Page 55 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

“I’d love to try your curry,” Delilah says gently, like she knows my mind skittered off track. “I’ll come to your place this time, bring something for dessert?”

I ache to hug her, hold her, remind myself I’m in control of my future now. Not my father. Not the US Marshals. I have TV nights with Delilah and the dog of dogs and my own graphic novel in creation. “Dessert would be great. And we’ll watch Schitt’s Creek.”

More than tenderness seems to soften her eyes. “So much Schitt’s Creek.”

We linger by her door another moment. Delilah slides her teeth over her bottom lip. I shove my hands into my jeans pockets so I don’t do something stupid like haul her in for a kiss.

“Tomorrow it is,” I say and leave, feeling light and heavy. Hopeful and down.

I’m thrilled we’re spending real time together, but Delilah still doesn’t trust me enough to tell me about Hugo or the full story of what happened to her after I left. I feel like everything’s linked, that her lies are born from that devastating time—the story Avett wouldn’t tell me and everyone in Windfall seems to know. But there’s no point dwelling. Not when I get to cook my orgasmic lamb curry for her and share another night hanging out.

Tomorrow will be our eighth evening together, which leaves thirteen days until we’re listening to my killer road trip playlist, on our way to the idyllic romance of Sheldrake Falls. If all goes according to plan, Delilah and I will be sharing one of those plush poster beds while the woodsy fireplace crackles.

EIGHTEEN

The next morning, I wake up to barking. And banging. Not the good kind of banging, with me thrusting hard and deep into Delilah, the bed shaking, my fingers digging into her hips as I slam into her. This is who-the-hell-is-trying-to-break-down-my-door banging.

I have morning wood. Similar to the perpetual wood I’m often adjusting around Delilah, but I’m wearing briefs, and I’m too tired to adjust or pee or do anything but stumble out of bed and drag my ass to the door. I don’t bother checking who it is. I don’t care that my dick’s tenting my briefs like he’s on the camping trip of his life. I pet my excellent guard dog, who’s now smiling at the door, tail wagging, instead of growling.

Yawning, I unlock the door and swing it open.

“Thank God you’re—” Delilah’s gaze drops to my blatant erection. She flushes red, mumbles a swear, then swivels around. “Can you please get dressed?”

“Can you please not interrupt my sleep? I was having a fantastic dream. You happened to be in it,” I add, because I’m cruel like that.

Another mumbled swear drifts toward me. Then, “This is serious, E. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the news?”

I’m suddenly very awake and much less amused. “Give me a sec.”

Back in my room, I toss on sweats and a T-shirt, brush my teeth quickly. Delilah isn’t sitting when I get out. She’s pacing, making Candy Cane antsy. I’m antsy. “What is it?”

“Your story’s out.”

I glance at my sketchbook and laptop on my dining table, freaked for a moment that I accidentally sent my work-in-progress novel to someone. That type of slip doesn’t seem possible, and I haven’t used our actual names. I used the brilliant cover-ups Delilyn and Edgren.

“What do you mean, it’s out?”

She quits pacing in front of me and grips my shoulders. This is Jake’s move. His I’m-here-to-hold-you-together arm clasp.

I’m now rightfully freaking out. “Delilah, what the hell happened?”

“Your dad wrote some kind of book, a memoir about his time working with the cartel. It’s exploded on social media.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I must still be sleeping and dreaming. It’s the only explanation.

“He didn’t mention your aliases or where you live, and I didn’t see anything about you boys specifically, but he used his real name. Half of Windfall will remember him and put two and two together. The other half will hear the gossip through the grapevine.”

I replay her words, a strange tingling spreading at the base of my skull, hoping I misunderstood her. But nothing about her factual explanation was vague. “Just so we’re clear, you’re saying my father decided he’d take it upon himself to tell our story to the world without our approval, before we’re even allowed to have our lives back, so he can use the evil shit he did to make even more blood money? And now everyone here will know his version of the hell that is my life? Is that what I’m to understand?”

Her face slackens. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m not sorry. I’m furious. I’m the raging lava river in Gates of Ember about to hit tsunami levels. How could he do this? How could he hurt his own family over and over and over without a thought to the repercussions, our feelings, the fallout? I’m beyond shaking. My heart’s punching at my ribs as hard as I want to punch my father’s face, and I don’t want Delilah here for this.

“Can you take Candy Cane for a pee? I need a moment.” Or fifty.

“Yeah, sure.” She presses the flat of her hand to my chest, must feel the hard jabs of my heart. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I nod, unable to form a reply. She pauses at the door, glances back at me.