Page 20 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Ouch. Not gonna lie. That hurts. But I can take the hits. I’ll be Delilah’s punching bag, if that’s what she needs, but there will be no further untruths from me. She’s had enough lies to last ten lifetimes. “Every word of that story was true, and the cartel who had a hit on us was recently wiped out by a rival group. So, to reiterate, I’ve been in witness protection for ten years and spent every minute of that time missing you, which is why the first thing I did with my newfound freedom is come here.”

She sucks in a tiny breath and bites her plump bottom lip. Then she glares at me. “You seriously expect me to believe your dad was laundering money for some cartel guys and all this time you’ve been in hiding and that’s why you vanished on me without a word?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Her body’s brimming with sarcasm.

“Glad we’re on the same page, but if there’s any doubt, search the Becerra cartel. If you haven’t seen it on the news already, they were gunned down in a bloody massacre two weeks ago. Most articles mention my dad’s involvement without using his name. And I don’t know if you told anyone about my witness protection lockdown, but things are still being sorted. If you could continue not telling anyone, it would be appreciated.”

Her eyes thin into calculating slits, her lips mimicking the suspicious line. She stares at me so long I become extra thankful I went with the black sweat-hiding T-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Edgar, but I’m busy with work and . . . planning my wedding. Go spread your lies somewhere else.”

Wedding, my ass. But the Edgar dig falls like a stone in my gut. “I didn’t realize sitting in here quietly would distract you so much.”

“You don’t distract me.”

Oh, now this is fun. Delilah hates when I call her on her bullshit. So much so she invariably argues herself into a corner. “You just said I distract you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you seem pretty fixated on me. You’ve basically hired a private eye to track my every move.” I hook my thumb toward that Sandra character.

Delilah rolls her eyes. “Sandra’s a retired busybody.”

“Righto,” I say in an overly dramatic English accent.

This was a thing Delilah and I used to do. We both played bit parts in our high school’s rendition of Oliver! Not by choice. A couple of kids dropped out. Mom was friends with the drama teacher and forcefully suggested we fill in. Although we were told we didn’t have to speak with English accents, Delilah was determined to breathe life into her one and only line. When it was her turn to scowl and say, “This soup is disgusting. I feel like throwing up,” she sounded like a cross between a coked-up pirate and a congested Australian.

My favorite congested Australian fights a lip twitch, either from nostalgia, remembering how ridiculous we were during that time, talking in awful English accents on our walks home from school, or from annoyance with present-day me. I can’t be sure which.

Unwilling to let the moment pass, I say, “Delilah, will you please sit down and talk to me?”

She eyes the free seat at my table, a slight quiver to her chin. “Why?”

I could tell her again how sorry I am, spew another rendition of my father’s impossible-to-believe money-laundering story, that I never would have left her in a million years if the choice had been mine, in the hopes she finally believes me. I could tell her she’s more beautiful than I remember and that looking at her bee-stung lips and slightly sloped nose makes my chest feel like a hot-air balloon again, too big, too full, so pure and bright I’m not sure how to breathe.

There are a million things I could say to Delilah, but I settle on the simplest reason as to why I’m here, asking for a moment of her time. “I miss you,” I say quietly.

Glassiness sheens her eyes.

“If you really want me to leave,” I continue, “I will. But I miss having you in my life. I’m hoping a small part of you misses me too.”

She opens her mouth, closes it. I swear she looks about to cave and sit, then she says, “Stay here if you want, just stay out of my way.”

Thank fucking God. “I think I will. Stay here and work, that is. Since I don’t distract you, Delilah Mars.”

She fumes at me, likely for using her old nickname, her mass of knotted hair sure to catch fire from the fury burning in her face. I don’t know why I’m pushing her. Antagonizing Delilah isn’t part of my Win Back Delilah plan. I’ve just missed our jousting banter so much, egging her on, watching the red rise to her cheeks, offsetting the blue in her eyes.

“If you call me Mars again”—she leans closer, her voice dropping in volume but increasing in venom—“I will get my shotgun from the back and use your nuts for skeet shooting practice.”

I mentally review my Fifty Ways to Win Back Delilah list, debate crossing off “call Delilah by the nickname she hated but secretly loved,” but she didn’t tell me to get lost when she had the chance. One day soon, she’ll appreciate our history, even that silly nickname.

Instead of lying and agreeing to her demand, I say, “Have a lovely day, Delilah Uranus.”

“Oh my God, you’re the—” That fire burns to the tips of her ears. “Nothing. You’re nothing, and I don’t care what you call me. Enjoy your coffee, Edgar.”

She marches off, her lush hips swaying, like she knows each angry swivel hits me in the dick.

Yeah, I’ll be working here every day for the next however long it takes for her to sit and talk to me like the friends we once were. She gave me permission. There’s literally nowhere else in the galaxy I’d rather be. Pleased our initial confrontation is out of the way, I take another bite of my kitchen-sink bar and get lost in the memories it conjures.