Page 47 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

While I’ve been careful not to push for more than she can handle, I want to show up for her. Nudge a little harder. Help her any way I can. Like Avett said, our teenage love was pure and wholehearted—the type of unconditional affection that might help light the spark she lost after I left.

Instead of wishing her well with her wedding planning, I say, “I don’t welch on bets, and I owe you an apartment cleaning. I’m sure you won’t finish late with the florist. I can come by after.”

She continues her useless wiping. “It’s hard to say. We’ll do it another night.”

And she’ll have another excuse.

I press my hand to the cloth she’s got in a death grip, stilling her obsessive wiping. “We could take a rain check, or I could come by tonight, no matter what time it is. I’m a night owl. If we don’t do something soon, that dead animal might stink you out of your place.”

Her cheek hollows, like she’s nibbling on it, her focus locked on our hands. Our fingers aren’t touching, but my pinky is a hair from her index finger. I move mine slightly, just enough that we’re resting against each other. “Please let me come over.”

She hesitates another moment. When she looks up at me, the emotion swimming in her eyes hits me so hard it’s like she’s launched one of her attack hugs, wiping me off my feet.

“Okay,” she says softly.

“Okay?”

“Ask me to say it again and the answer’s no.” There’s my feisty girl, sassing me the way I love to be sassed.

“Gotcha. Important question, though. Where do you live?”

She snatches her cloth from under our hands. “Here.”

I glance around the shop. Half the tables are full. Everyone is, of course, watching us, including Sandra at her usual stakeout location, sporting her immovable eighties perm. While I still get the odd set of daggers launched at me, the surveillance has taken a turn from vindictive to entertained. None of these jokers need cable or Netflix. I’m providing them with a continuous live airing of Edgar Gets Shot Down.

Not today, suckers.

I refrain from bowing to our audience and face Delilah. “Those sofa chairs look comfortable to sit in, but I bet they’re murder on your neck when sleeping. I also offer massages with my rodent-exhumation services.”

She doesn’t jump at my selfish offer, but the hint of dimples in her cheeks indicates suppressed amusement. “I own the building and live in the apartment upstairs.”

“You own this whole place?”

She ducks her head and blushes. “I do.”

“Delilah, I can’t believe you own a historic piece of Windfall.” I want to hug her. Lift her up. Show her how impressed I am. Instead I say, “What a great accomplishment.”

“I don’t illustrate an insanely popular graphic novel, but”—she glances around this amazing space, twisting her cloth, pride in the lift of her chin—“I often forget it’s all mine. Well, kind of mine. Mom ran the breeding program for a bit after Dad died, but her heart wasn’t in it. She eventually sold the horses, then the farm. She lives in town now and helped me buy this building.”

She’s being modest, acting like her efforts in this endeavor barely mattered. “Getting help doesn’t diminish what you’ve created. You designed the shop with your vision, built a happy, welcoming place for people. Your mom must be proud.”

“Yeah.” Her cheeks pink again. “She is.”

“And she still hates me.”

Delilah sighs. “She does.”

Undeterred by that fact, we plan to meet at eight, after her “wedding” errands. I’m not frustrated by her continued lies. I’m too pleased this episode of Edgar Gets Shot Down ended with a surprising twist. I’m even given a dog treat with my black coffee and scone.

Once outside, I smile at Candy, loving how this small town is the opposite of Houston. Never in a million years would I have tied my dog to a table leg in the city, left her alone while I bought a coffee inside. Here? If the wrong person snatched Candy’s leash, ten people would perform a citizen’s arrest. At least, I hope they would. My standing in Windfall still hovers at pond scum levels.

I crouch next to my girl and hold out her treat. “For you, my sweet lady.”

She takes the cookie, gentle as can be, and munches happily. She looks up at me after, her eyes brighter, that cute tongue lolling where her canine tooth used to be, and she licks my face.

“Oh my God.” I glance around, needing to share this momentous moment.

The older man at the other outdoor table, who’s been reading Tom Clancy’s Code of Honor while spying on me, narrows his eyes.