"I'd never do anything to harm you and I'd never do anything to put you in danger," he declared.

In the face of going to get coffee before a road trip, that was suddenly and surprisingly heavy.

If welcome.

"Okay," I agreed.

He continued, "The only lie you live is calling me Priest. That's already asking too much. I won't ask more. That means you don't hide me. You don't protect me. You want it, we find our way to it, I'm your man. In your life. When I'm here, I'm at your side. Not secret. But that's your call. You don't want me walkin' in there with you, I sit in the truck. You wanna work toward us findin' a way for me to be a part of your life, I go in with you."

"I want you to go in with me," I replied immediately and just as immediately he released my hand.

But he did it so his could flash out, fingertips grazing my jaw as they moved back into my hair. He curled them in, putting pressure on, pulling me to him as he bent to me, and when he got me where he wanted me, he kissed me dizzy.

I started blinking when he released my mouth, expending effort to focus on him as I tried to get over the kiss and more, what he'd said through it.

"Then let's get my Cassie a coffee," he muttered, letting me go, and turning to his door.

My Cassie.

Seriously, I was wondering who'd actually taken up the challenge.

Because it might not be big and grand, full of words, flowers, orchestras playing, fairy dust filtering through the air, but he found his quiet but spectacular ways to make me more and more happy. He did it repeatedly. And he did it successfully.

Which meant I had to step up my game.

I was halfway through my huge-ass, awesome, Mexican cinnamon coffee and we were a quarter of the (silent, so far) way to our destination when it hit me.

Last night, I'd prodded gently.

And if Deacon didn't want to answer, he didn't. He didn't do it mean. He didn't shut me down (well, not in an overt way). He didn't get angry.

He just didn't answer.

So I turned to him and stated, "Right, Deacon Deacon, tell me something."

At my Deacon Deacon, I saw the grooves form at the side of his mouth, his eyes crinkling, and this heartened me.

When I was done speaking, he invited, "Shoot."

"I'm taking it the license you gave me was fake."

"Yup," he answered easily.

"Is it your only one?" I asked.

"Nope. Got eight."

I stared but I did it with my lips moving.

"Eight?"

"Yup."

Interesting.

I took a sip of coffee, experienced its goodness, and went on.

"Where's home?"

"Home?"

"Home. Your house. Where you go when you're not working."

"Where I went when I wasn't working was cabin eleven, Glacier Lily."

I felt my body go still.

Whoa.

That couldn't be.

"Really?" I asked.

He glanced at me and back at the road. "Yup."

"I...you..." I shook my head. "You come to the cabin pretty infrequently."

"That would be 'cause I work a lot, Cassidy."

I faced forward but sat back in my seat, trying to process this information.

It was impossible to process that information so I changed topics.

"Can you tell me the difference between Deacon and John Priest?"

There was a moment's pause before he replied, "Handful of people know me as Deacon."

He said no more so I looked to him and used the word, "Okay," as a prompt.

He again glanced at me then back to the road before he went on.

"Every one of them I trust with my life. Every one of them I'd trust with your life." He paused before he asked, "Do you get that, Cassidy?"

I got it. I liked it. Even if it was slightly scary, it was also kind of sweet.

"Yes," I answered.

He said nothing further but I decided it was time to get down to it.

That said, I didn't particularly want to get down to it, but it was time.

So I asked (though I did it cautiously), "Are you a criminal?"

He didn't hesitate with his answer.

"I don't pay taxes."

I felt my head give a slight jerk at this informatively uninformative (but still scary) response.

"Sorry?"

"I have work. I make money. I get paid in cash. And the government does not know I exist."

Yep. I didn't want to get down to it.

Still, we were here and he was answering so I kept at it.

"And is what you do for cash illegal?"

He kept his eyes to the road even as he reached for his coffee. I watched him take a sip, return it to the cup holder, and then he again spoke.

This time his tone was gentle even if the words were not.

"I'll tell you this, if you knew from start to now about what I do, how it began, why I do it, and you had a problem with it, I'd think straight up you're a judgmental bitch. Then I'd walk out the door and you'd never see me again."

At that, I did a slow blink.

But he wasn't finished.

"I'm good at what I do. There's a reason I do it. I believe in that reason. But that doesn't mean I'm not a part of a world that will never-if I become a part of your life in a way that's lasting, it's important you hear this, woman-it will not ever touch you."

"I'm not sure any of that makes sense," I said softly, saying that instead of saying that he was speaking but he wasn't really giving me anything.

"It does to me and that's all you need to know."

That was not gentle, but firm and unyielding.

In other words, he didn't intend to give me anything.

"That's the part that makes the least sense," I returned, still talking quietly.

"That's the part where you have to take a leap of faith with this, believe in what you felt when you made your choice yesterday, that bein' believin' in me."

"I barely know you," I pointed out.

"You barely knew me and you brought me pie," he returned.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Again with the pie.

Man, seriously. It sucked that he knew the significance of that pie.

"You barely knew me and you got naked on that table for me," he kept going.

I looked back through the windshield, and before taking another sip, muttered, "You've made your point, Deacon."

"Not sure I have."

Now he was talking quietly, his tone so changed, my gaze went back to him.

He must have felt my eyes because he kept going.

"All of this is your choice."

"I know it is," I replied.

"Any time, you can go back on that choice."

I sucked my lips between my teeth, not liking that idea and finding that I kind of wanted Deacon to go back to nonverbal communication.

Or silence.

"You change your mind," he carried on, "I won't like it, but I'll submit to it."

"That feels sweet at the same time not so much," I admitted.

"Yeah," he muttered to the windshield, again speaking like he was talking to himself. "Your world, a man gets hold of you, he's a fool, he lets go."

His words made me pull in a soft breath.

He looked to me and finished, "I don't live in your world." Then his eyes went back to the road.

I knew this but having it confirmed, waking up tucked to his back, being in his Suburban, it hit me with a clarity it never had before because I'd accepted him in my life. A man who existed most of his time in a world I'd never share, and I had a feeling I wouldn't want to, but even if I did, he wouldn't let me (which made me know I was right about that feeling).

And that clarity was what that would mean to me, not just right then, but if it happened that he became a bigger part of my life, my world, like he'd mentioned frequently.

If he became my man.

If, when he was with me, he was at my side.

If he met my friends. My family.

If the time came where life needed to be lived.

Commitment.