Filfthy(50)

“And you shouldn’t.” I dip a strawberry into a bowl of whipped cream. “From here on out, every time you eat pancakes, you’re going to remember this night and the amazing sex you had with the asshole next door. I’m pretty much cursing you, since I’m a wizard and all.”

“Sorcerer.”

“Same difference.”

She forks a sliver of syrup-drenched pancake and smiles. I like Delilah when she smiles. I also like her when she’s on all fours. Naked as the day she came. I really, really like her that way. But I like her this way too. Relaxed and sweet and at ease.

Her soft gaze washes over me as she finishes her plate, grabbing a strawberry and dragging it through a smear of melted chocolate chips.

“Thanks for the food, de la Cruz,” she says, red juice dripping from her lip. I reach across the island and catch it with my thumb, bringing it to my mouth.

“You all finished?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Let’s get you back where you belong.” I walk around to her side and hook my hand around her wrist, pulling her back to bed.

Once we’re under the covers, she inches toward her side of the bed little by little, the space between us widening by the second.

“You trying to land a jet here or something?” I point to the landing strip between us. Sure, it’s a king-sized bed, but that doesn’t mean we need to lie in different continents here. I extend my arm and motion for her to come in.

Pursing her lips, she wiggles closer until her head fits perfectly in the crook of my shoulder and the scent of her clean shampoo fills my nostrils.

The flicker of the TV lights and then darkens the room, and I catch Delilah in a yawn. Good sex and good food will do that to a person.

“It’s been years since anyone’s stayed over,” I say, dragging my fingertips down her arm.

“Lucky me.”

“Damn right, lucky you.” I smirk, kissing the top of her head because it’s so damn hard to be this close to her and not want to taste and touch and feel her at all times.

The Sports Center theme song plays and the show cuts to commercial. Delilah rolls to her side, facing me, and I wrap her up in my arms.

“Rue said you have a sex tape.” Her words stop my heart cold. “Is that true?”

For the first time in a long time, I’m at a loss for words. I mean, the sex tape is something anyone with an Internet connection could easily Google, but it’s been a long time since someone straight up asked me about it.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to talk about it.

“Who was it with? Can I watch it? Is that weird?” Delilah’s giggling, like she’s amused. She thinks it’s funny.

The truth is, it was the biggest mistake of my life.

That tape ruined lives.

That tape cost me everything.

Including Mirabelle.

My grip on Delilah’s warm body loosens, and I lie flat on my pillow, staring up at the spinning, whirring ceiling fan above us.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” My voice is monotone and my body is tense, bracing itself for Delilah to pry and prod and ask a million questions so she can psychoanalyze me, which I know she’s been dying to do since the day we met.

My breath is jagged and labored.

And then I feel her hand, warm on my chest, and my breathing slows.

“No problem,” she says, her voice sweet. She moves closer, pressing her cheek against my chest where my heart is still thundering.

Glancing down, I watch as she closes her eyes, her body going limp in my arms.

And then I hold her close.

I hold her closer than I’ve held anyone in a very long time.

And I sleep hard.

Harder than I’ve slept in years.

And when I wake Sunday morning, she’s still there, lying beside me, her dark hair a splayed mess on my pillow, her soft breathing filling my ear.

A foreign warmth spreads through me, the kind of warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.





Chapter 21





Delilah



“Call me when you land.” I follow Daphne out to her Uber ride in Rue’s driveway. It’s a blue Volkswagen Jetta. New. Clean. The driver looks to be mid-twenties. Slightly nerdy. He smiles a boyish smile and gives a little wave.

“I’ll text you,” my sister says, lugging her bag into the popped trunk.

“Call. Text. Whatever.” I stand, my heart aching a little bit at the thought of her leaving.

We had fun this week. Miami. Movies. Manicures. Man-talk.

All of that when she wasn’t with Weston.

“I’m thinking I might come back,” Daphne says, turning to me, “when I’m done with the mural.”

“Weston?”

She smirks. “And you and Rue . . .”

“Mm, hm.” I tease, but it’s so nice to see her happy again. She’s lit from within, from the top of her wispy blonde hair to the tips of her pink polished toes. There’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there a week ago.