“Well?” Deacon asked, still waiting for an answer. “What’s in the bags?”
Aren forced himself to stop fidgeting, although he couldn’t quite meet Deacon’s eyes. “My clothes. Books. Art supplies.”
“Art supplies?” Deacon asked, as if the words held no meaning for him.
“Yes,” Aren said, and for some reason, Deacon’s absurd question gave him the strength he needed to stand up straight and face the rough cowboy in front of him. “Canvas and paint.”
Deacon’s eyebrows went up, and although he didn’t laugh, it was clear he wanted to. “Good thing. Barn’s needed a new coat of paint for a while now.”
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