Page 18 of The Enemy Plot
“How was your morning?” Emma asks, entering the store with a bag of takeout from our favorite taco place at the end of the street. “Managed okay without me?”
“I did. Slow morning. Except for the spider who decided to visit us, it was pretty uneventful.”
She stops with a grimace. “Ouch.” Emma knows all about my little arachnophobia problem. Let’s just say she’s murdered a few of them since moving in, especially during the renovations. “How did you get rid of it? Did you kill it?” Her tone is brimming with surprise.
I bite my lip. “Actually, Deacon did.”
“Deacon Collier?” She places the food on the counter. “Our neighbor?”
“Uh-huh.” I nod, pretending it’s perfectly normal.
She scoffs, pulling the containers out of the bag. “You’re kidding, right?Youaskedhimfor help?”
“I had no choice,” I say, sitting down next to her. “Besides, he owed me for helping with Lola’s period.”
She arches an eyebrow. “As if that was a favor. You get a kick out of helping people. And you like her.”
I pick up the taco she ordered for me and grab a napkin. “Still.”
“Well, well. Will you look at that?” she says with a smirk, unwrapping her own taco. “You finally had a Prince Charming come rescue you.”
I spit out my bite of taco on my napkin and almost choke on the rest of it. “Deacon Collier isnota Prince Charming. He’s an insufferable, grumpy old man who has no manners and little consideration for others.”
She breathes a light chuckle. “Well, he did come help you, so I guess he had enough consideration for that, huh?”
I roll my eyes and dig into my taco again. She might have a point. Plus, I haven’t heard him blast his music for a while, and he did help me slay that monster.
But that doesn’t mean anything. Just because he’s finally becoming a decent human being doesn’t mean he’s Prince Charming. Of all things! The guy is far from being boyfriend material. He’s a grouchy alpha-hole at best.
9
The Right Kind of Addiction
Deacon
As I step into Dr. Stewart’s building, I feel like a kid who misbehaved and needs to make amends. In a way I do, and it’s worse. Thirty-five-year-old men don’t storm out of their therapist’s office.
“Deacon, good to see you,” Dr. Stewart greets me from the doorframe of the waiting room, lookingas serene as ever. Maybe therapists don’t get mad. Or maybe he’s just seen worse.
“Hi, Dr. Stewart.”
“Take a seat,” he says, sinking into his usual brown armchair.
“Actually, can I stand for this one?” I ask, glancing at the books on his shelves.
“Sure. If that’s more comfortable for you,” he says, pulling out his notebook. “So, how are you today?”
I turn to face him. “Aren’t we going to talk about our last session, when I stormed off?”
“If you want to talk about it, we can.”
“I—I’m sorry I did that,” I say, checking the sturdiness of the bookshelf. He’s got a lot of books jammed in there. Surely there’s a maximum weight limit.
“I understand, Deacon. And I forgive you,” he says. “Talking about emotions is difficult, and sometimes, the only way to deal with them is to walk away.”
I stay silent, because he really hit the nail on the head.
“However, I do think you’d feel a lot better if you let your emotions out instead. Suffering a loss, especially that of someone close to you, is extremely difficult.”