Page 3 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I glance at Delilah’s riotous hair, needing more from Lennon. Something. A hint of what I’m supposed to do. I mean, what if seeing Delilah out of the blue is fate trying to push us back together? “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be wild if I ran into Delilah here? Like, if she happened to be on our flight and I had the chance to talk to her.”

“Not really,” he says, his tone hardening, “since there’s a death threat on our heads. If you saw Delilah, we’d run our asses away from here and book another flight.”

“Ha, ha,” I say stiffly. “I was just playing the what-if game.”

Except this isn’t a game. My chest aches from her proximity. Delilah’s name is a love letter looping through my mind. If I tell Lennon she’s here, I’ll lose this tiny connection to her, even if it’s fleeting. So, no, I haven’t contemplated ditching this flight. I’ve barely walked ten paces from Delilah’s orbit.

“Anyway,” I say, going for nonchalant, “it’s just a rough day.”

But also kind of amazing. Seeing Delilah brings back our first kiss outside of Haddie’s Diner, the taste of innocence and peach ice cream on her tentative tongue; sneaking into her room and leaving flowers by her bed; fighting with her over which comic book we’d read; cradling her all night after her father’s heart attack, then again after the funeral; surprising her with a puppy—Dill Pickle—from Big Joe’s litter; spending afternoons sketching her on our wildflower picnics; confessing that she made my heart feel like a hot-air balloon, so big and bright and full it could carry me to Mars. “You’re not Delilah Moon,” I’d tell her. “You’re Delilah Mars. That’s where my heart is. In Mars, stuck on you.”

Lennon’s talking about some book he bought, but I don’t listen. Orange Jeans Guy is on his phone now, as is Delilah. I alter my angle to see her face better. She’s too far away for me to absorb small details, but she’s smiling while she talks. Her skin is more cream than tan, like she doesn’t spend hours outside anymore. The intensity of her blue eyes isn’t as clear from here, but her lips are as full as I remember, that Cupid’s bow in the center teasing me with its feminine dip. Her jeans and white T-shirt are casual, perfectly Delilah, accentuating her fuller figure.

In two seconds, I’m addicted.

“Jesus.” Lennon waves in front of my face. “You really are out of it today.”

I blink at him. “Honestly, I’m fine. And dandy. Totally fine and dandy.”

“Fine people don’t say the word dandy.” He narrows his eyes at me.

Unable to resist, I steal another look at Delilah . . . and Lennon starts to turn, intent on following my traitorous eyes. Not good.

I grab his shoulders and force his focus on me. “Tell me more about your book.”

“You’re evading.”

“No, I really want to hear about your book.”

“Likely story, Captain Weirdo. Something else is going on with you.”

He twists out of my grip and turns.

My heart climbs into my throat. “I’m hungry. We should get a snack for the flight.”

Ignoring me, he searches the departure area and doesn’t seem to notice Delilah. Then he does a double take. “No, no, no. No fucking way.”

Face pale, Lennon whips back and drags me past a coffee shop to a different departure area. “That was Delilah.”

“Are you sure?” I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “I’m almost positive they said Eliza.”

He points a furious finger at my face. “You cannot talk to her. You can’t breathe near her or even look at her. We can’t be here at all.”

“I didn’t plan this. I’m as shocked as you are she’s here.”

“But you lied about it, and in case you’ve forgotten, the cartel our traitor father testified against is still alive and well. Connecting with anyone from our pasts could paint targets on all our heads.”

Like I need the reminder.

But Delilah Moon isn’t just anyone, and it’s been ten excruciating years of revisited memories, unbearable heartache, and frustration. As crazy as my story is, if I told Delilah the truth, she might even believe me. Learn to not hate me. The skeet-shooting-my-face thing might not happen. Hope thrums in my chest, hot and insistent, fogging up the rational side of my brain.

“I need to speak to her,” I blurt.

“Nope. No. No, you don’t.” He waves his hands frantically. “Absolutely no way.”

“Witness protection isn’t a jail sentence. No one’s forcing us to stay in hiding. We do this to keep each other safe, but it’s not like I’m turning up in Windfall, where someone might be staking her out.”

Lennon drops his bag between us and forcibly holds me, the veins on his corded forearms looking ready to pop. “I love you. I love our brothers and Mom. I know your relationship with Delilah was intense and special, but family comes first. You cannot speak to her. Jesus Christ,” he mumbles. “We have to switch flights.”