to the desk, and she met him with tear-filled eyes. “I told you in January to stop your reckless behavior. But you just couldn’t do it, could you?”
“I haven’t done anything reckless in months.” He flipped the large hourglass sitting on the edge of the desk; the grains of sand slipped through with mesmerizing speed.
“What do you call asking Joel to give Vivienne her final exam early?”
He swore under his breath and sank onto the chair. “It was merely a suggestion.”
“She nearly killed herself.” His mother typed something on her laptop; the printer shuffled through its paper tray and spat out two pages. “But that’s not all you’ve done, is it?”
“Ummm…” He knew better than to incriminate himself.
“I assigned her to a mission in Maryland. But you…” She rose slowly and leaned across her desk. “You decided that wasn’t good enough, didn’t you? You wanted her on your mission. I wonder why?”
The sand in the hourglass ran out.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Would he ever live down that mistake? “This isn’t like the last time.” He knew she wouldn’t believe him, but he had to say it aloud.
“You’re right. Last time, I was foolish enough to assign you to work with a female recruiter. This time, you went behind my back and changed the assignments yourself.” She stalked to the printer beneath the window and came back with the pages. One was thrust in his direction; the second she read over herself. “I told you there would be consequences.”
He stared at the British Airways boarding pass dated for later that evening. “I’m not going to London.”
Then she handed him the second sheet.
“You cannot be serious.” Deacon read and re-read the missive. Laughter filtered through the window with the sunshine, but he had never felt less like smiling as despair took root in his gut. “They’re putting me on trial?”
Vivienne should have known. She had known. But she’d ignored all the signs and continued down the path to heartache anyway. The yellow dress she had worn the night before still smelled like Deacon’s cologne. She twisted it into a ball and shoved it into her trash can.
Why did his mother’s revelation shock her so much? Deacon had done nothing to hide the fact that he wanted to sleep with her. But knowing that was all he was after . . . that was unforgivable.
It was her own stupid fault for thinking that it would actually mean something to him.
That he would still want to be with her afterwards.
He was only looking for a distraction—and she had willingly played the role.
Not anymore.
Someone knocked at the glass door.
Vivienne knew who it was even before she opened it.
“I need to speak with you for a moment.”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Deacon.” Vivienne tried to shut the door, but he blocked it with his foot.
“What’s wrong?” He pushed his way past her and propped himself up against the side of the couch.
She closed the door and took a few steps toward him. Why did he look like he was worried? Like he cared? He was just passing the time with her. “Did you change assignments just so you could sleep with me?”
“Is that what my mother told you?” he scoffed, his eyes narrowing.
“Answer the question.”
He dragged on the ends of his hair. “It was my second assignment, and I was partnered with a girl I fancied. I made a mistake and have been paying for it ever since.”
His tortured expression only made her angrier. “That’s not what I asked.” She didn’t want to hear about other girls.
“No,” he said through his teeth. “I did not change assignments so I could sleep with you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He stood, and the movement put him impossibly close to her. “Why would you believe my mother over me? You just met her! She doesn’t know what’s going on in my life. She doesn’t know how I feel about you or—”
“How you feel about me?” she bit out. “Deacon, you want to sleep with me. And you’ve made it clear that where sex is concerned, feelings aren’t involved. So don’t stand there and look wounded when I call you on your shit. That’s something you like about me, remember?”
“You think this is about sex for me? If I just wanted to have sex, all I’d have to do is dial a bloody phone number.”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” she snapped, turning toward the bedroom. Just because he refused to leave didn’t mean she had to stand there and listen to his—
“Dammit, Vivienne. Is it that hard to believe that I want to spend time with you?” he ground out. “That I genuinely care about you? That I want to be part of your first mission? That I want to be there if you need me?”
Yes. It was that hard to believe. Because he was Peter frickin’ Pan’s drop-dead-gorgeous grandson, and she was just an orphan from Ohio with an active Nevergene.
“Get out, Deacon.”
“Wait. Listen.” He ran his hands over his face. “I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. Vivienne, I—”
“For once, will you just leave me alone?” She dashed at the tears running down her cheeks with the backs of her hands. The mascara she wasn’t used to wearing burned her eyes.
The only sounds left to hear were his retreating footsteps and the slamming door.
Frostburg was a small college town in western Maryland whose population dropped by almost half when college wasn’t in session. It was beautiful, quaint, and far from Kensington; everything Vivienne needed to get over Deacon.
“My name is Alice Barnard, and I’m here for an interview with someone named Bill.”
A man behind the counter at Luigi’s Pizza Parlor dropped the rag he was using to wipe the plastic menus. “That’s me,” he said, drying his hands on his apron and pulling a pad of paper and pen from his pocket.
“You’re the owner, right?” Vivienne, slipping into her role as Alice, followed him to a booth by the window.
“Are you wondering why my name isn’t Luigi?”
“I guess I’m not the first person to ask you that.”
“Definitely not.” He laughed. “Bill’s Pizza Parlor just didn’t have the same ring to it.”
He had a point.
“My interviews are simple,” he said, glancing at her bogus resume before setting it aside. “Are you reliable and do you show up on time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you plan to work, or sit around scrolling on your phone the entire shift?”
“I’ll go with the first one.”
“Good choice,” he said with a deep, rumbling laugh. “What’s your availability like?”
She twisted the watch on her wrist. How did she casually request shifts with her mark? “Whenever you need me.”
He flipped through the pad he held. “Can you start today at three?”