Page 51 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

She blinks again, touches her hair as though a strong wind blew through here, and is that . . . ? Yep. She subtly rubs her thighs together. “I’ll toss together a salad. Something light, assuming you eat light to maintain”—she gestures vaguely at my body—“all that. You can eat after your shower, before the dead-body hunt, while you’re wearing the shirt and pants I provide. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.” Minus the shirt and pants and dead-body-hunt parts.

She gives a sharp nod and breezes past me, stomping around louder than necessary as she extricates a fresh towel from a hall closet. She tosses it at me and speed walks into her open kitchen, leaving me to decontaminate.

I take my time showering. I mean, this is Delilah’s shower. It smells like her, clean and fresh and feminine, and I can’t help picturing her under the hot spray.

A steamy flash hits: Delilah and me crammed into her tiny shower, those days before we were ready for sex but were insatiable for each other, wet bodies and lips sliding desperately, my throbbing erection digging into her stomach, slipping lower, teasing us with the possibility of slipping all the way in. Greedy hands. Sluicing water. Delilah falling apart, then stroking me until I shot my load onto her breasts and belly in a mind-blowing rush.

Showering alone isn’t as fun.

I towel off and examine Hugo’s clothes left for me in Delilah’s room. His threads are as boring and posh as I expect: green collared golf shirt and khaki pants. No joke. How could she have fallen for this guy? I get dressed in the loser’s clothes, which are snug, and I give the room a cursory glance. The space is as bright and lived in as the rest of her place, pillows piled on her bohemian-style duvet cover. A pretty quilt is draped over a side chair, and her distressed dresser has books stacked on top. As tempted as I am to poke around, I don’t feel right snooping.

One day I hope she invites me in here to toss her pillows on the floor, mess up her sheets, sleep curled around her, and snoop to my heart’s content. Today’s not that day.

I leave the room and don’t make it two steps. Mellow folk music plays from a stereo. Candy’s made herself at home on the couch, and Delilah’s swaying slightly, her back to me, humming while cutting up a salad. Nothing to get worked up about. But the scene is so domestic, like we’re a couple again, about to eat together on a regular weekday night.

I blow out a rough breath, swallow past the I wish and I miss and I want lodged in my throat. “The Eternity has been eradicated.”

She looks at me over her shoulder and snorts. “That is not your best look.”

True. My ankles are poking out the bottom of the dorky pants. I lift the shirt’s collar, going for full preppy mode. “I kind of dig it. Might wear it to Ricky and Aaron’s wedding.”

Her arms go rigid. “They invited you?”

“Ricky needs a roadie so the Tweeds can play. Or he took pity on me. Likely the latter. Guess we’ll both be there?” In three weeks. At Sheldrake Falls. The gorgeous cottage-style inn with canopy beds, overstuffed duvets, fireplaces in each room, the smell of wilderness and romance in the air.

“Guess so.” Her shoulders lower, and she grabs the cucumber by her cutting board. She starts peeling off the skin the way she knows I like.

Taking this as a positive sign, I go for casual, waltzing over to the living room side of the kitchen counter. I lean against the edge in my too-tight, too-preppy shirt and catch a whiff of something distinctly deathlike wafting from the kitchen. The reason for tonight’s invite. First, I have a more pressing matter to address. “Is your fiancé coming in for the festivities?”

“Hugo? No.” She peels faster. “He’s super busy with work.”

“We should drive down together.”

Her peeler stills, just a second. Then she’s meticulously stripping the cucumber naked. “Sure.” She glances up at me shyly. “That would be nice.”

My stomach flips. And growls. Her easy agreement has me leaning heavier onto her counter. “Thanks for cooking for me. No clue how I lost track of time.”

“Must be amazing when you’re that absorbed in work. Is it another in the Gates of Ember series? I heard something about a prequel.”

“We’re halfway through that piece, but Sathya, who writes it all, has gone MIA, which isn’t odd for her, but this time feels different. I’m not sure what’s up, and my agent’s getting twitchy. For now I’m killing time with a new book, actually writing the script too.” Writing our story, giving it the ending it deserves. “Something more personal.”

“I’d love to hear about it, if you don’t mind sharing.”

I’m not exactly sure why I started writing our story, but I think I’m documenting it for Delilah. For her to understand what the past ten years were like for me, how integral she is in my life, even like this, as a friend who cuts me up a salad because I’m hungry and asks me to share my work and tells me I look ridiculous in preppy shirts. “It’s early stages, but if you’re willing, I’d love you to be the first to read it. When it’s ready.”

“I’d be honored,” she says, swaying to the relaxing tunes. “Do you still use those Palomino pencils?”

“Blackwing Palominos, yeah. Although I’ve almost worn mine down to nothing, and they’re out of stock in town and online. I’m impressed you remember, though.”

She glances at my hands, heat in her eyes, like she recalls my lead-smudged fingers dragging up her thighs. “I remember . . . how much you loved those pencils. And how talented you were,” she adds.

Delilah Moon, always boosting my art ego. “You know, you’re partly responsible for the Gates of Ember series existing.”

“Not sure how you figure that.”

“When we were growing up, you were the one who gushed over my drawings. Kept telling me how amazing my stuff was. Cal and my family pushed me to keep drawing during WITSEC, but your encouragement is why I stuck with it as a kid.”