Page 70 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

In the morning, this ends. Delilah is my home, and my home needs to stop lying to me. We need to say all the things we haven’t said. I’ll give her tonight, let her sleep off her drinks and wake up fresh. Tomorrow I’ll tell her I was sitting behind her on that flight, and we’ll finally unleash the romantic fumes hot-boxing this room.

TWENTY-THREE

When I wake up, Delilah isn’t in the room. Also, unicorn hair is less comfortable than first surmised. My neck twinges, my shoulder throbs, and my back hurts. I’m twenty-seven going on ninety-eight. I gingerly stand and stretch, rub at my messy hair, and scan the suite. The bedsheets are askew. Our suitcases are beside each other against the far wall, and our toiletries have claimed their His and Hers sides of the sink. The domesticity of it would please the hell out of me, if I hadn’t spent the night on the couch.

Downstairs is a replay of last night’s high school reunion, except with more bloodshot eyes and hungover winces. The greasiest food on the breakfast buffet is disappearing fastest. I load up on eggs and bacon and find a seat by the large windows, trying to relax and wake up. This place really is stunning. Sun sparkles on the lake, late-fall trees guarding its borders. Maybe Delilah and I will have our she’s-not-engaged talk under the pagoda on the whitewashed dock.

Avett sits beside me with a mug of coffee. “A few of us are heading out fishing. You should come.”

As fun as fishing sounds, I’m on a mission. “Have you seen Delilah?”

“Angel just got here with tonight’s desserts, but there was a lemon-tart mishap. They’re doing damage control. Baking more, I think.”

A lemon-tart mishap doesn’t fit into today’s plan, but helping Delilah comes before my emotional needs. I also excel at dishwashing. “Rain check on the fishing. I have stuff to do.”

Avett blows on his coffee and takes a sip. “Is that stuff related to a blue-eyed woman you can’t leave alone?”

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

He laughs. “Likely story. Godspeed, my friend.”

He doesn’t warn me to move cautiously this time. A positive sign I’m willing to run with. I shovel in my food, then offer morning pleasantries to the hungover guests as I head to the kitchen. Most go like this:

“Morning, Kaitlyn.”

She winces. “Yeah.”

“Gorgeous day, Billy. Isn’t it?”

He grunts.

“Morning, Maggie,” I say extra loudly by her ear.

She gives me the finger.

I nose around until I find the kitchen. The inn staff are cleaning up from breakfast service, clanging and clomping as they go. I spot Delilah toward the back, hairnet over her curls. She disappears into a walk-in cooler, her face grim. My girl needs me. I squeeze past the busy cooks and come face to face with lemon carnage. Several crushed boxes are tossed on a table, bright-yellow guts squeezing out. Delilah pushes from the cooler, her arms full of egg trays and butter.

I salute her. “Reporting for duty, Captain.”

“Turn the oven on and get me the flour. Angel’s gone out for the raspberries we need for the garnish. We have to make three tarts, and they have to be perfect.”

“Oven and flour and perfect. On it.”

She places her armful down and pauses. “Thanks for helping, E.”

“Anytime.” I give her a reassuring smile.

Her gaze lingers on my face, searching—for what I have no clue—then she’s in baker mode, moving around the large kitchen like she owns the place. I sift flour and cube butter and wash dishes. When Angel returns, she joins our platoon.

Occasionally, I grab a cloth and dab Angel’s forehead, telling her things like “You’ve got this. This is the home stretch.”

She laughs and high-fives me.

When I do it to Delilah, she swats me with her cloth.

Two hours later, we’re standing around a stainless steel counter, our aprons speckled with flour, admiring three perfect lemon tarts. Their golden crusts and glistening curd are more beautiful than a Windfall sunrise.

“They’re too pretty to eat,” Angel says.