Page 60 of 50 Ways to Win Back Your Lover

I’m starting to wonder if dogs actually like all the petting. Maybe it makes them feel overcoddled and insecure. “Thanks, Mrs. Jackson. It’s been tough, but we’re glad it’s all over.” Or just beginning again. It’s hard to tell with Dad’s tell-all on the horizon.

“I’m terribly sorry for my harsh words,” she says, empathy in her dark eyes.

“It’s okay. Everything that happened was pretty messed up.”

She tuts. “When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong. But if I see your disgrace of a father, God help him.”

I picture Mrs. Jackson torturing my father by quilting his body, forcing him to wear little squares on his skin, each one a symbol of the damage he caused. “I’ll be sure to give him your address.”

Another arm pat later, she goes to order her coffee and pastry. I get the table clean as the door chimes again, announcing the arrival of two unfamiliar teens. The girls scan the café and stop when their eyes land on me. Whispers ensue, along with staring and pointing, like they’re a couple of expert birders who’ve happened upon a rare species of endangered fowl. I imagine myself a great potoo, a neotropical bird who can simply close its eyes and camouflage with a tree.

I close my eyes. When I open them, I’m pretty sure I never camouflaged.

Mrs. Jackson bustles away from the counter, take-out coffee in hand, and marches for the birders. “This is a place of business, girls,” she says in her school-principal tone. “Not a zoo. Get going or order up.”

Rightfully chastised, they tuck tail and run. Narc Sandra catches my eye and salutes me. Through coffee shop chitchat, I’ve discovered she used to work at a security firm, hence her vigilant surveillance of me. With my WITSEC past blasted around Windfall, she must think I’m one of her people now. A fellow undercover person with links to the law.

I attempt to clean another table out front, but the bell chimes again, announcing the arrival of Delilah’s cousin who yelled at me on the first episode of Guess Who Hates You Next! He apologizes and pats my arm. Delilah’s hairdresser comes in on his heels, with another—you guessed it—arm pat. Callahan’s friend finds me and asks if I’m sure we aren’t Russian spies, while patting my arm.

When he’s gone, Shawn Harden, drummer of the Tweeds, saunters in and switches things up. He goes for the arm punch. “Dude, you were in WITSEC. That’s so cool.” He still smells like weed.

“It was something, all right.”

He nods absentmindedly and lopes toward the counter. I find myself tensing. If this parade continues like last time, I’ll eventually be faced with Delilah’s mother again. I’m pretty sure she won’t pet me like I’m Candy Cane. She’ll probably come armed with a shotgun.

I wipe the table slower, bracing myself for her arrival, but she doesn’t show. As should be expected. My WITSEC news isn’t new to her.

More people enter, some of them scanning the shop, eyes widening when they see me. I used to like visiting zoos, sketching the animals and walking the leisurely paths, but I’m starting to sympathize with my caged and scrutinized brethren. Without the ability to camouflage, I beeline for the safety of the kitchen and slump against the sink.

Angel takes one look at me and disappears down the hall.

She returns moments later, with her boss in tow, and says, “I told you it was bad.”

Delilah hurries over and doesn’t offer an arm pat. She threads her fingers through mine. “I should’ve realized everyone would want a piece of you. I’ll kick the lurkers out.”

“And ruin all this extra business I’m bringing in? I’m gunning for employee of the month.” I give her hand an affectionate squeeze.

Angel’s attention zeros in on our connection, the tender way Delilah’s running her thumb over my knuckles. Spoiler alert: it feels sensational. Instead of talking loudly about Delilah’s wedding and reminding me she’s off limits, Angel removes the dishcloth tucked into her apron tie and tosses it on the prep table. “I’m due for a break. Be back in ten.”

She marches out loudly.

First a salute from Sandra. Now Angel’s basically giving me her blessing to marry Delilah. Strange happenings are afoot.

Using my free hand, I tuck a stray curl behind Delilah’s ear. “Hope I’m doing an okay job.”

“You’re such a huge help. I put an ad up today. Hopefully I’ll find someone soon.”

“However long you need me is cool. Dinner might just be a bit later tonight. I need time to bring my curry up to orgasm level.”

“E, quit being a pest.” She says this with a playful smile, still holding my hand.

I adjust our hands, giving myself space to lean toward her ear. “Do you still like your food spicy, Delilah?”

Her hot breath brushes my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “I do.”

“How hot do you like it?” How hot and wild do you like your sex? is what I want to ask. She never hesitated during our teenage exploits, loved pushing our boundaries, but it’s been ten long years. I’ve had occasional flings with other women. She’s matured, been with other men. A desperate need to know her preferences and deepest desires has my fingers tingling to explore her new curves.

“However you make it is fine.” Her voice thins, turning breathy.