Page 23 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

God, what that girl did to me. “You get more beautiful every day.”

“You’re a romantic fool, Edgar Eugene Bower.”

“A fool for you. But call me that name again, and I’ll shove you in a manure patch.”

She tilted up her chin, thick curls spilling across her back. “Edgar Eugene Bower,” she crowed, a huge grin lighting her face.

“Now you’ve done it.” I grabbed her by the waist, hauled her over my shoulder. “Hope these clothes wash well.”

“Put me down, E. Don’t be a turd.”

She could call me whatever names she wanted, as long as she kept teasing me, kept smelling my neck, kept pounding my back, reaching to smack my ass. I carried her to my family’s old barn, the dilapidated one at the back of the property no one used, laughing the whole way. But the second I stepped inside, my pulse jumped as fast as the grasshoppers dodging my feet.

I lowered her down slowly, every inch of her rubbing down every inch of me. Unsure how I was lucky enough to have Delilah Moon in my arms, I brushed her hair from her face. “We don’t have to do this tonight. Not if you don’t want. We can wait.”

We’d talked about having sex, had planned that evening together. Still, it felt big. A signal of change between us.

Delilah pushed her hands through my Justin Bieber hair and said, “Do you love me?”

“What kind of question is that?” I held her closer, brushed our noses together. Seriously. We were that cute. “You’re my muse. My artistic inspiration, even when you drive me nuts. I love you times infinity, Delilah Mars.”

“I hate when you call me that.”

“You prefer Delilah Uranus?”

“You’re such a goof.”

“A goof who loves you.”

She hummed a flirty tune. “And will you, Goof McGee, be here for me tomorrow? Meet me at the chicken coop, toss grass at my face, and annoy me while I collect eggs? Be the same sweet idiot who did that awful job gluing together my horse figurine?”

“I’ll annoy you tomorrow”—I pressed small kisses to her eyelids—“and the next day”—more kisses to her cheeks—“and the next day, and every one after that. There’s no getting rid of me.”

Let’s hit pause, shall we? Put a pin in that promise. The super important one where I vowed to be there for the girl I adored, not love and leave her and ruin her life. It’s a pretty vital tidbit, seeing as I’m now sitting in her shop, wondering if she’ll decide to talk to me or to slip arsenic into my food.

Sadly, we didn’t have a crystal ball that night, and Delilah gazed at me through teenage love goggles, brimming with undying trust, and said, “Then yes. I want to have sex with you tonight.”

Even in the face of our mutual love, my confidence suddenly dried as quickly as my tongue on weed. “So yeah.” I released her and wiped my dampening palms on my cargo shorts. “I brought a towel. I mean a blanket. Not a towel. The soft blanket from the truck that you like? But maybe I should have brought a towel. In case . . . you know.”

Blood. I was thinking blood, wondering how I’d wash Delilah’s virginal blood from the light-gray blanket laid out on the hay. Then I was wondering why the hell I was thinking about blood instead of kissing Delilah and why the hell I was talking about anything related to blood and pain before I took my girlfriend’s virginity. But what if I hurt Delilah somehow? What if I got so into things I wasn’t gentle and she hated sex and her first experience tainted intimacy for her forever?

“I have treats.” I gestured to the lemon macarons beside the bouquet of wildflowers, grappling for a topic change. There were three condoms beside the sweets. I’d driven one town over to buy the small red packets, lest I risk Windfall’s rumor mill catching wind of our extracurriculars and blasting them through the town square. “We can eat the macarons now or later, if you want. You know, after the sex.”

I actually said that. The Sex.

I’d set out to create the perfect night for Delilah. Cologne, music, smooth seductions where I’d slowly peel off her clothes, getting her so worked up and ready I’d slide into her with one hot push. All I managed to peel off was a layer of my masculinity.

Determined to save myself from myself, I hurried to my quasi-romantic setup, which was becoming more quasi and less romantic by the second. I thumbed through my iPod, found Desmond’s suggested song, and put “Pillow Talk” on repeat.

“E.” Delilah’s voice was close, like she was right behind me. “Why are you so nervous?”

Did I say I lost one layer of masculinity? Make that two.

Defeated, I dropped my head forward. “I just want this to be perfect for you. Tonight should be the best night of your life, and I’m fucking it up.”

She wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head against the center of my back. “You’re not fucking up, E. The details don’t matter. I don’t need a fancy setup and romantic music. All I need is us.”

Exhibit A: why Delilah Moon is my ideal woman.