Chapter 3
THREE
DELILAH
Friday morning, I’m elbow-deep in tulip arrangements when my phone buzzes.
I stare at the text for a long moment. Wedding flower planning. That’s innocent enough. Professional, even. Just the bride and her florist, talking centerpieces and bouquets.
Me: Sounds great! What can I bring?
Jo: Just yourself! Dean’s grilling. I’m making sides. It’ll be fun!
Dean’s grilling. So it’s Jo and Dean. That’s fine. Dean is grumpy but harmless, and Jo is sunshine incarnate. I can handle dinner with an engaged couple.
I close the shop at five and drive home to change, taking the long way that winds past the marsh where the herons are starting to nest. The late afternoon light turns everything golden, and for a moment I can almost pretend I’m not dreading tonight.
Mom’s house greets me with its usual explosion of floral chaos.
The tulips in the front yard are showing off—red, pink, yellow, white—and the old pear tree is so heavy with white blossoms that the branches are starting to droop.
I really should stake them before a good rain brings the whole thing down.
Inside, I shower and change into jeans and a soft green sweater that Mom always said brought out my eyes. Boots that are practical for a March evening but also make my legs look longer.
The drive to Jo’s takes fifteen minutes, winding through the quiet streets of Twin Waves until the houses thin out and the trees get thicker.
Spanish moss drapes from old oaks like something out of a Southern gothic novel.
The intracoastal glimmers through the gaps in the foliage, catching the last of the daylight.
Jo’s place sits at the end of a crushed-shell drive, tucked into a lot that’s more garden than lawn.
It’s exactly the kind of house I’d expect her to live in—a weathered cottage with a wrap-around porch, painted a soft gray-blue that matches the water beyond.
Rocking chairs cluster near the front door like they’re waiting for someone to sit down and stay awhile.
The yard is a riot of early spring color. Daffodils bob along the walkway. Pink azaleas opening against the foundation. A Japanese magnolia near the corner of the house is dripping with blush-colored blooms, each flower the size of my palm.
I park behind Jo’s car and take a breath.
Just dinner. Just wedding planning. Just a totally normal evening with people who are definitely not trying to set me up with anyone.
Jo throws open the front door before I’m even out of the car.
“You’re here! Come in, come in!” She’s wearing an apron that says I Cook As Good As I Look and there’s flour in her hair. “I have so much to show you.”
“The yard looks amazing,” I say as I climb the porch steps. “Those magnolias—”
“Aren’t they gorgeous? They only bloom for like two weeks and then they’re done, so I just stand at the window and stare at them.” She links her arm through mine and tugs me inside.
Jo’s house is all weathered wood and soft neutrals—cream walls, gray-washed hardwood floors, furniture that looks like it’s been loved for decades. Except Jo probably found half of it on the side of the road and transformed it with chalk paint and determination.
“I refinished that dresser last month,” she says, pointing to a gorgeous piece against the far wall. Soft white with teal drawer pulls. “Found it at an estate sale. The previous owner had painted it lime green. Lime green, Delilah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“And that bench used to be a headboard.” She gestures to a tufted piece near the window. “Pinterest is a dangerous place for people like me.”
I notice the evidence of Dean moving in. A pair of men’s boots by the back door, too large to be Jo’s. A German Shepherd bed in the corner of the living room, well-worn and clearly loved.
“That’s Rex’s spot,” Jo says, following my gaze. “He’s claimed it. Dean says he’s never seen Rex take to a place so fast.”
She shows me the backyard—the intracoastal silver-pink in the evening light, a wooden dock stretching out into the marsh, and three peach trees with blossoms just starting to open.
“I make preserves every summer,” Jo says. “And pie. So much pie. Dean pretends he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, but that man can demolish a peach pie in two days flat.”
We’re stepping back into the kitchen when I hear it.
The front door opening. Male voices. One low and grumbly, the other—
My heart stops.
“Jo? We’re here!”
That’s Dean.
Which means—
“In the kitchen!” Jo calls back, and her voice is too bright. Too innocent.
I turn to look at her, and she’s already arranging her face into an expression of wide-eyed surprise.
“Oh, did I not mention? Dean was bringing Levi tonight. Best man duties and wedding coordination.” She pats my arm. “It’ll be fun!”
Before I can respond—before I can run or do anything at all—they appear in the kitchen doorway.
