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Delilah truly was considering relocating here... to be with me.
And like a colossal idiot, I let my jealousy and self-doubt blind me to the truth, lashing out in a way that may have just cost me the best thing I've ever had.
I open my mouth, but no words come. What could I possibly say to make up for this catastrophic lack of faith in her?
The man regards me with a mixture of pity and contempt before shaking his head. "I'd get moving if I were you. A woman like that doesn't come around every day."
Then he's brushing past me, striding out of the restaurant with his head held high, leaving me alone with the weight of my transgressions.
My legs feel heavy as I finally force myself to move, to follow the path Delilah took out into the crisp night air. I have to make this right, no matter what it takes. I won't—I can't—lose her over something as stupid as my own hang-ups about being left behind.
Delilah deserves better than that. She deserves a man who trusts her, who believes in her with every fiber of his being.
And if I have to spend every day proving that I can be that man, then so be it.
Because the truth is, I'm already there when it comes to Delilah Delgado. Somehow, this city girl has snuck past all my defenses to capture my heart in a way I never saw coming.
I just hope I haven't blown my only chance to show her how damn precious that is to me.
Chapter 8
Delilah
Daisy and Wyatt take center stage for their first dance as husband and wife, swaying together to the gentle melody of "Endless Love." As I watch my baby sister in the arms of the man she adores, her face radiant with pure joy, an unexpected pang of longing tugs at my heart.
For just a moment, I allow myself to picture a similar scene—me in that stunning white gown, gazing adoringly into the eyes of the man who's captured my soul. A rugged, handsome mountain man with striking green eyes and a heart bigger than these vast peaks surrounding us.
But the fantasy is short-lived.
My eyes drift to where Stylz is seated, his expression unreadable as he nurses a tumbler of whiskey. The memory of our explosive confrontation at the restaurant still stings, a harsh reminder of the chasm that divides our worlds.
How could I have been so naive to think we could bridge that gap?
As the dance ends and other couples flood the floor, Daisy surprisingly leaves Wyatt's arms and makes a beeline straight for me. Her brow is furrowed with concern as she takes in my melancholy expression.
"You look like someone just stole your favorite pair of Louboutins," she teases gently, sliding into the seat beside me.
I try for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as more of a dejected slump. "It's nothing, really. I'm fine."
Daisy's eyes narrow, and she gives me one of those patented big sister looks that says she can see right through my bullshit. "Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England. Spill it, Lala."
With a resigned sigh, I find myself unloading about the disastrous confrontation with Stylz at the restaurant, the bitter sting of his accusations still fresh.
"I mean, maybe he’s right to doubt us," I admit, unable to meet Daisy's probing gaze. "We're just so different, you know? From completely separate worlds.”
"So what?" Daisy counters, her expression turning resolute. "The fact that you two are so different is what makes your connection so exciting. That's the beauty of it."
As much as I want to dismiss Daisy's claims, I can't deny the electrifying connection Stylz and I share—nor the bone-deep ache I feel in his absence.
"Look," Daisy continues, her voice softening. "I'm not saying this thing with Stylz will be easy. Wyatt and I have had our fair share of challenges, too, but we've fought through them because what we have is worth it. Real, soul-deep love is always worth taking that leap, no matter how terrifying the free-fall might feel."
She nods toward Wyatt, who spots her and grins. "That right there? That's my once-in-a-lifetime love, the kind of passion that makes your soul come alive. And I'd go through hell and back to keep that fire burning bright."
I blink rapidly, willing away the telltale sting of tears as a melancholy melody begins to swell through the speakers. It's the same Spanish love song Stylz and I had danced to—the one about star-crossed lovers from different worlds.
My head whips toward the small stage, and there he is—Stylz himself, ruggedly handsome in his suit, cradling a microphone like a lifeline. Our eyes lock from across the room, and then, he starts to sing, the rich baritone of his voice weaving through the Spanish verses with a surprising tenderness.
Wait... Spanish?
