Page 23 of Can’t Say No

“All I’m hearing are excuses, Delaney. Just a sprint, I bet you can beat me in a sprint.” I gesture to the far edge of the tree line, back towards her property line. “From here to there.”

Her competitive nature flares. I see it in a spark in her eyes, a glimpse of the girl who used to turn everything into a competition.

She puffs out her chest. “Fine. But what do I win if I beat you?”

“Is being your fake boyfriend not enough for you?” I ask with a laugh.

“Definitely not.” She gives me a playful shove, then stretches out her calves. “If I win, you’ll make me supper tonight. I’m sick of bagged salads and rotisserie chicken.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Delaney. Please tell me you’ve learned to cook.”

She shrugs. “Never needed to. I have a team for that. Now I’m stuck in bumfuck nowhere, alone in that stupid house with no staff.” She cuts her eyes towards her family home, and the familiar mask of anger falls over her face again. “And I’m fucking hungry.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I laugh, “I’ll cook tonight if you beat me. And if I win…” I pause, weighing how far to take this.

Not that far, I decide.

“If I win, you have to come with me after school this week to help with track and field tryouts.”

Delaney scrunches her face. “Sounds sweaty and boring. I’m beating your ass for sure.”

And with that, she takes off for the edge of the orchard, ponytail swinging, arms pumping for all they’re worth, hauling ass as if she has a chance of losing.

As if watching her win isn't my favorite thing.

I ease into a steady pace to give chase but, as cute and talented as she is, Delaney James is not a fast runner. I’m basically speed-walking to avoid passing her.

I chuckle under my breath and pick it up just enough to make her victory feel earned.

She bursts through the treeline triumphantly, hands thrown in the air, me close on her heels. Chest heaving, she turns to me.

“I know you let me win, but I’m so desperate for a home-cooked meal, I’m not even mad at you.”

My chuckle grows to a full laugh, which earns me a swat across the chest.

She pouts, lips full and exaggerated. “You could have just volunteered to cook for me instead of making me run like a mad woman.”

“Nah, it’s more fun this way.” I shrug. “Besides, you needed the distraction. You and that angry music were ready to kill me when I walked up.”

Delaney huffs, lifting her chin. “You don’t know what I need.”

I shake my head. She’s insufferable.

“Damn it, Delaney, I’m just trying to be nice. But whatever. Enjoy your Saturday with that sour attitude. I’ll be over at seven to cook.”

She’s halfway gone when I call over my shoulder. “You didn’t turn into one of those L.A. vegans or anything, did you?”

She hollers, “No! But go easy on the gluten, it makes me bloated!”

She’s ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.

But I guess, as I send off a signed contract to Delaney’s team an hour later, so am I.

9

DELANEY

The moment the clock hits five, I pour myself a glass of wine. It’s maladaptive behavior, or whatever my therapist always says, but I feel like I get points for not day drinking alone in this big house.