I thought he did when he murmured, "Most beautiful woman I've ever fuckin' seen."

I loved that. Flipping loved it.

But even as that feeling soared through me, I would find I was wrong.

I knew it when he let me go.

I pivoted woodenly to watch him saunter to my stairs and up them.

I stayed there, eyes glued to the stairs, unmoving so I was in the exact same place when he came back, this time wearing his boots.

That was when I knew I was right to panic last night.

I'd lost him.

He'd given me something. Something precious. Making me not feel like a stupid slut who'd let a stranger fuck her on the kitchen table then took off after getting off and he did this by spending the night with me, holding me in his arms.

But that was as much as he had to give.

Honestly?

I was surprised he had that in him.

I was grateful all the same.

That said, it didn't make me feel the slightest bit better.

He came to me and did the same thing he did earlier, except just one hand was cupped to my jaw, fingertips pressed into my scalp.

I took his touch, wanting more, much, much more, and I stared up at him knowing I'd already got more than Deacon was able to give. I did it also knowing no way he'd let me be greedy.

It was my turn to let my eyes travel over his features. Take in his male beauty. Memorize it. Do it knowing that as crazy as it sounded, I'd never forget him. For reasons I didn't know and would never have the opportunity to understand, there would always be a part of me that would long for him. There would always be thoughts in the back of my mind plaguing me, haunting me, making me wonder, if he let me in, even just a little, how it could have been.

I stopped thinking these thoughts when the pad of his thumb whispered across my lips.

That was when the tears pricked my eyes.

Because I knew that was when he was going to let me go.

For always.

No check ins. No Suburban at cabin eleven.

No John Priest.

No man called Deacon.

I was right this time.

Without a word, his hand dropped from me, he turned, and walked right out the door.

Late that morning, after I'd made the rounds with the renters who were still in their cabins to apologize for the noise that night, Milagros and I stood in cabin six with the windows and doors open.

We surveyed the space.

"I'll take the throw blanket with the sheets to clean," I muttered.

"I'll need to shampoo the sofa as well as the rugs to get out that smell," she muttered back.

She would. The stench was lingering. We could air that cabin out for a year and it'd still smell like puke, pot, smokes, and beer.

"I'll look on Craig's List but maybe this weekend you might wanna go with me to that antique place in Chantelle to look for a new coffee table?" I asked and looked to her at my side.

She was an inch shorter than me. She had seven years on me. And it was arguable (me arguing that she did, her arguing that she didn't) that she had better hair than me.

She looked to me. "Manuel can sand that down and refinish it."

I moved my gaze to the coffee table. I liked that coffee table. In fact, I'd found it at the antique place in Chantelle and thanked my lucky stars, it was so cool, in such good nick, and so cheap.

Not to mention, Manuel wouldn't charge me a thousand dollars to refinish it so I could pocket the rest and that wouldn't suck.

I looked back to Milagros. "That'd be awesome."

She grinned and replied, "I'll ask him to come after work and get it tonight. But it might take him past the weekend to get it back to you."

That worked for me and I told her so. "That's okay. This cabin is booked next week but if he's not finished with it, I'll bring down my coffee table from the house to act as a stand in."

She nodded and grinned at me.

I gave her a mini-grin (which was all I had in me after the events of last night and this morning) and moved to the pile of sheets on the couch that we'd pulled off the beds. The comforters and shams were in another pile. I'd come back later to get them in order to launder them with a shed load of fabric softener in hopes of obliterating the smoke smell.

She was headed for the carpet shampooing machine while I headed to the door, saying, "Come by the house for a cup before you go."

"Cassidy?" she called as response.

I stopped at the door and looked at her to see her gaze was on me, kind but assessing.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Milagros. The mother of five children, the loving wife of a good man, both meaning she could read people easily.

And she read me because I wasn't. I'd had my heart broken by a stranger. I didn't know how that happened. I just knew that it did.

I actually didn't know how I was moving, standing, and breathing instead of lying in bed sobbing.

But since I was, I was going with it.

I could fall apart tonight, when I was alone in my bed (again) and nothing needed to get done until tomorrow.

"I'm just tired," I answered, luckily with the truth. Just not all of it. "There was a lot of drama last night and I didn't get much sleep."

She nodded then told me, "Manuel worries, you being here alone."

He, apparently, wasn't the only one and that didn't just include John Priest/Deacon Whoever, but by the look on her face, Milagros.

