“I’ve got the name of a lawyer,” he says. “Best family attorney in the city. Already asked my lawyer to nudge them to get this dealt with quickly. The firm helped a teammate last year. I’ll text you the info if you want to talk to them.”
“You’ll text me?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He glances over, that quiet amusement flickering in his eyes. “If you give me your number.”
I hand him my phone before I can second-guess it, allow doubt to move in. “Just don’t save me as something stupid like ‘legs.’”
He grins as he types, the faintest hint of dimples threatening to show. “Too late.”
When he hands it back, our fingers brush. The touch is brief, but it sends a shiver up my arm. I look away before he can see what it does to me, but down deep, I hope it does the same to him.
We reach the main lobby, and just as the glass doors open and Nalani walks in, folder tucked under her arm, and that unstoppable grin on her face.
“Claudia,” she says, all sunshine, bypassing me and leaning down to give Savannah a kiss on her little head. “I just have to go sign something in HR, and I’m officially the Bears’ new legal assistant.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, genuinely proud of her.
She doesn’t have to work; Koa no doubt would like her to be with him, but like me, she’s passionate about it.
“Thanks. Wait for me when I’m done? We can head to the Hen House and help Paul finish up.”
“Of course.”
Deacon steps back a little, giving us space, but his attention lingers just a second too long before his eyes drop to Savannah, who is half-asleep, her tiny fingers curled around the strap of her carrier. He leans down, “See you soon, little one.”
My chest tightens. It’s so freaking sweet.Regret follows.
“Take care, Deacon,” I say, though my voice comes out quieter than I mean it to.
He nods once and turns toward the doors. The way he moves—controlled, confident, deliberate—makes it impossible not tolook. The cling of his shirt, the easy swing of his long stride, all of it’s a problem I don’t need but can’t seem to turn away from.
I tell myself to stop watching. To focus on Nalani. On anything else.
SEVENTEEN
Moving Day
Deacon
After a pit stop,I pull into the Hen House, and the movers I arranged are already halfway done. The front door’s open, wind rattling through a space that used to be and still is the home he and his wife shared.
He’s sitting on the steps, a flannel shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, mug of coffee in one hand, watching his life get packed into boxes. I park beside the moving truck and walk up the steps.
“Didn’t think you’d let them do all the heavy lifting,” I joke.
Paul snorts. “If I had your back, I would. These guys get paid by the pound. Let them earn it,” he pauses and turns to me, eyebrow lifting. “What you paid them to do.”
“Koa did this.”
“Bullshit, kid,” he groans as he pulls himself up to stand with the iron railing. “Paid for the moving truck. The girls and I were supposed to load it up.”
Busted.
When I don’t say a thing, he chuckles, “You sneak around like a rookie trying to dodge suicides at practice. Not fooling anyone, but points for effort.”
I neither confirm nor deny his accusation.
He walks in and looks around. The walls are stripped bare, and for a second, I can almost see the ghost of everything that made this place his home with his wife, and then with friends who needed a place after she passed.
