“Don’t answer that,” Deacon said tersely.
Then something that’d been niggling in the back of her mind solidified. “Wait. If your fathers are brothers, then why don’t you two have the same last name?”
“Bingo.” Tag looked back and forth between them. “I’d tell you to ask Deacon why he legally changed his name from Westerman to McConnell, but since he hasn’t told you fuck-all about anything else, I doubt he’ll come clean about that either.”
She faced Deacon and whispered, “Who are you?”
“This”—Deacon stood and jabbed his finger at Tag—“is why I stay the fuck away from you.”
“You aren’t honestly blaming him—”
“Yes, I am.” He whirled around. The panic, horror, and anger in burning in his eyes scared her. “Drop it, right now.”
“You’re an ass,” Tag snapped. “This is all on you.”
The second he turned back to rip into Tag, she snatched her purse and raced out, just as the waiter came in, buying her time to get away.
She’d made it down the stairs, out the front door, and almost to the parking garage entrance when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Molly reacted as she’d been taught. Grabbing the forearm below the elbow, she twisted her body into his, jamming her knee up while trying to inflict damage on his arm.
Deacon easily countered her moves. “What the fuck? Why would you attack me?”
“Instinct from self-defense classes.”
“I’m not a fucking threat to you.”
“You’re right. Because I don’t even know you.” She tried to level her breathing. “Go back to your cousin.”
“I don’t give a shit about Tag. He never should’ve—”
“Told me something that should’ve come from you?”
His jaw tightened and his eyes went icy. “No. He shouldn’t have invited you to dinner without asking me first.”
Any sadness and shock she’d initially felt had been replaced with anger. She wanted to scream at him. But she forced herself to start down the sidewalk.
“Don’t you fucking walk away from me.”
She stopped and spun around. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“I won’t be guilted or goddamn browbeat into talking to you about this until I’m ready.”
“And when will that be? You could’ve shared this major life-changing, traumatic event with me when you came to Nebraska and stood by my side every damn hour of the day. I asked you how you knew so much about dealing with grief. I asked you,” she repeated, “and you told me nothing. Nothing.”
“This is why I don’t talk about it. Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother fucking died.”
That remark knocked the breath out of her so fast he might as well have punched her in the gut.
She steeled her resolve and her spine. “I would’ve accepted not knowing specifics about your past if you would’ve told me there were things—like your brother’s death—that were too difficult to discuss. But this? All of this together—not knowing about your twin brother, finding out you changed your name, hiding your connection to your family business—goes beyond crossing a line of privacy into . . . some fucked-up psychological thing of yours that I can’t even begin to understand.” She couldn’t stop the tears or her voice from cracking. “I trusted you. I thought you trusted me too. But apparently not.”
“Molly—”
“I can’t . . . I’m not doing this with you. Not anymore.”
“So what? You think we’re done?”
“Goodbye, Deacon.”
She walked away, and this time he didn’t chase after her.
• • •
MOLLY didn’t remember driving home.
She didn’t remember getting undressed.
She didn’t remember turning off her phone, locking her door, or downing four glasses of Rumple Minze.
That’s probably why she didn’t remember much.
The alarm went off at six a.m. She climbed in the shower.
How had everything gone to hell so fast?
She’d never been in this situation.
Where her anger outweighed the hurt.
Where she wanted to scream, not cry.
Why hadn’t he told her?
Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother fucking died.
And now . . . it was about her not being able to tell anyone why she and Deacon were over.
• • •
AT the office, Presley greeted her with, “Hey, ho-bag. What’s up besides your skirt?”