Dean looks exactly like he always does: tall, broad, salt-and-pepper hair, the permanent expression of a man who isn’t impressed by anything. He’s carrying a bag of groceries and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
And behind him is Levi.
Our eyes meet. My stupid heart skips.
But what I notice first—before the skip, before the flush, before the familiar ache—is that he looks awful.
Not in the way fame makes people look awful, all dramatic and photogenic.
He looks genuinely spent. The shadows under his eyes are darker than they were at the shop, bruised and deep-set, like he hasn’t slept in days.
His skin has that grayish cast that comes from too much caffeine and not enough rest. When he reaches out to shake my hand—an absurdly formal gesture that neither of us commits to, so it turns into a weird half-wave—his fingers tremble.
Just slightly. Just enough that I catch it because I’m looking too closely, the way I always look too closely when it comes to him.
He catches me noticing. Shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Delilah.” Dean’s mouth twitches—the closest thing to amusement I’ve ever seen on his face. “Funny seeing you here.”
“Hilarious,” I manage.
Dean drops the groceries on the counter and claps Levi on the shoulder. “You know, it’s amazing. You’ve barely been around for years, and suddenly you’re showing up everywhere now that Delilah’s been in town awhile. Real mysterious timing, little brother.”
“I’m here for the wedding and to write. That’s all.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Dean’s almost-smile widens. “Jo, where do you want the steaks?”
Jo takes the groceries like nothing unusual is happening. “On the counter is fine, honey. Levi, can I get you something to drink? We have wine, beer, sweet tea—”
“Beer,” Levi says. “Please.”
“Delilah?”
“Beer sounds great.”
Jo bustles around the kitchen, and Dean excuses himself to fire up the grill. Which leaves me standing three feet away from Levi, with absolutely nowhere to hide.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I echo.
We both take a sip of beer at the exact same time. Then we both lower our bottles at the exact same time. Then we both open our mouths to speak at the exact same time, and I want the floor to swallow me whole.
Jo makes a sound behind us that she poorly disguises as a cough.
She presses fresh cold bottles into our hands, beaming like a woman who’s just won the lottery. “Why don’t you two go sit on the back porch? The sunset’s going to be gorgeous tonight. Dean and I will handle dinner.”
“I could help with—” I start.
“Porch,” Jo says firmly.
“But the salad—”
“Is handled.”
“I’m really good at chopping—”
“Delilah.” Jo’s smile doesn’t waver but her eyes say don’t test me. “Porch. Now.”
It’s not a suggestion.
Levi gestures toward the back door with his beer. “After you.”
I go, because what else can I do?
And as I step onto the porch, the peach blossoms glowing pink in the fading light and the intracoastal stretching out like a mirror, I realize I’ve been thoroughly, completely, absolutely set up.
Jo Lennox is a menace.
And I’m in so much trouble.
The back porch has two rocking chairs angled toward the water, because of course it does.
I take the chair on the left. Levi takes the one on the right. We rock in silence for a moment, the only sounds the creak of the chairs and the distant splash of something in the marsh.
I rock too hard. The chair lurches. I grab the armrest like the porch is actively trying to kill me.
Levi pretends not to notice. I pretend I didn’t just almost launch myself into his lap.
“Nice place,” he finally says.
“It suits her.”
He takes a pull of his beer, and I watch his hand—steady now, but wrapped too tight around the bottle. “Never thought I’d see Dean this happy.”
“Jo has that effect on people.”
More silence. The sky is turning shades of orange and pink, the clouds lit up from underneath. A heron takes off from the dock, its wings spreading wide as it glides over the water.
He stifles a yawn. Turns his head so I won’t see it, but I do. I see the way he blinks hard afterward, like he’s forcing himself to stay sharp. I see the way the fading light catches every hollow and shadow on his face.
I shouldn’t ask. It’s not my business. We’re not those people anymore—the ones who got to worry about each other.
“You look tired,” I say, because apparently I have no self-control.
He glances over. “That your professional assessment?”
“I’m a florist, not a doctor. But you look like you haven’t slept since you got here.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s looking.”
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended.
I didn’t mean to admit that I’m looking.
That I’ve been cataloging every detail since he walked through the kitchen door—the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps blinking, the coffee-and-exhaustion pallor underneath what’s left of his California tan.
“Why did you come back?” I ask. “Really. And don’t say it’s just for the wedding.”
He stares out at the water for a long time. The light catches the sharp line of his jaw.