20. Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Cedric
A t eight pm sharp, I ring Delilah’s rusted doorbell.
The cottage seems something straight out of a storybook at all times, but even more so at this time of day. The sky is darkening and streaked with deep violets and pinks, the buzzing of insects all around me. The vegetation surrounding Delilah’s home is rich, almost protective in the way it frames the path that takes to the house proper. A cascade of thick, dark green foliage and impossibly bright red flower buds drape the roof.
It’s no wonder some kind of princess lives here.
“Coming!” Delilah’s voice reaches me, followed by a sound of hurried footsteps .
I hardly bite back a smile at the thought of her rushing to the door.
“Hi,” she says, chest heaving as she opens the door and lets me in.
“Hello yourself,” I say, scrubbing my shoes on her mat. Not that I would leave any trace behind, given how thoroughly I cleaned them before coming here. She eyes the bouquet of wildflowers in my hands, and when I extend it to her, the look she turns to me is bright enough to light up the whole town.
She grabs them gingerly, leaning in to breathe the scent in.
“I know it’s not a particular original offering, especially given your line of work,” I say, slightly embarrassed and fighting not to show an inch of it. “But, well… they made me think of you.”
She smiles at that, though it looks more like she’s trying to rein in laughter.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You–” a breathless laugh. “You’re sweet.”
“I’ve been called many things, but sweet isn’t one of them,” I say, shaking my head.
“Well, maybe whoever said those things didn’t take the time to get to know you,” she shrugs. A zing of gratification shoots up my spine.
You bring it out of me , I want to say.
“Wait,” she starts as she crouches to reach a low cabinet and retrieves the most pot-looking vase I’ve ever seen. I help her remove the pink crepe paper I rudimentarily wrapped around the bouquet on my way here after nearly being late in order to find said wrapping–and it’s safe to say they’re better off without it. I grimace, though Delilah doesn’t seem to notice, rapt by the bouquet as she twirls it delicately in her hands.
“Myrta doesn’t sell wildflowers,” she adds, the stems hitting the bottom of the vase with a soft clink.
“Well–”
“You did not pick them up yourself,” she says, her mouth agape in a small o shape.
I’m fervently aware of our fingers touching where they connect on the makeshift vase’s rough surface.
“Would you like to tell me about what other things I did not do?” I ask with a small smile.
Delilah looks at a loss for words, so I take the vase from her hands and start toward the living room, though not before pressing a light kiss to the side of her neck.
I can’t help it. I’m addicted, and she’s the prescription.
“You, sir, are full of surprises,” she says as she follows me into the room.
I shoot her a look, and her eyes widen in amused dismay.
“I didn’t mean to say you’re–”
“I’m afraid my pride is officially wounded. The future of our relationship now lies entirely within the hands of whatever smells so delicious.”
She seems to relax at the joke, though looks at me pensively for a second, quick enough that I can’t pinpoint what emotion is crossing her face exactly. She claps her hands once as she turns, hair swishing behind her. “Don’t move!” she calls.
I do as requested, hiding my hands in my pockets after depositing the vase on the coffee table. A familiar padding of paws reaches me, and when I look down, Blaine’s fluffy face is staring up at me.
“It wasn’t very polite of you, not greeting me at the door,” I say, tilting my head .
He cocks his head, as if mimicking me, and despite myself, my mouth quirks. Not that I would admit it to anyone, but I suppose he is cute.
“Here you go,” Delilah says as my staring contest with her puppy comes to an end and she extends me a glass. A light green liquid swirls inside, tiny ice cubes bobbing on the surface.
“It’s a mock mojito,” she adds excitedly. “I asked Darla for the recipe because I know you don’t drink, and I felt like tap water would have been a measly offer for a… guest.”
While I am not surprised by how considerate she’s been, it seems like a small thing, but I can’t help feeling grateful that she’s paid as much attention to me as I have to her. She gently clinks her glass against mine, her gaze not leaving me above the rim as she takes a sip of her drink.
It’s either that I’ve been deprived of basic kindness from anyone other than my brother for too long, or this girl has bewitched every cell in my body.
It’s both.
“Do you promise to tell me if you hate the food?” she asks then.
“Even if I didn’t,” I start, brushing a lock of hair from her cheekbone, “the tea incident established I have the least effective poker face you’ll come across.”
She chuckles, leaning into my touch. I consider forgetting entirely about dinner and carrying her to bed, though I’m not assuming that’s how the night will end. And to be perfectly honest–it doesn’t matter. As much as I crave her body, I crave her presence more. I’d take listening to her until the sky is black and littered with stars over sex with another woman any day .
Though the mere thought of having Delilah over me, beneath me, everywhere, really–I’d best not think about it at all, lest I bring about another kind of incident entirely.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask as Blaine and I both follow her into the kitchen.
“You can, uhm, light the candle? If you don’t think it’s too much,” she says, toying with a small match box.
“I think only a fool would refuse a candle-lit dinner beside you.”
She says nothing, but a smile plays on her pink lips.
God, her lips.
I take the match box from her hands, lingering a second longer than necessary, then proceed to light up the fat candle she placed at the center of the tablecloth. Something sizzles and I’m splashed by a few droplets of hot water as Delilah drains some kind of pasta into a bowl that glistens with a thick green sauce I assume is pesto.
