Page 59 of And Now, Back to You

“Whatever,” she grumbles, and she slides the rest of the way off the bed. She pads closer to the table where I’ve set up all our work stuff, planting one hand by the side of my laptop and leaning over me to get a look at the screen. She smells like warm skin and flannel. That tart cherry smell again that might be her shampoo or might just be her.

“Projections holding strong?” she asks.

I grumble something in the affirmative. I haven’t retained a single thing happening on this computer screen.

She turns her head and her nose is half an inch from my cheek. I can feel it when she smiles.

“Such a weirdo,” she whispers.

Then she steals my coffee mug and disappears to the bathroom. I glance in her direction briefly, then avert my eyes to the ceiling when I notice the hole in her loose pants, right beneath the curve of her ass.

I let out a sigh of relief as soon as the door shuts, only to feel every muscle in my body tense as soon as I hear the water turn on.

“Fuck,” I bite out under my breath. For some reason it never occurred to me that Delilah would be taking showers.

I imagine her slipping out of that flannel shirt, the smooth arch of her bare shoulder, the heavy flare of her waist. Her pajama bottoms, a puddle on the floor. Heavy steam and her hair curlier than usual because of it. Clinging to her shoulders, the back of her neck. That soft, delicate place where my hand fit so good. Fingers squeezing, tracing down, down, down. To the curve of her ass and that spot right where her thigh meets her—

The door swings open and Delilah’s head appears. I drive my knee into the bottom of the table.

“Hey. Can you throw me my makeup bag from the top of my suitcase?”

I feel like I’m moving through syrup while I do it. I flip open her suitcase and am immediately greeted by chaos. Not a single article of clothing is folded, everything shoved in haphazardly like she had ten seconds to pack under the threat of violence before coming on this trip.

I find her pale pink cosmetics bag wrapped halfway in a sweater and wedge it carefully out.

“Your suitcase is a disaster,” I tell her as I hand it over.

She rolls her eyes. “Glad we’ve returned to our equilibrium this morning.”

Then she shuts the door in my face.

Fantasies appropriately sidelined, I pour myself a new cup of coffee from the small dinette at the edge of the dresser and reclaim my seat at the table. The light coming in from the window is shallow and murky, a dense fog sitting low over the lake.

My phone rings with an incoming call, a picture of Penelope at the Peabody Library, her head tipped back as she gaped at the massive shelves lined with books.

I swipe it open and her smiling face appears, approximately half an inch from the camera.

“Woah,” I say, propping her up on the side of my computer. “Jump scare.”

“Hello, big brother,” she singsongs.

“What’s up?”

She’s practically vibrating in her seat, an excited little wiggle she’s been doing since she was five years old and couldn’t quite keep still. “How much snow are we getting today?” she asks.

I smile. “You? None. Me? Probably a lot.”

Adeline joins her in the frame, their cheeks squished together, and that tight, panicky feeling eases. I needed this after our rushed, distracted call last night. Aiden could barely pull them away from their movie with Maya to say good night, and it lit up every one of my insecurities.

But this is better. This is familiar.

“It’s coming our way, right?” Addie asks, just as excited as Pen. “We’re gonna get a lot of snow?”

“Haven’t you been watching the forecasts?” I ask.

“Just the one,” Penelope responds, “and you mainly did a lot of blank staring into the camera.”

“It was also just your floating head, so.” Adeline makes a poorly restrained gleeful face. “We were distracted.”