At me.
Something behind my ribs stutters, then starts dancing with no rhythm but too much hope.
I open the door and walk in like I’m not having a minor cardiac event.
She waves me over with both hands. “Benji! I already ordered drinks. Guess which one’s yours.”
I sit down beside her, the barstool creaking under my weight. “Uh. The iced tea?”
She gasps like I’ve committed a felony. “Wrong. That’s mine. It’s raspberry. Yours is the beer. You look like a beer man.”
I quirk a brow. “I… am a beer man.”
She grins, victorious, and pushes it toward me. “See? I know things. I have spooky intuition. And when need be, research helps. I asked Oliver.” She nods to the regular barkeep.
“You’re a menace,” I say, grinning back. “A cute one.”
Her cheeks go pink. Then she leans in a little and stage-whispers, “I thought about licking the rim of both glasses to claim them, but Oliver was judging me. I don’t think he believed I’m your girlfriend. The last one didn’t impress him.”
I choke on my beer.
Oliver laughs. “Still don’t believe it.”
She beams like she just won something.
Then the food shows up. My usual, but enough to share, wings and fries, just greasy enough to be glorious.
She gasps like someone brought her a baby goat to hold.
“Okay,” she says solemnly. “This is a big moment. First fry goes to you. Let me see how you handle it.”
She offers it up, holding it out between two fingers, and I lean in and take it from her with my teeth, just to play along.
Our eyes lock.
It’s weirdly intense.
“You passed,” she whispers.
“Thank God,” I whisper back. “We can’t let Oliver be right. He’s already a smug bastard.”
We eat. We talk. She tells me about the time she tried to microwave an entire rotisserie chicken “because the container said microwave safe,” and I laugh so hard I nearly inhale a pepper flake. She swears pool chlorine smells like childhood disappointment, and I ask if that’s a real thing or just Delilah logic.
She says it’s both.
And the longer we sit there, the more I realize I don’t want this to end. She’s a kaleidoscope of chaos and comfort, and somehow, every piece makes sense next to mine.
She fits.
Even when she steals the last wing with zero shame and tells me she’ll arm-wrestle me for dessert.
I’d let her win.
Obviously.
Chapter Twelve
Delilah
