“Thanks.”
Deacon turned into a driveway hidden between a row of shrubs and scraggly bushes that looked out of place in such a pristinely landscaped environment. Once the tree tunnel opened up, her mouth fell open. A stone, glass, and brick mansion rose before them like a monolith.
He parked in the circular drive, his rental car out of place with the Lexuses, Mercedes, Audis, and Range Rovers—until she reminded herself that Deacon did, in fact, own two vehicles that would blend in here. He glanced up at the structure and shook his head. “Can’t believe Dad agreed to this monstrosity.”
“You’ve only been here twice?”
“They moved here after I left home. I crashed in the guest room for a few days before Granddad’s funeral. Then, when the shit went down with my aunt Suzette, I stuck around only because Dad was a mess and Julianne was worthless.” His gaze was heavy with disgust. “I hate this place.”
Molly had wondered if Deacon had been invited to stay with his folks and he’d declined. “Why?”
“It ain’t home to me, and it never will be.”
She reached for his hand on the console. “So we’re both without a place to call home.”
Deacon started to say something but changed his mind. Instead he brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.
She waited until Deacon came around to help her out of the car. He kept his left hand around the back of her neck—an obvious sign of propriety, but the heavy weight of his hand reassured her.
After he rang the doorbell, she tensed up. He pressed his lips to her temple. “Babe, gotta remember to breathe. Only time I want you breathless is when I touch you.”
The door swung inward, cutting off her retort.
Molly half expected a tuxedoed butler. But the man in the doorway wore gray trousers, a gray and white pin-striped shirt, and a big smile. Molly noticed a resemblance between him and Deacon, but the man foiled her scrutiny by forcing a hug on Deacon.
“Son. Good to have you here.”
No positive response from Deacon.
He disentangled himself and brought Molly forward. “Dad, this is Molly Calloway. Molly, my father, Bing Westerman.”
Molly offered her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westerman.”
“Call me Bing. Please.” He clasped Molly’s hand in both of his and held on. He studied her more intently than she’d anticipated, and she found herself leaning away, into Deacon. Bing caught himself and retreated. “Come in. Everyone has gathered in the lounge before dinner.”
Of course this house had a lounge. Probably the butler did double duty as the bartender.
Molly didn’t have time to check out the foyer beyond seeing the marble floor beneath her feet, the enormous sparkling chandelier above her head, and the two grand staircases that curved up to the second story. Her initial impression? This kind of wealth meant never stepping foot in IKEA.
Bing led them into a room straight out of an English manor—a wood-paneled, thickly carpeted lounging area where men played billiards, smoked cigars, and swilled expensive spirits while plotting to run the world.
“Stay by me,” Deacon murmured.
They stopped in front of a hand-carved, L-shaped bar with club chairs on one side and a brass foot railing down the other side. Bing stepped behind the partition. Looked like he was the butler and the bartender. “What would you like to drink, Molly?”
“She’ll have the same as me. Jameson Select on the rocks with a splash of soda.”
Molly thought it best not to correct Deacon and ask for rum and Diet Coke.
When Bing smiled and turned away to fix their drinks, Deacon put his mouth to her ear. “Dad is a shitty bartender. Makes drinks three times stronger than they should be. The Jameson is high-end, so he’ll be stingy with it—trust me.”
“But I’m not a whiskey drinker.”
“Good. Then there’s no chance you’ll get hammered and my family will take advantage.”
“They’d do that?”
“In a fucking heartbeat, babe.” He kissed the hollow below her earlobe. “They’re cut from the same cloth as your cousins.”
A more expensive cut of cloth to be sure, she thought tartly.
“Deacon, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
A command cloaked in a honeyed drawl was still a command.
Deacon didn’t turn around, and Molly didn’t see a smile on his lips or in his eyes. “I figured introductions could wait until we had our drinks.”
“Very well. I’m pleased you retained something from the etiquette classes I sent you to.”
Wow. He’d just blown off his mother.
Conversation buzzed in the room, but Molly kept her focus on Bing, as he used an industrial soda dispenser to add bubbles to the amber liquid in the crystal glasses.
“Here you are.” Bing popped a tiny blue straw in each glass.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Need me to run interference with your mother?”
“No. I can handle her.”
“I wasn’t worried about you, son.”
Molly sipped her drink and wished she could’ve slammed the entire thing when she finally noticed the people openly gawking at her.
Deacon draped his arm over her shoulder. They made their way toward a rail-thin brunette with big Texas hair, who was stylishly dressed in a pantsuit the soft hue of pink champagne. “Molly, meet my mother, Julianne.”
