Delilah knew that had never mattered to her father. He’d just wanted to make sure his girls were taken care of. And maybe some small part of him wanted to show his ex that he wasn’t the “loser mechanic” she’d left behind.
That last week before the move, Delilah had misconstrued Asa’s comforting embrace and that had been the cherry on top of what became the worst year of her life. She’d spent most of it crying with Drew or taking care of Darcy. But hardest of all was watching her dad, her hero, fold into himself with the pain of his loss. He was still the best father he could be, and he created a life for them, a business around them…but he’d never been the same.
Delilah had had to be the muscle. She’d done the hiring and firing. She’d gone to night school, handled the difficult clients and the money. She’d taken care of the little things so her sisters could be creative and carefree. And just when it seemed her father was getting his strength back, he’d been hit with another sucker punch.
Delilah reached for the beer Asa had ordered for her, took a gulp and grimaced. She’d rather have something stronger, but this would do.
Sitting down at the small deck table, she sighed. “It wasn’t you, Asa. My dad? He didn’t stop writing because of you. It was my mother.”
He pulled his chair close to hers, flipped it around and straddled it, his expression concerned. “She came back?”
Delilah nodded. “For a weekend. I didn’t know until after the fact. It was all very secretive and romantic. Dad rented a limo, took her to a penthouse suite in Beverly Hills—the works. He wanted her to see how well he was doing, I think. And she’d convinced him that she wanted to wait to see us until she knew they were okay.” She took another drink. “Afterwards, he thought she was going home to pack her bags and let her new husband down easy. That we would be a family again. He even gave her a wad of cash so she could buy us all matching diamond necklaces to win our favor—her idea. A few days later the boob-job-bozo came to our house to let us know that Valerie had done it again—left him for a musician who was fifteen years younger. A guy who lived in his truck between gigs, mind you. Dad was…well, you can imagine how he took it.”
Asa swore under his breath. “I can. Shit, Delilah I’m sorry. I wish I’d known. I wouldn’t have let him shut me out again.”
She shook her head. “He didn’t want anyone to know. Not only did she pull the rug out from beneath him again, but this time it wasn’t even for money. It’s just because of who she is. What she is. He’d wasted all those years hoping to show her he was worthy of her, but in the end he found out what I knew all along—she wasn’t good enough for him.”
And he gave up his life and his friends, his shop, for an illusion.
Asa reached for her hand and slid his fingers through hers. “I’m sorry, Del.”
“Déjà vu,” she laughed darkly. “Are we back where we left off eleven years ago? You comforting me about my selfish mother?”
His fingers tightened around hers. “Not even close,” he assured her. “You are an amazing woman, Delilah. Confident, sensual and strong. This is nothing like the last time. Selfishly, I still long to shock you—just a little. Maybe when we’re done here and I get you alone, you can tell me about one of your more scandalous fantasies, and I’ll take it from there.”
Delilah looked down at the tray of appetizers and set the beer down beside it. “I’m done, Wild Man. You?”
“Done?” His smile was the definition of sin. “I think we’re just getting started.”
Chapter Three
“Why are we back at the garage?”
Delilah was impatient. Getting back on his bike had been her foreplay—having him hold her hand and press it against his flat stomach, her body rocking against him and her sex humming from the engine’s vibration. She thought he’d take her back to his place, or back to her hotel, and then they could rip each other’s clothes off and finally get some relief. Instead, he pulled up beside the dark repair shop and turned off his headlight.
Was this about reliving the past again? Going back to the garage where he’d rejected her and getting dirty on the grit-covered floor? She could think of worse ideas. And so many better ones. “Asa?”
“Shh,” he whispered. “Crime shouldn’t have an audience. Grab the To-Go bag.”
Crime?
He tapped her thigh and she got off the bike, grabbing the bag of appetizers from the restaurant and watching as he did the same and then grabbed her free hand, pulling her around the back of the building.