Page 33 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Stay focused, Leif,” the pierced baker reinforces and gestures to me. “E’s here to try and fix the dishwasher. Our usual repair guy isn’t free.”

Instantly, a heart-pumping flash assaults me: Delilah in my room, saying she was curious about porn, asking if we could watch some together. I was hard in seconds, cueing up a video as quickly as possible. The piece we watched was old school and crass, with lots of pubic hair. We laughed through the first two minutes, then we were all over each other, grinding on my bed, using our hands to get each other off as we panted and kept our fucks and yeses and so goods quiet.

The opening line to that exceptional piece of filmmaking was You’re not my usual repairman. Hence my immediate hard-on and muffled laugh at her baker’s “Our usual repair guy isn’t free.”

Delilah swivels toward me. “Don’t you dare say that line.”

See? Did I not tell you we were meant for each other? This woman can read my mind. “I have no clue what line you’re talking about. I’m just here to replace your usual repairman.”

I wink. Seriously. This material writes itself.

She flattens her lips, but there’s no hiding the amused twitch. “The dishwasher’s over there, Edgar. I’ll be out front, then in my office. If you need anything, let me know.”

We’ve reverted to Edgar, but I salute her, thrilled to help her and her business.

Not only do I save the day and fix the loose wire in Delilah’s dishwasher, but I manage to get drenched when washing my hands with the sink’s pull-out sprayer. I’m wearing my light-blue “Life’s a Bitch” T-shirt. By some magical twist of fate, the threadbare fabric goes semitransparent when wet.

“All fixed,” I tell Angel of the plentiful piercings.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says like she doesn’t actually hate me. “I’ll get Delilah.”

I run my wet hands through my hair, getting the non-Bieber strands messy and damp, then I strike a pose—one hand propped on the vanquished dishwasher, the other on my hip. My wet shirt is plastered to my body, showcasing the edges of my six-pack.

Leif, the scrawny employee redoing his salt-laden brownies, full-on guffaws. “Dude, you’re pathetic.”

I see no lie here. I am fully, 199 percent pathetic when it comes to Delilah Moon. I know the hell of having her ripped out of my life, the sharp crack of hitting rock bottom. I have no intention of revisiting that fall. In about thirty seconds, I’ll be crossing off number twenty-seven on my Win Back Delilah list: tease her with a hint of my new and improved abs.

On cue, the squeak of her running shoes signals her arrival. The second she sees me, her eyes perform a routine that would earn a ten on Dancing with the Stars: flare, drop, drag right, drag left, slide up, slide down, blink, blink.

“Is it fixed?” Her body and face are rigid, cast in stone, lest she twitch and drop her gaze again.

I may run and do sit-ups and push-ups for my mental health, but there’s a silver lining to all that hard work. It glimmers like a tense and flushed Delilah. “This baby’s purring like an overworked, waterlogged kitten.”

“Great. Awesome. That’s just”—down-up-down-hover-slide-blink-slide—“really great. I’ll get my checkbook.”

“Honestly, no need. It’s my pleasure. I’m just happy I could”—wait for it—“fill in for your usual repairman.”

Her cheeks burn the color of Maggie’s red hair. I flex my stomach muscles. She spins away from me—a move that’s becoming a habit with us—and marches toward her office.

“See you tomorrow,” I call after her.

Leif methodically wipes down the stainless steel counter. “I didn’t give you enough credit. Never seen her flustered like that.”

“She was annoyed, not flustered,” Angel says pointedly. “Delilah is engaged.”

Funny thing about that. Angel’s wearing the inlaid ring Delilah first flaunted when I showed up to town. I grin at her. “I’m aware of Delilah’s relationship status. We have a history together, but we’re just friends now.”

No point broadcasting my intentions to one of Delilah’s many accomplices. If Delilah knows I know what game she’s playing, her walls will go up faster than Desmond can say “infected piercing.”

“They’re really happy,” Angel says, her tone revisiting antagonistic territory. “A fantastic couple.”

If by fantastic she means Delilah’s fiancé belittled her and broke her trust, then sure, we’ll go with that. “I’m sure he’s wonderful. Delilah deserves nothing but the best.”

We have a stare off, but I don’t give it my all. I’ve done what I came here to do. I’ve helped Delilah’s business, showcased a hint of my abs, and procured an “appointment” with her for tomorrow. There’s a chance I’ll be pulling out a doozy for our rendezvous. Number thirty-two on the list: inflame her memory with a few spritzes of Eternity cologne.

TWELVE

Today, I’m rabidly impatient. It’s two p.m., and I’m meeting Delilah for our special appointment at four, the one I convinced her to attend by telling her I have something tough to do. Did I use my painful past to my advantage when suggesting this upcoming appointment would be hard for me? Definitely. Did Fake-Engaged Delilah worry about me and offer her support? She absolutely did. I don’t feel bad about the slight fib. Choosing the right dog to buy is tough work. It also crosses off two points on my Win Back Delilah list.