Page 50 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I dump food in Candy’s bowl and rummage through my clothes, tossing shirts willy-nilly, until I find a clean T-shirt and jeans. Without the shower, I reach for Eternity to cover any lingering sedentary-illustrator-in-creating-mode aroma, but the bottle doesn’t spritz. Frustrated, I loosen the lid and screw it back on. I angle the bottle and finally force it to spritz . . . and now I’m drenched in Eternity. Down my shirt, covering my jeans.

Honestly. Why can’t I catch one freaking break?

I snatch one of my towels, rub at my clothes, and sniff the air, unsure if the bulk of the odor is hovering around me or sinking into me. When Candy whines to go out, I decide on the former. She needs out, and I need to get to Delilah’s. A few minutes outside will surely disperse the smell.

By the time we get to Delilah’s, ten minutes late, I’m exceedingly aware how wrong I was. My mouth tastes like it’s full of Calvin Klein, and my eyes sting.

Delilah opens her door, smiles for half a second, then winces. “Jesus, E. Did you bathe in Eternity?”

I force my eyes wide, trying to keep them from watering. “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t use cologne tonight.”

“Is that why I might faint if I don’t get a gas mask? The smell of death in my place is less offensive.”

I hang my head. There’s no adequate joke to save myself. “There was an incident.”

“Did it involve the child version of you thinking there’s no such thing as too much when it comes to cologne?”

“More like I got caught up in my work and blew through dinner and my planned get-ready time, and the Eternity bottle decided to explode on me.” My stomach grumbles, corroborating my story.

“Honest to God. Only you.” Instead of sending me packing, she bounces her heel, mutters something to the ceiling, then firms her jaw. “Just . . . get in here. But you have to use my shower, and my ex . . . tra nice fiancé has some clothes here.” Her eyes have that fearful look Candy gets, wide and wary. “You can wear something of his.”

She’s worried I caught her slip, turning ex into ex . . . tra nice. News flash, Delilah Moon: I know your dirty little secret. “That’s a splendid idea. Is it cool if I let Candy off her leash? She doesn’t get into stuff.”

Delilah rubs her nose, leaning away from me. “Of course. How’s she doing? Good at night?”

I glance past Delilah into her apartment. The layout is similar to mine, but there’s significantly less pink. Her place also has a homey quality mine doesn’t, with vibrant throw pillows on her couches and bright artwork on her walls. The space feels happy, which makes me happy for her. Then I notice the awkwardly glued figurine of Little Gracie, the one I fixed for our truce, sitting on a lovely shelving unit.

I go from happy to downright moved.

I clear my throat. “Candy’s usurped the bed, leaves me about an inch of space. Steals all the covers. So I’d say she’s doing pretty well.”

Delilah laughs, then wrinkles her nose and sneezes.

I would kick myself for ruining this night, but I don’t. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Or in my case, when that asshole Life gives me too much Eternity, I reinstate number twenty-three on my list: find a reason to remove my shirt while in Delilah’s apartment.

I follow her into her cozy abode, grabbing my Eternity-soaked T-shirt by the back of my neck, taking it off as I go.

“The bathroom’s through my bedroom. I’ll find you clothes and fix you something to eat.” She spins as she talks and stumbles, making a needy sound that has Candy Cane’s ears perking up.

My stomach clenches at Delilah’s lusty perusal. My jeans sit low on my hips, exposing my briefs, and I feel every contact point of my clothing: the denim scraping my hip bones, the elastic of my black briefs cutting across my abdomen. Unlike at the wet T-shirt contest I hosted in her shop, Delilah doesn’t force eye contact, pretending she’s not taking an eyeful. Her heated perusal is thorough, and my body stirs.

I want her hands on me, her mouth. I want to sink so deep inside her I forget I ever lived without her in my life.

I hold up my shirt. “Do you have a plastic bag to secure this for the night? Preferably something nonporous.” Although my question is decidedly unsexy, my voice is back-road rough, dragging over the two feet between us.

“Yeah, sure.” Hers is back road with a dash of honey. She meets my eyes, licks her lips. “I guess you need a clean towel.”

“Either that or I can air-dry while eradicating your apartment of the stench of death.” Not that I can smell much beyond the Eternity shrapnel and the pheromones wafting off Delilah.

Her eyes flare, doing another impromptu Dancing with the Stars number—drop, drag, slide, slide, blink, blink, slide. She’s in bare feet, wearing worn jeans and a threadbare T-shirt with the words Baking Queen across her breasts. There’s no missing her pert nipples through the thin blue cotton, the deepening of her breaths, and that sexy flush on her cheeks.

Every inch of me flexes with the goal to contain. Hold it together.

Do. Not. Kiss. Her. You. Desperate. Fucking. Asshole.

“I’ll get you a towel.” Her honey-gravel voice turns extra husky, but she doesn’t move.

I sure as hell don’t move. I need three words from her. One admission. I’m not engaged. Once she gives me that gift, she can have me any which way she wants me, as long as I get to taste her lips.