Page 64 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“No, but it made you laugh.” I nudge her leg with mine. “Anything’s worth making you laugh.”

I’m close enough to hear her tiny intake of breath, notice the subtle way her eyelashes flutter, like she’s watching the fast flip of a memory.

She takes a deep inhale, then lets it out slowly, her attention flicking to me. “How do you stay in such good shape?”

I frown at the sudden change in subject, not that I mind the topic. “Have you been thinking about my six-pack?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just curious. There’s still so much I don’t know about you.”

The sad truth of our history. “I exercise daily, but I don’t do gyms. Running, sit-ups, push-ups. Sweating helps me manage my stress.”

“Do you still stargaze?”

“Nope.” But I’m enjoying this. Delilah peppering me with questions for a change. “Too many lights in Houston.”

“I’m guessing you’ve watched Star Wars a billion times by now.”

“Not far off. I’ve for sure surpassed fifty.”

She takes another bite of her food and chews thoughtfully. “If you could have a superpower, would you rather be able to walk on water or walk through walls?”

“Through walls, no question. I wouldn’t have to worry about losing my keys.”

We eat and talk, Delilah leading most of the conversation with her adorable questions. She occasionally leans her body into me, a friendly nudge while she makes a joke. I nudge her back. Tease her to my heart’s content. She tilts her head and moans loudly a few more times, hamming it up, praising my food, either unaware of how my breaths deepen and how my jeans grow unbearably tight, or getting off on this torture.

When we’re done, our bowls empty and bellies full, she squeezes my thigh. “Thanks again for cooking for me. It was amazing.”

“Thanks for eating with me. It’s no fun cooking for one.”

Her touch lingers, growing lighter but not leaving. “The past ten years,” she says hesitantly, “have you dated much?”

Her question tumbles in my stomach, mingling with the heat of my spice mixture.

Aside from casual hookups, I dated a few women the past decade, but I had a three-date limit. For the first three dates, it was okay to focus on the present. Jobs. Apartments. Friends. Foods I liked. Foods she liked. Hobbies I liked. Hobbies she liked. After date three, women got inquisitive. They—gasp—asked actual questions. That’s when I started to lie.

I’m from Houston.

I hate the countryside.

The color blue sucks.

I don’t remember much about my teen years.

I’ve never been in love.

It wasn’t just lying that made dating tough, though. None of them were Delilah.

“Dating’s hard when your life’s full of secrets,” I say, pressing my leg harder into hers. “There was no one who really mattered.”

If this was an ordinary friendship, this is where I’d ask about her love life. We’d bond over shared stories of heartbreak, but Delilah’s my only worthwhile story, and I don’t want half truths from her. When I ask her about Hugo and how she fell in love with him and accepted a proposal, I won’t be able to pretend he’s a great guy who doted on her. When I ask those tough questions, I want her honesty.

I nudge her arm. “What would you like to do now? Call it a night or watch TV, or we can play a game?”

The old me would’ve suggested naked Twister. New me is all about stepping back, giving Delilah control. Also, her hand’s still on my thigh, and I did not place it there.

“Can we watch Schitt’s Creek?”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll just clean up first.”