CHAPTER 5 DELILAH
DELILAH
I set the time, but Jackson decides the place. I’d pat myself on the back for how well we’re already working together if it didn’t take fifteen minutes of bickering back and forth to come to such a simple conclusion.
The café where Jackson demanded we meet is nestled on a narrow side street of Fells Point, tucked between an antiques mall and a sneaker store. SKULLDUGGERY is written in large, looping letters on the wooden sign that hangs over the door, creaking as it swings in the late-February wind.
The few times I’ve managed to come here are during the busiest parts of the day, so it feels like a treat to walk in without getting smacked in the face with a rogue handbag.
Today the only people here are a guy typing furiously on his laptop, a beleaguered medical professional in wrinkled scrubs, a woman taking a picture of her croissant, and .
. . Jackson sitting at the high-top bar in the back, a newspaper folded at his elbow and one foot propped up on the bottom rung of his stool.
His other leg stretches out beneath the seat next to him, his coat folded neatly on top.
Jackson Clark. Always so neat. Always so organized. I wonder if he sleeps in his pressed chino pants.
The bell above the door jingles as it shuts and he turns halfway, light glancing along his clean-shaven jaw.
A pair of thick, dark-framed glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with his thumb.
They’re practical frames, like something Gregory Peck used to wear.
When they fell off his face in the hallway, there was an indent in the side, likely from where he’s run his fingers along the metal.
He does that now as I watch, dragging his pointer finger along the edge before adjusting them with a frown.
My stomach gives a low swoop, something about that easy, practiced motion feeling indecent.
Then he pushes his dark blond hair back over his forehead, forearm flexing beneath the rolled sleeve of his sweater, and I have to avert my eyes to the chalkboard menu just behind his head.
Objectively speaking, he’s a very handsome man. I think I’d be able to appreciate it more if he didn’t have the personality of a wet piece of cardboard.
As it stands, he probably dreams about alphabetization. I bet his darkest fantasy involves a pocket protector. He’s probably never given a woman an orgasm in his life.
I’m still snickering to myself as he clears the stool next to him, draping his coat over the counter instead. I slide onto the seat, fighting my way out of my parka.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, watching as I struggle with one of my sleeves.
“Nothing.” I bite my bottom lip and try to contain myself, but I’ve always been terrible at hiding what I’m feeling. “Do you have any pocket protectors?”
Jackson blinks at me. “What?”
“Never mind.” I shove my jacket in between the bottom legs of the stool, then reach over him for the menu. I'm two inches short, and I grunt as I try to close the distance. “Can you hand me that?”
He’s busy staring at my coat on the floor like I’ve just personally offended him and his grandmother. “Don’t you want to hang up your jacket?”
“It’s fine where it is.”
“It’s on the floor.”
“I found it at the station’s lost and found two years ago.
I’m not worried about it.” Jackson keeps staring at the heap of my jacket while I press up on the bottom rung of the stool and lean across him, my shoulder digging into the middle of his surprisingly hard chest. He smells like maple syrup and fresh air. Perfectly sharpened number two pencils.
I pluck the menu from the tiny brass pirate ship holding it in place. “What’s good here?”
He grabs the menu and places it back in the ship. “I already ordered you something.”
“You did?”
“I did.”
“How do you know what I like?”
The barest hint of amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes, and my stomach flips over itself. I bet he’s devastating when he smiles. “I ordered whatever had the most sprinkles,” he deadpans.
Okay, fair enough.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t even like sprinkles.”
He rolls his eyes. “Sure.”
“What did you order?” I poke at his arm. “Oat Bran? Fruitcake? Steel-cut oatmeal mixed with water?”
His mouth twitches. “I ordered a cruffin.”
“That’s a surprisingly whimsical decision, Jackson.”
“I can be whimsical.”
“Yeah, okay,” I snort, trying to situate myself on the stool so I don’t flip right off. With my luck, I probably will and I’ll take him down with me. Break off the other side of his glasses so they’re even.
“I was trying to be nice, Delilah. Not insult you.”
“You’ve left mean Post-it notes on my car window for almost two years, Jackson. Forgive me if I’m a little suspicious.”
He looks confused. “They weren’t mean.”
I shrug. “A little bit.”
