Caged (Mastered 4)

Her face heated. “Go with worried and go away, Deacon.”

He didn’t laugh. Point for him.

Even being mad at him didn’t lessen her attraction to him, which also annoyed her.

“I was a dickhead to you Saturday night. I’m sorry.”

She said, “That’s it?” with cool detachment.

Deacon shook his head. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

When a few moments passed and he didn’t tack on anything else, she said, “Can you get on with it?”

“Can you give me a goddamn minute? I can’t think when you’re glaring at me. Jesus, woman. You’re intimidating as fuck.”

Her jaw dropped. “What? Me?”

“Yes, you. You are smart and clever and you can just say what you mean the first time. I had this whole speech prepared, and then I get here and I see you and it’s just . . . gone.” The tension in his body and the fact he couldn’t meet her eyes indicated his distress.

Cut him some slack.

Molly couldn’t believe she was about to do this. “The best way to remember your speech is to recall the high points.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. “The what?”

“High points. The most important thing you wanted to say.”

“I already did that when I said I was sorry.”

“And . . . ?”

“And I was a dickhead.”

“And . . . ?” she prompted more firmly.

“And I want to start over with you.”

“You had the chance to start over and you blew it when you stood me up.”

“You never let me explain.”

“You never tried,” she retorted. “You showed up at my house three times when I missed kickboxing class. But after you stood me up, all I rated was a lousy text message?”

“Technically, I didn’t stand you up.”

“Yes, you did. And it’s too late for excuses.” She ducked under his arm and pointed to the front door. “Go.”

“Not an excuse but an explanation. See . . . I was there that day, the day of our date, sitting in the parking lot, watching you.” He described her outfit in detail, along with her facial expressions. “I was a fucking coward, staying in the car instead of coming in and telling you the truth.”

“Oh, that you suddenly remembered you weren’t attracted to me because I’m not a hot-bodied stripper?”

“Not. Even. Fucking. Close.” Deacon took a step forward with each terse word. “Maddox overheard our entire conversation in the dojo when I asked you out.”

Molly put her hands on his chest, stopping his advancement.

“He reminded me I needed to focus on my fight. When I told him my life off the mat wasn’t his fucking business, he made it his business.” The muscle in his jaw flexed. “He went to Ronin. They pulled me from teaching to concentrate fully on MMA training. I was pissed as hell.” He paused to inhale a deep breath. “Mostly because they were right.”

“And?”

His blue eyes shimmered with regret. “And after the fight was over, I figured I’d grovel, but you’d already moved on. I worried I’d lost out on you to that pussy banker.”

Molly stared at him. This wasn’t the overly confident Deacon she knew. This man had vulnerability in his eyes as if he expected rejection. “It’s your career, Deacon. I could’ve handled you needing to focus on training. I would’ve been disappointed, but not angry and hurt.”

“Would you’ve gone out with Jake?”

Why did that bother him? “Would you have expected me to wait around until you were through with your fight?”

“Probably not.” He curled his hand around her face. “I can’t change the past, babe. I can apologize for it. Which I’ve done. I can ask you to forgive me for hurting you, which I’m doin’ now. And I can admit I want us to happen.” He offered a wry smile. “I did a shit job trying to get that across to you Saturday night.”

With Deacon close enough she could feel his body vibrating from nerves, she had a spark of hope this could be the beginning, not the end.

You’re such a sickening optimist.

No. You’re just a fool.

A fool about to take a big chance.

“Say something,” he urged.

“I only went on three dates with Jake and I didn’t sleep with him,” she blurted out.

Deacon eased back to look at her. “It kills me to ask this, but why not?”

“Because Jake didn’t do it for me. Like Fisher doesn’t do it for me. It’d be easier if . . .”

“If what?”