Deacon: What’s a peepee teepee?
Lord. He needs to get out of the baby aisle.
Cracking up, I typed.
Carys: It’s a tent for your wee-wee.
Deacon: A tent for MY wee-wee? Are you suggesting I need one after last night?
I couldn’t believe he was bringing that up again. I also couldn’t believe how hard I was laughing right now. I’d laughed more today than I had in ages. I hoped I wouldn’t wake up Sunny.
Carys: It’s for baby boys so they don’t piss on people.
Deacon: Ah. Then I’m good. I haven’t pissed on anyone in a while. ;-)
Holy shit. Where was this conversation going?
Carys: SMH
Deacon: Doesn’t look like they have my size anyway.
Oh my God.
Deacon: Okay. Really leaving this time!
And now I was burning up.
* * *
When Deacon returned a half-hour later, Sunny was still sleeping.
He handed me a bag containing the diapers. He also carried two coffees in a cardboard tray.
He lifted mine out. “I got you a venti. Wasn’t sure if that was too big.”
“No such thing when it comes to coffee.” I smiled and took it. “Thank you.”
I walked over to my purse and took out my wallet.
He held out his hand. “No way. Everything’s on me.”
“I can’t let you pay.”
“Just consider it my apology for keeping you up last night.”
“I need to pay for the diapers at least.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Seriously, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. I won’t take it. So put your wallet back.”
I was never good at accepting charity but conceded. “Well, thank you.”
I took the first sip of the hot, foamy latte and closed my eyes. I moaned, perhaps a little too loudly.
“You sound like something coming out of my bedroom last night.” He laughed.
I nearly spit out the coffee.
My face must have turned red too, because he added, “Too much?”
“Actually, no. I appreciate you making light of the situation and not pegging me as the bitchy neighbor.” I took another sip of my coffee. “This is so good. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”
“Any time you want one, if you can’t leave, just let me know. I’ll make a coffee run. It’s right down the street.”
As tempting as that was, I wouldn’t be beckoning Deacon to fetch me coffee anytime soon. If there was one thing I hated, it was appearing needy.
I squinted. “Why do you have to be so nice? It makes it hard to be annoyed at you.”
“I didn’t realize being annoyed at me was a goal of yours.” He smiled and looked around. “Your daughter is still sleeping?”
“Yeah. It’s been a couple of hours now—above average, though on occasion, she’ll go to about three. I’m loving it. It’s rare to get this long of a break.”
“Well, I’d better not say monkey balls again. Otherwise you’ll start laughing and wake her up.”
And now I was laughing again. I covered my mouth to dampen the sound. “Oh my God, that was so funny.”
“Have I mentioned Mrs. Winsbanger loves me?” he asked. “She gives me the stink eye, too.”
“Have you actually seen her? I normally just notice her door cracked open when she’s spying on people in the hallway. I think I’ve only seen her once or twice.”
“One time I tried to help her carry some shit in, but she refused and gave me the dirtiest look. You would’ve thought I was trying to rob her. I was just trying to help.” He grabbed his phone. “Let me look it up.”
“Look up what?”
“Monkey balls. Maybe I’m missing something.” He typed something and scrolled. “According to this, monkey balls is slang for chafing that causes guys to walk like a monkey.” He looked up from his phone. “Well, shit. That doesn’t sound too pleasant.” He returned his eyes to the screen. “Oh! Look at this. Monkey balls are also an inedible fruit used for pest control. They ward off spiders.”
“You learn something new every day.” I chuckled.
“Thanks to Mrs. Winsbanger.” He rolled his eyes, putting his phone down.
Gosh, my cheeks hurt. Having him here made me realize again how much I’d missed adult interaction.
He took his drink out of the tray, and I noticed he had some ink on his left wrist, coming out from under his sleeve. I wondered how much of his arm was covered. Part of the ink was a word, but I couldn’t see it clearly aside from “hie” at the end. Was it a name? Ruthie? No clue.
He had the biggest, most beautiful hands, too, with prominent veins and rough skin. Long fingers. Deacon was the epitome of masculinity. I forced my eyes away from admiring him, instead focusing on the writing on the side of the cup he held. He seemed to have ordered three shots of espresso straight, no milk. A strong drink to match a strong man.
He noticed me looking at his cup. “They got my name wrong. They wrote Beekman. Who the fuck’s name is Beekman?”
“My dad’s actually,” I said, forcing a straight face.
“Are you serious?”
Releasing my stoic expression, I shook my head. “No.”
“Ah…Carys made a funny. Maybe she’s more than just the prude next door.”
“Hey!” I laughed.
He winked. “You know I’m kidding.”
“Well, I can certainly relate to the name screw-up thing. Normally, they write Paris on mine, even though I sound out the C pretty clearly.”
“That’s true, Carys-Like-Paris.”
“Sometimes they write Karen.” I shrugged. “Happens all the time.”
His eyes lingered on mine. “Carys is a unique name. I like it a lot.”
There was something about the way this man looked at you when he spoke. He gave you every shred of his attention. His eyes were two giant spotlights on me that drowned out the rest of the world.
Feeling my cheeks heat up, I said, “Thank you. It’s Welsh.”
“Are you Welsh?”
“My mother is half Welsh, yes.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful name.”
A shiver ran down my spine, as if he’d complimented me on something much more exciting than my name.
My senses were having a field day between Deacon’s amazing scent and the delicious aroma of the espresso—two of my favorite smells blended together. But mostly my body was hyperaware of the gorgeous creature standing in front of me—one who’d made a woman scream in pleasure just last night.
Deacon walked over to the corner of the room. I admired him as he examined the photos displayed on my shelves. Most of them were of Sunny, but he lifted one of me. I braced myself as he looked back and forth from the photo to where I was standing.
“You were a ballet dancer?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I was…for several years. Not anymore, obviously.”
“Professionally?”