“Go on, sit,” she urges.
“Not until you do.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Oh, it is, though some of us still have manners.”
She grins, amused though it wasn’t really a joke, and still I relish in the pleasure of making her laugh.
As we sit down, her hand is close enough I could grab it across the table, and it fills my chest with some unnamed feeling I barely recognize.
Now, that’s something I could get drunk on .
Delilah
I’m not sure what it is about Cedric, but the more I spend time with him, the more I want to know.
It takes a lot of eyelash batting to convince him to tell me something embarrassing about his teenage years, and when he starts off with, “Bold of you, to assume I’ve been a teenager at all,” I nearly snort out a mouthful of trofie pasta, and I don’t even feel self-conscious about it. It’s so easy to trust him. He never misses the opportunity to reassure me that I don’t need to worry about what he might think; he’s not going to judge me.
And yet I know that confessing to being a supernatural creature is a far cry from being a little awkward at fourteen. I push the thought to the back of my mind as Cedric tells me about the time his brother ‘accidentally’ poured a jug of orange juice on Cedric’s head, which had him smelling like fresh oranges for two days.
“I’d never thought about how similar ‘Cedric’ and ‘Citrus’ could sound until I went to school the next day,” he says with a grimace.
“Well, I would’ve defended you,” I say before I can think twice on it.
“I know you would have,” he replies simply.
I smile into my glass as he takes the last taste of his pasta, and both my stomach and my heart rejoice, seeing he’s enjoyed the meal so much.
After a minute of painless silence Cedric adds, “I suppose siblings can be both a blessing and a curse.” He furrows his brows, not meeting my eyes .
“Do you have any?” he starts again, and I grip the stem of my glass tighter as I look up at him sharply.
“What?”
“Siblings.”
It was meant to come up eventually, and I might as well get this off my chest.
“I did, but not anymore,” I say as casually as possible. Cedric looks me over, setting down the napkin he was dabbing at the corner of his mouth with.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and though something uncomfortable always creeps up my spine when people express their condolences, there is no condescension in Cedric’s tone. Genuine regret. Maybe a little curiosity, too.
“It’s been a while,” I say with a shrug, fidgeting with the organza fabric of my sleeves. “I try not to think about it much.”
Cedric nods, and I know he’d let that be that. I know he’s not going to push for more. But if I can’t tell him everything , not for now at least, maybe there are things I can. Because as much as I’m afraid he wouldn’t like me anymore if he knew about the things that have happened to me and I have done, the thought that he might like me exclusively for the parts of me that are happy and bright hurts more. And after what happened with Mrs. Coleman today, even if he might not agree, I owe him this much.
“My brother was two years older than me,” I say, forcing my hands to relax on the table cloth. “He went on a run one night. Apparently he slipped and hit his head badly. There was nothing that could be done.”
“Is that why your parents left?” Cedric asks carefully.
I nod, licking my lips. “They adored him. It was too much, being around every place my brother would never see again. ”
I take another swig of water before adding, “His name was Grayson.”
I can practically see the spark of recognition lighting up the dark swirls of Cedric’s eyes.
“Grayson,” he repeats slowly.
I nod quickly, and I can’t help it: I break out in a nervous laugh. “Yeah, and honestly, when Mrs. Coleman called you that I thought my heart was going to crawl up my throat, I was so mortified, and–I swear you don’t even look alike! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away, but it’s not the type of conversation you’re prepared to have minutes after kissing the person you like, so–”
Cedric gets a hold of one of my hands, my fingers gently trapped beneath his thumb across the table. I wish I could blame wolf DNA for blurting out things I shouldn’t say, but I’ve always been like this. Leave it to me, to go from talking about my dead brother to freaking out in the span of forty seconds. I squeeze my eyes against the blend of guilt and embarrassment. I wonder whether my poor social skills would horrify or entertain Grayson, though the answer is probably a bit of both.
“Delilah,” Cedric says. “Open your eyes.”
I shake my head, feeling like a child. He laughs softly under his breath.
“Would you prefer I left?”
“No!” I yelp, opening my eyes.
Cedric raises his eyebrows, a pleased expression softening his mouth.
“You tricked me,” I say, not really complaining, my gaze darting to our joined hands, the perfect, gentle pressure of his hold.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he says quietly .
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Not about the enthusiasm, or, well, about that, too.”
“Will you do something for me?” he mercifully interjects. I nod.
“No more apologies. No more eking your feelings out. If you tell me something, I want to listen. If you feel something, I want to know. I want this to be absolutely clear.”
I look at him, both dumbstruck and in awe. It’s not easy to render me speechless, but Cedric does it so effortlessly, it’s a little freaky. In a good way.
“I need an affirmative answer, Delilah,” he says when I don’t reply. I skim his face, finding nothing but steady encouragement, and I wonder if this is how he conducts his business meetings. I also wonder whether he’d like to join Faye’s Tough Love Club. Without letting go of his hand, I get up from the table and breach the short distance between us. I place my free hand to the side of his face, a hint of stubble prickling pleasantly beneath my fingers.
“Okay,” I smile. “I’ll try.”