He frowns. “I never meant to be mean, Delilah.”
“Could have fooled me.”
The most delicious shade of pink climbs either side of his neck, right above the collar of his sweater. “Well, I wouldn’t have to leave you notes if you just parked within the lines.”
“I do park within the lines.”
“Crooked. You park crooked, and I can’t park in the space next to you with your bumper hanging out.”
“I drive a Volkswagen Beetle. It’s physically impossible for the bumper to hang out.” I tilt my head to the side. “There are always a ton of spots. Why do you need to park in the space next to mine?”
“This isn’t—” Jackson pinches his nose, then gives me a long-suffering look. “Can we start over, please? Talk about something that isn’t a parking space?”
“Fine,” I sniff. I don’t know what it is about Jackson that immediately gets me riled up and ready to brawl. It’s out of character for me, arguing over something as trivial as a parking space. I decide to extend a peace offering. “Thank you for ordering me the sprinkles.”
“You’re welcome.” He rubs two fingers across his forehead. “I’m sorry about the notes. You’re right. They were mean. I think you caught me at a bad time.”
I stare at him. “For two years?”
His smile is subdued. “I’ll do better.” He seems to brace himself. “In the spirit of that . . . you were right about the European model.”
“What?”
His eyes cut in my direction. “You were right about the European model,” he repeats, his voice stronger. “It was a more accurate representation of the data.”
A loud laugh bursts out of me.
“Wow.” I press the back of my hand to his cheek, the same way my grandpa used to do when I was nine and trying to weasel my way out of going to school. “Are you coming down with something? Was that painful for you?”
He reaches up and grips my wrist, pulling my hand away from his face. “I regret saying anything.”
I laugh. “No, you don’t.”
He squeezes my wrist. “I do. I think I like it better when we’re arguing.”
“Well, the day is young. I’m sure we’ll find something else to disagree on.”
I tap my hands on the counter and study our surroundings.
A cozy dining space fills the bottom floor of the café.
Booths against the wall and a long counter along the back.
Heavy wooden beams stretch across the ceiling and an empty fireplace anchors one wall.
There’s no fire, the grate filled instead with stacked books and empty mugs, the ceramic handles scribbled with handwritten names of the regulars.
Mismatched love seats slot together in front of it, paired with upcycled coffee tables.
A narrow staircase on the left leads to a loft up above, overflowing with used books.
Little pirate flags peek out above the shelves, labeled with genres.
Fantasy. Mystery. Romance. A surprisingly robust Self-Help section and two entire shelves dedicated to Baltimore Lore.
“I didn’t realize they had an upstairs.”
Jackson nods. “It’s usually too crowded to get up there. If you come on a weekday around eleven, you can get a good spot. The owner, Patty, is usually taking fresh stuff out of the oven to restock from the morning, and the lunch rush hasn’t hit yet.”
I was wondering why he chose such a specific time. Incredible, how he approaches every aspect of his life with such detail. “So you’re always this fun, then.”
His back goes rigid. “I guess so,” he says, defensive again.
I exhale a deep sigh. I didn’t come here to fight with Jackson.
I came to figure out how in the hell we’re going to work together to cover this snowstorm.
After our nightmare of a meeting the other day, Keith made it clear that Jackson’s agreement to the plan is now my responsibility.
If I can’t get him to agree, I’ve got a feeling there will be more turtle coverage in my future.
“All right, I’ve got two cinnamon bun lattes. One with oat milk just a hair short of scalding, brown sugar instead of white, and the cinnamon crumble on the side.” Our server gives Jackson a stern look as she slides the drinks on the counter in front of us. “The other as god intended.”
“Thanks, Patty.”
She sets her hands on her hips. “You’re lucky I like you, Jackson. I don’t do special orders.”
“I’ve seen you do three special orders just this morning,” he says with a quirk of his brow.
“Well, I don’t like doing special orders.”
“Noted.” He drops his spoon into his mug and stirs. “It’s appreciated as always, Patty.”
Patty’s eyes slant in my direction. Her mouth pops open in delight. It’s a look I’m familiar with, and the warm burst that comes with being recognized by my community pops like a champagne bubble in the middle of my chest.
“Delilah Stewart!”
“That’s me!” I beam at her. “Hi!”