Page 46 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“Hello there, Edgar Eugene Bower. How goes the wooing?”

“Slowly. Why’d you call?”

“It’s so nice to speak to you too.”

“Sorry.” I give myself a shake. “It’s great to hear from you, I’m just in the middle of something with Delilah. What’s up?”

“I ran into Sathya at the grocery store. She was acting odd and told me not to tell you I saw her, so I obviously called to tell you I saw her.”

Well, now, that can’t be good. Sathya going MIA when on deadline isn’t new. Purposely avoiding me? I sense some painful calls with our agent in my future. “Thanks for the heads-up. Does the family suspect I’m here?”

“Nope, but I’m debating letting it slip. I love watching Jake’s face turn purple.”

I’m about to threaten him with shaving off his eyebrows, when I remember I have leverage. “It’s just wild being back in Windfall. So many old friends and faces, including one uppity redhead who asked about you.”

He’s breathing so hard I hold the phone away from my ear. “Maggie asked about me?”

“She did.”

“What did she say?” Lennon’s going for calm, but I know that tight tone. His eyes are for sure bugging.

I lean into the wall, cross one ankle over the other. “How badly do you want to know?”

“Don’t be a dick, E.”

My level of amusement is high. My level of curiosity is even higher. While I’m akin to emotional flypaper that sticks to everything, Lennon is Teflon: emotionally unruffled, unaffected. Yet here he is, ruffled, affected, and sticky as hell. “I’ll answer, if you promise you won’t tell Jake I’m here.”

He scoffs. “I had no intention of ratting you out. It’s just fun messing with you.”

At least I don’t need to shave his face. “Maggie asked if you were coming back too. I told her no.”

“And what did she say?”

“She glared at me and flew away on her broomstick. What the hell happened with you two?”

“Nothing,” he says abruptly. “And FYI, looks like we’ll have the all clear soonish—getting back IDs with our old names for whoever wants them. But not a word to anyone else until then. Should only take a couple more weeks.”

I won’t lie. I’ll be thrilled when this town stops glowering at me like I steal babies in my spare time, but there’s no point getting my hopes up. “A couple more weeks” in US Marshal speak often winds up being a couple more months. “Keep me posted, and keep your mouth shut about where I am. Oh, and I’ll tell Maggie you say hi.” I swiftly hang up.

My phone rings, then it buzzes with texts.

Pleased with my efforts to unhinge Teflon Lennon, I hit mute. I don’t have time for his secret flypaper life. I have a dog to adopt and a girl to continue winning back, but Delilah’s quiet while we organize Candy Cane’s adoption. She doesn’t say much on the drive back to town. She spends most of the time either staring out her window or checking on Candy Cane in the truck bed, answering my continued twenty questions quietly without her usual sass. I feel like I took a wrong step on this outing, that something got messed up between playing with the dogs and me answering that call, but I have no clue what it was.

FIFTEEN

Candy Cane and I have an understanding. If I don’t pet her too vigorously or love on her too much, she lets me stroke her ears and upper chest. But if I get greedy and go for her body or try to hug her, she shies away or puts up a paw with wide uncertain eyes, asking me to stop. I listen every time. It’s clear she has scars I can’t see and was at one point harmed by humans. Not unlike Delilah, who’s progressed from light improv to emotionally submersed Method acting.

Candy Cane is tied to my outside table, where I’ll be sketching this morning. Instead of ordering my coffee and treat right away, I spot Delilah wiping down a table.

Refusing to let her acting deter me, I join her inside. “I can come to your place tonight, put on my hazmat suit, and search for the dead animal.”

She continues wiping the table, even though the surface is sparkling clean. “I’m meeting with my wedding florist today. We’re having trouble deciding on flowers.”

Three days ago she was having trouble with the caterer. Two days ago she needed to meet with her mother about the seating arrangements. Yesterday was a dress alteration. I consider most of our dog-adoption outing a success. We talked about things that mattered and things that didn’t. We laughed and got licked by adorable dogs, but she’s been extra distant since our ride home, and her Method acting has become intense.

As far as I can guess, a specific memory hit her she can’t shake. Emotional quicksand I understand. In my early WITSEC years, I’d get yanked under at unexpected times. I’d suddenly remember Delilah running at me for one of her attack hugs, slamming me so hard she’d knock us over. Or dangerous, more tantalizing flashbacks would strike: me kissing my way down Delilah’s belly, spreading her thighs, tasting her for our first time, inflamed by her heady musk, loving the hard pull of her hands on my hair.

I’d sink into those sultry memories, play them over and over until my only option was to jack off to the imagined taste of her. I’d crash after. Lie in bed for days at a time or go for exhausting runs. There wasn’t much my family could do, except make sure I knew I had support if I needed them. They kept showing up, forcing me to get outside, encouraging me to draw. Without them, I wouldn’t have pushed harder at my art, discovered my career. Learned how to breathe without Delilah at my side.