Page 61 of Sweet Ruin

I despise that shit.

Someone taught her to hate herself. Multiple someones, probably.

I have pretty good guesses as to who those someones are.

She’s also braver than she gives herself credit for. She’s made it clear that this isn’t her normal self and tonight’s insane circumstances have broken something loose inside of her.

But I like this version. She’s fearless.

And quite possibly has a death wish. After all, she’s willingly stayed with me even after I made it clear who I was and what kinds of things I’m capable of doing. That’s unusual, to say the least.

“There!” she declares triumphantly as the key turns and she goes stumbling in. “Told you. Say, ‘Good job, Delilah.’“

“Good job, Delilah,” I drawl in a sarcastic monotone.

She grimaces. “Oh, sure, you’re theatrical, right up until I need you to fake a little enthusiasm. Don’t quit your day job, Kane Makov. You’d never make it in show biz.” She pushes the door with her hip and holds it for me. “Come in. Don’t touch anything.”

I start to walk across the threshold, but then I pause for a moment.

The address hangs over the door.

4412 Fourth Avenue.

I know this address.

I know the lot number, too. And the square footage, the year the building went up, the tax history, the name of the man who sold it to her and how much she paid him. I know everything there is to know about this chunk of earth, because it’s the last thing that stands between me and a promise I swore over my mother’s grave two decades ago.

I’ve never once been inside it.

Until now.

I step through and Delilah lets the door swing closed behind me. She bustles inside, flipping switches, setting down her laptop, stripping off my coat and setting it aside, fussing with this and that and the other thing.

Lights bloom. I see glass cases, a chalkboard menu, a little brass bell on the counter. Photographs taped to the wall by the register, curling at the corners.

“Come to the back,” she calls over her shoulder. “The ovens make it warmer.”

“Is it wise to breathe that in?” I joke.

“You saw what I did tonight,” she sasses back. “Do I seem ‘wise’ to you?”

“Touché.”

Delilah disappears through a swinging door. I follow her into the kitchen.

The back is narrow and clean. Steel table down the middle, ovens on the left, and a wall of sheet pans slotted haphazardly in some shelving. A cot lies folded against the wall by the office. By the looks of it, it gets regular use.

She pulls a flour-dusted apron off a hook and puts it on over her party dress. She ties the strings behind her back without looking.

Then she reaches up and twists her hair into a knot on top of her head. I get a glimpse of the curve of her throat and the line of her shoulders.

Fuck.

She doesn’t know I’m watching. She doesn’t know what she’s just done.

She’s thinking about ovens.

But I’m thinking about her.