Molly thrust out her hand. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Mrs. Westerman.”
Her pale blue eyes, as frosty as her son’s, inspected Molly head to toe. The woman didn’t look a day over forty. She briefly took Molly’s hand. Then her gaze moved to Deacon. “Will you make introductions, or shall I?”
With his drink, Deacon gestured to the blond woman next to his mother. “I’ll do it. Molly, this is my aunt Annabelle Wick—Julianne’s sister—and her husband, Derek.”
Derek offered his hand and muttered, “Our son, Warren.” Then he gestured to a gangly teen sprawled in a cozy seating area, who didn’t look up from his cell phone to acknowledge either of them.
Deacon pointed to the next couple. “This is my uncle Clark Westerman and his wife, my aunt Sissy—they’re Tag’s parents.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Sissy said.
“Aunt Suzette,” Deacon said coldly to the dark-haired woman who’d slithered between Clark and Sissy. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Of course I wanted to be here to welcome your new girlfriend.” Suzette offered a slim, bejeweled hand. “I’m Suzette Atherton. Deacon’s aunt. This is my husband, Leonard.” He was so tall he had to crouch a little to shake her hand. Then Suzette said, “And this is our son, Clive.”
A good-looking, dark-haired man close to Deacon’s age, overdressed in a three-piece camel-colored linen suit, ambled closer with obvious reluctance. The slight sneer twisting his mouth lessened his attractiveness. His blue eyes, a shade darker than Deacon’s, scrutinized Molly for what seemed an eternity.
Deacon’s fingers tightened on Molly’s. “Clive. Are your mom and dad paying you to put in an appearance?”
“Of course I wasn’t invited, but when has that ever stopped me? My curiosity overruled the potential boredom of this family dinner. But now I think”—he shot Molly an unreadable glance—“it will prove to be a very interesting evening.”
How was she supposed to survive this? They were all looking at her like she was a green-skinned alien.
Bing cut through the group and stopped in front of Deacon, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tell us about your next fight.”
“He doesn’t know who he’ll fight next,” Warren said from the sitting area.
So the boy could speak.
Deacon faced him. “Actually, being that the fight with Needham ended so fast and I’m still in fighting shape, I’m fighting Duke Watson next weekend. His original opponent is out with an injury.”
Molly forced herself not to r
eact. So soon? Why had he dropped this bomb in front of his family? Was she supposed to act like she’d known?
“Duke Watson is tough. Tougher than his record indicates. I’ll bet he’s not about to have a four-course French meal, regardless of who he’s fightin’,” Warren drawled.
Deacon moved closer to his cousin. “Yeah? According to Watson’s PR team, he eats nails for all three meals anyway.”
Warren snorted and didn’t look up from his phone. “And his press team swears he drinks the bitter tears from his enemies to wash it down.”
“Watson likes to think he’s invincible. I’ll prove him wrong.” When Warren didn’t respond, Deacon said, “You a fan of Watson’s or something?”
A blushing Warren looked up at Deacon with worshipful eyes.
That’s when Molly knew she’d found an ally in this family. She sidestepped a stunned Deacon and sat across from Warren. “I believe Warren is a fan of yours, Con Man.”
Warren blushed harder.
“That’s cool, Warren,” Molly said with a grin. “I’m a big fan of Con Man too. Have you seen him fight live?”
He shook his head. “Just on YouTube.”
“It’s scary. When he fought Needham last weekend, I thought I might throw up when he took that hit.”
“That was the only hit Deacon took,” Warren reminded her.
A serious fan, then. “The first time I watched him fight, he used this beautiful spinning back fist to knock out his opponent. So I asked him to show me how to do it in his kickboxing class the next week.”
“Did he show you?”
“No. He made me run through all the punching and kicking drills two extra times for even asking him.”
Warren completely charmed her with a shy, crooked grin. “So he’s a hard-assed teacher?”
“You have no idea.”
“You take jujitsu too?”
“Nope. Just kickboxing. It’s therapeutic to pound out my frustrations a few times a week.”
Deacon set his hand on Molly’s shoulder. “That’s where we met. It took her a while to agree to go out with me.”
“Only because you tried to kill me first.” Damn. Given his history . . . wrong thing to say. She quickly backtracked. “I’ve got a much higher aerobic threshold now. I don’t start wheezing the first minute of class.”
“I’d probably be wheezing too,” Warren said. “I don’t need an aerobic threshold for golf.”
“You golf for fun? Or on your school team?” Deacon asked.
