Page 61 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

Mine’s all gravel again, navigating this back road, going extra slow for this singular woman. “Do you experiment like you used to? Get excited to try different things?” Like watching porn on my bed.

“Yeah.” It’s just one word, but the way she says it—yeah—half moaned, half whispered, her breasts arching toward me, I know she knows what game I’m playing. Tempting her, pretending like I’m talking about food instead of sex, letting her know I’m ready whenever she is.

“I’ll make it extra special for you. They’ll hear you moaning down the street.”

She whimpers. My body temperature rises.

And the swinging doors bust open.

A barista drops dirty cutlery in the sink and gives me a pitying look. “Maggie’s here to see you.” She dashes back out.

Delilah rubs her eyes. “Honestly, this town needs to get a life. I’ll tell her to go away.”

“Thanks, but don’t bother. If I don’t talk to her now, she’ll only badger me later. As long as taking a break doesn’t affect my standing to get employee of the month.”

Delilah gives me her stop-being-so-cute look.

I push through the swinging doors and don’t dally out front this time, inviting gawkers. I spot Maggie outside the entrance and haul ass to get there. “Don’t you usually barge into the store like you own the place? What’s with sending the messenger?”

She grabs me by the elbow and drags me away from my ever-present audience. We’re now on the street, standing between two parked cars. “Is Lennon okay?”

Maggie, with her fire engine hair and fiery personality, always fills a room with red, but I’ve never seen her red like this: red-rimmed eyes, the tip of her nose red and raw. Whatever happened with her and my brother is the Mystery of the Century. “He’s okay-ish, like the rest of us. Except Desmond, who’s rough. But Lennon and I have been living together, and he runs a kids’ adventure camp with outdoor activities. He doesn’t have much of a life outside of work and family, and his business isn’t as booming as he’d like, but he gets by.”

Her nostrils flare, and she looks down sharply. A moment later, the Maggie I know returns, haughty and almighty. “Don’t tell him I asked. It’s just all so nuts, and I was curious. Anyway, I’m maybe a little sorry for being such a bitch to you.”

“Wow.” I clutch my chest. “How could I not accept such a heartfelt apology?”

“Shut it, E. Just tell me one thing—do you know?”

She doesn’t need to specify her meaning: Do you know Delilah’s not engaged? Her eyes are all judgy, and she was the weak link in their Masterpiece Theatre number. “Oh, I know.”

She purses her lips. “Knew it.”

“But I don’t want Delilah to know I know.”

“I would never tell her you know.”

“So we both know I know, and we know Delilah doesn’t know I know. Where does this leave us?” I’d probably excel at speaking in code. Or pig latin.

She sniffles and narrows her eyes at me. “You two always had this thing that was weirdly special, but also gag inducing. I won’t get in your way, but if you hurt her, I will sneak into your apartment and fill it with murder hornets and seal you in.”

That was disturbingly harsh. “Glad you’re on board. And if you ever want to talk about why you don’t want to talk to Lennon, I’m here. Unless I’ve been attacked by a raging swarm of murder hornets. Then I’ll be dead.”

“You were always an immature child.”

“I’m not the one who fooled around with Freddie Lorimer.”

Her mouth drops open, her face flushing raspberry red. With an imperious sniff, she swivels and storms off. A much easier Maggie to deal with. Aggravating each other is our normal, but that’s another person who’s given me their blessing to woo Delilah. I’ll have to make tonight’s curry extra orgasm-y.

TWENTY

Nine hours later, my apartment still looks the opposite of manly, but it smells like a Michelin-starred Indian restaurant. Scents of sautéed onion and garlic linger in the air, along with diced tomato, a heaping of cilantro, and my secret concoction of aromatic spices. The thick sauce pools around simmering meat, each morsel tender enough to cut with a spoon. Thanks to Sathya’s mother, this Bangalore phaal—a lamb curry that’s been in their family for generations—is the definition of food porn.

My cell rings from the counter. At the sight of Sathya’s name, I wonder if my cooking her mother’s recipe conjured her. I snatch up my phone so fast I almost send it flying.

“Where the hell are you?” I say, far past pleasant greetings.

“Who the hell are you?”