Page 28 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I’m so addicted that I risk slipping a second finger under hers. “If I called and told you what happened, even if the call wasn’t traced, you wouldn’t have been as upset. The cartel might have assumed it was because you knew where I was. They might have hurt you to find us. And later, I was just scared. Everyone told me the less you knew, the better. So no, I couldn’t risk reaching out, putting you and my family in danger. How could I live with myself if someone hurt you?”

She blinks, tears finally falling as she murmurs, “Jesus.” She glances back at the shop, then down at the slight join of our hands, at the fake engagement ring on her finger, then back up at me. “I’m so sorry, E. I can’t imagine what this has been like for you.”

I don’t want her sympathy. Well, maybe a little. Those few words cauterize a portion of the wounds from today’s verbal attacks. Enough that thoughts of sprinting to Houston flee. “Can you come over tonight? Or I can come to your place.” When she jerks her hand away, I add, “Just to talk. I’m sure you have lots of questions. I have plenty of my own, including why someone asked me if I could hack the mayor’s firewall.”

“This town,” she murmurs and shakes her head. “Everyone has theories on why you all left. Alien abduction. Russian spies. Hackers hiding from the CIA. There’s a money-laundering camp too.”

“Which faction were you?”

“Honestly . . .” She rubs her face. “Nothing really made sense, but some businesses your dad worked for assumed he was messing with their books and stealing cash. They figured he left before he got caught, and the rest of you went because you were either helping him or were horrified about what he did. I thought I knew your family too well to believe all the ridiculous stories, but that one seemed the most legit.”

“It’s closer than alien abduction,” I say softly. But not as terrifying as a drug lord threatening your life. “So can we go somewhere to talk? I’d like to explain more.”

She nibbles her lip, wipes her lingering tears. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come to your place.”

This is how I find myself tidying my small apartment, trying to make it look more like a cool bachelor pad and less like a six-year-old girl’s birthday-party palace, while ignoring Mrs. Moon’s threats to leave her daughter alone.

TEN

I’m starting to regret suggesting Delilah come to my non-manly apartment, but I’ve conquered number two on my Fifty Ways to Win Back Delilah list: convince Delilah to believe my unbelievable WITSEC story. Having her in my place allows me to implement and tackle number three on my list: remind Delilah how well I know her by brewing her favorite blueberry tea.

There’s a knock at my door. I glance around, decide there’s zero I can do to give this bubblegum space a dude vibe, and open my door.

Delilah’s wild hair is piled on her head. She’s still in her white T-shirt and jeans from work, but she’s not wearing her apron. Her lack of uniform gives me a prominent view of her full breasts stretching the cotton of her shirt. My body reacts the way it always did around her, insistently. Already, my jeans feel tight.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

She gives a noncommittal “Yeah.”

I back away from the entrance and fan my hand, inviting her in. Her steps are hesitant. Mine are less so. I follow her like the lovesick puppy I am. She stops in the middle of the space, leans to the left, glancing into my flowery bedroom. She pivots to the right, taking in the Pepto kitchen and small open living-eating area. “I don’t remember you loving pink this much.”

“Oh, I adore pink. Hands down my favorite color. You should see my assortment of boxers.”

She turns and scowls at me. “I’m not here so you can flirt with me.” She raises her hand. “I’m engaged, E.”

I call bullshit.

Still, I appreciate her effort to keep me at a distance. I have a long way to go to prove myself to Delilah. A plethora of numbers to cross off my list. “I have some blueberry tea.” Her absolute favorite. Hello, list item number three. “Can I make you a cup?”

She scrunches her nose. “I don’t drink that anymore. Do you have bourbon?”

Fuck. No, I do not. Delilah didn’t drink bourbon back in the day. She didn’t drink alcohol at all, even when I’d offer her a sip of my illegally procured beer or vodka. This change not only screws with my remind-Delilah-how-well-I-know-her tactic, but the awareness of our ten years apart shakes me. I don’t know this Delilah—what she’s been through these past ten years, how time has shaped her. She might hate Sonic the Hedgehog and cannonballing into Bear Lake. I mentally rearrange my list and add: play twenty questions with Delilah until I know all of her.

Unlike bearded Hipster Lennon, who drinks obscure beers with ironic labels, I’m more of a cheap-and-easy guy. I walk to my fridge and grab a couple of tried-and-trues. “Will Coors Light do?”

“Sure,” she says. Then, “Seriously, what’s with all the pink?”

I should have at least repainted before inviting her here. “The place came furnished.”

She makes a huh sound and sits on my offensively bright couch. Her knees are practically glued together, her hands clasped daintily on top. The Delilah I knew didn’t sit like a demure debutante. She was a lounger, with her legs shoved into my space, commandeering the entire couch. She also said she’d never remove the moon necklace I made for her, but her neck is bare.

I hand her a Coors, hoping our fingers brush again. Sadly, they don’t.

I sit to her right on the flowery love seat, perched on the edge, trying to shrink the gap between our knees. “I’m sure you have questions. Ask anything you want.”

She fiddles with her beer bottle. Her fake ring clacks against the glass. “There are so many. I don’t know where to start.”

“My favorite question is, how could my father have been such a lying prick?”