Molly couldn’t get over Deacon’s interest in his cousin. He had a puzzled look, almost as if he’d never seen him before. And he was being . . . chatty with a teenager. Very odd behavior.
“Warren is ranked a top-twenty player for high school golf for the state,” his father inserted proudly.
“He’s already garnered the attention of some top scouts from Ivy League colleges.”
Warren scowled. “One scout, Ma. Don’t make it out to be something bigger than it is.”
“Watch your tone with your mother,” his father warned.
“Geez, don’t act like I’m something special in front of Deacon! He’s a professional athlete. He’ll probably fight for the world title in the next couple of years. The world title!” he repeated with awe. “That’s impressive. Competing in the Texas high school state golf tournament doesn’t compare.”
“You’re right. Fighting uses brute force versus the skill and finesse used in golf.”
Warren glared at his mother. “What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that when it’s not true? Deacon is one of the best fighters in MMA. He’s trained for years to learn the skills to take him to the top. I don’t get why none of you ever talk about all he’s accomplished. He’s the shit.” Embarrassed by his outburst, he dropped his angry gaze to his phone.
Silence.
Molly kept her mouth shut even though she sided with Warren. Deacon was the shit. He’d made a name for himself and he’d done it on his own. There should be a lot more family pride than the minute amount she’d seen. She’d bet a cool Benjamin that Warren’s folks had no idea before tonight that their son followed his cousin’s fight career.
“I believe it’s time to make our way to the dining room,” Deacon’s mother trilled.
Molly didn’t speak to Warren until the room cleared out. “Deacon is an amazing fighter. And I’m glad there’s at least one person in his family who recognizes that. Thank you.”
Warren looked up at Deacon. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“You didn’t.”
“I wasn’t supposed to come tonight, but I just had to meet you. I’d give anything to watch you fight,” he blurted out.
Deacon grinned. “Yeah? I can get you a VIP ticket; you just gotta get to the event.” He flicked his gaze over Molly’s shoulder. “I imagine my dad will come to the Watson fight since he missed the Needham fight. See if you can’t hitch a ride with him. He’s probably taking the JFW company plane, so you wouldn’t have to shell out for airfare.”
“Oh, man. Seriously? That would be so freakin’ epic!”
“I’d wait to ask. Doesn’t seem like your folks are down with your interest in MMA.”
It seemed more like Warren’s parents weren’t down with his interest in his cousin. Why?
“Move it, Deacon,” Bing said sharply. “Your mother went to a lot of trouble to plan this meal.”
Molly noticed Bing hadn’t said cooked this meal.
Be nice. The woman just had surgery.
But given what she knew of Deacon’s mother? It’d be a struggle to be civil to the woman who’d caused her man so much pain and suffering.
Deacon took hold of Molly’s hands and pulled her to her feet, then towed her behind him down a hallway.
Molly’s nerves returned when they entered the large dining room with a long table that could comfortably seat fifty. But all the dinnerware was laid out at one end. Two uniformed servers remained at attention.
“Down here.” Deacon’s father waved at him.
With only one empty seat across from Deacon’s mother, that put Deacon on his father’s right side but no place for Molly to sit.
Please don’t abandon me.
Deacon paused behind the chair, pointedly looking down at the seat his aunt Annabelle occupied.
How could the woman act so unaffected by Deacon’s steely-eyed stare? Molly had nightmares about him looking at her with such disdain.
“Annabelle, I think what Deacon is too tactful to ask is if you would mind moving so he can sit by Molly?”
Tactful—not a word often attributed to Deacon. She bit back a laugh.
“Of course. I should sit next to Warren so he doesn’t get it in his head that golf is lame. An excellent golf game equates to excellence in the business world.”
“No wonder Deacon never had a head for business; his golf game was dismal,” Clive said behind them.
Luckily, Annabelle’s husband still held the seat to her right, so Clive had to sit elsewhere. Molly smiled at Derek and waited for Deacon to pull out her chair. When she looked around, she noticed Deacon’s gentlemanly behavior surprised his family. Why? Did they think because he was a tattooed fighter that he’d forgotten his roots or even common courtesy?
Don’t glare at them for their ignorance where Deacon is concerned, or you’ll be glaring at them all night.
She checked out the beautifully arranged table. Three plates of graduated sizes made up each place setting. The plates had wide silver rims, a four-leaf clover at the top, and a fancy scripted W at the bottom. The two forks, two knives, and two spoons were real silver. The bright purple silk napkins matched the tiny vases of fresh flowers centered above each place setting. Baskets of bread and pats of butter in the shape of flowers were scattered down the