"I've been doing this for six years, honey," I reminded her.

She let me have it all when she replied quietly, "We just worry."

"I'll be okay." I forced a grin. "I'm a tough broad."

She grinned back but I knew she wasn't committed to it, just like me.

For me, I was heartbroken.

For Milagros, she didn't like what went down last night and Manuel, being a dude with three daughters and two sons who shared during my frequent dinners at their house that he'd kicked around for a while so he knew how the world could fuck you (though he didn't use those words), would like it less.

Then she said, "You need to take a night. Manuel and I'll come; you go out with your girls."

She was right. I did need to take a night, call some friends, and plan something not Glacier Lily related.

Though, that something wouldn't have the normal girl talk that should include, say, your story about the man who somehow managed to steal into your heart over six years then he broke it in one night.

In fact, I'd never tell them about Deacon. I'd never tell anyone about Deacon. Not just because I didn't know what to say because I didn't understand why I was feeling all I was feeling, but because I knew down to my soul he wouldn't want me to breathe a word about him to anybody.

That was the last thing I had to give him, I was going to give it.

"I'll let you know," I said to Milagros.

"That'd be good," she replied.

I tucked the sheets close and gave her a small wave.

She waved back and turned to the machine.

I walked the sheets up to my shed, where there was a large industrial washer and dryer that I used to do the laundry for the cabins. I shoved the sheets in, filled the detergent and fabric softener slots to the max, squirted in the gel bleach, and set it to going.

Then I went to my house, sucking in a breath and holding it as I opened my door, eyes to the ground, sure I'd see the key to cabin eleven there.

Deacon's Suburban was gone when I'd walked down to the cabins, which meant Deacon was gone. But he wouldn't leave without giving me back my key. And if I were him, I'd avoid me doing it, as in, wait until I left the house before shoving it through the slot and disappearing forever.

My breath came out in a soft gush when I saw there was no key.

He'd told me when he'd checked in that he was going to be here for five days.

He couldn't mean to stay the whole visit after all that had gone down.

Could he?

And if he did, would that mean in a month or three or eight he'd come back and take us back to the way we were? I'd see him at check in, he'd shove his key though the slot as his way of checking out?

He'd said we'd changed.

Now I was wondering what that meant.

But I couldn't think about that. Thinking about that would drive me crazy. Or to the bourbon. Or to bed to sob myself to oblivion and I had stuff to do and comforters to clean.

I had to think of other things and luckily I ran my own business so I had a bazillion other things to think about.

I dealt with about five of those, namely checking e-mails, confirming bookings that came in, handling my calendar, dealing with a cancellation, and looking up the phone number to Vista Real Condos.

I called it and asked to be put through to Annabelle and Peyton's unit, just to see if they were okay. Reception rang me through but there was no answer.

I disconnected, deciding not to leave a voicemail and instead get in my Rover and drive there to check on them in person.

I made this decision when a knock came on the door.

I looked toward the foyer.

It couldn't be Milagros. Shampooing rugs and furniture took forever and the woman was a neat freak. Although the boys cleaned that cabin, she'd go over it again until you could eat off the floors.

Maybe it was another renter or someone who saw the sign and pulled in, thinking correctly: a night at Glacier Lily was just the thing. This didn't happen often, I mostly rented through bookings, but it happened.

I pulled myself out of the chair, walked into the foyer, and stopped dead.

This was because I could see Deacon's big body in my front door window silhouetted by the late morning sun behind him and partially obscured by my filmy curtains.

My heart pulsed hard in my chest and my mind was warring with being annoyed he was dragging this crap out (and I didn't know him but that didn't seem very...him) and being overjoyed that I'd see him one last time.

Leave it to Deacon to check out in person the only time I wouldn't want him to do just that.

I pulled myself together, walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and looked up into his impassive but impossibly good-looking face, wishing in that second he'd taken me on the table with the lights on so I could watch him do it.

I did all this opening my mouth to say something.

I again got nothing out.

He moved into me and I was forced to move back.

The thing was, he kept moving. He didn't stop, grunt something, and hand me my key then exit the premises immediately (this being what I imagined Deacon's form of good-bye would be).

I turned to watch him move and saw he had a brown paper bag, the top rolled over and clenched in his fist, and he was heading to my kitchen.

Stunned silent by this, I closed the door and followed him.

I stopped two feet into my kitchen to see him at the table, the table where he'd fucked me.