25. Delilah
DELILAH
There are hangovers that make you regret drinking.
Then there are hangovers that make you want to go back in time, find the first son of a bitch who fermented a grape, and put your fist through his face.
I wake up on the first day of the first year of the rest of my life with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth and an ice pick wedged behind my forehead.
The space heater is blasting to my left, which means half of me is becoming beef jerky while the other half is slowly turned into a cryogenic popsicle.
For several deeply confusing seconds, I don’t know where I am.
Then my shoulder shifts against the vinyl cot and emits a very familiar squeak.
Right. The bakery.
Home sweet commercial kitchen.
I’ve slept here every night since Christmas Eve. To make it sound less depressing, I’ve been calling it Chateau du Boulangerie in my head.
Pretty exclusive joint. Guests receive one complimentary saltine on arrival. Recent upgrades to the plumbing mean that, when you bathe in the sink, you get almost six full minutes of hot water.
For reasons I cannot fathom, the waiting list really isn’t very long.
Only Priya knows I’m living here. To everyone else—insofar as I’ve spoken to anyone else—my whereabouts remain pleasantly vague.
I keep my eyes closed and wait for the night’s memories to return. I’m sure they will remind me that everything went swell, I conducted myself with the grace of a princess, and there’s not one single solitary thing I need to feel embarrassed about this morning.
Erroneous.
Erroneous on all counts.
The memories consist of the following:
Kane’s mouth on mine in the coat closet. Hot. Greedy. Insistent.
The blinding white of a camera flash.
Connor’s signatures blurring across page after page of an expedited divorce agreement.
That’s the major events in chronological order.
Too bad none of it makes any dang sense.
The man kissed me like he’d never get to do it again. Would he give me one single scrap of information as to what he’s thinking?
Uh, no. Duh, of course not.
But would he stick his tongue in my mouth and drag me against his hard body ‘til the cows come home (or ‘til the photographer comes in, as it were)?
Sure would!
Then, boom—here you go, have a divorce for Christmas.
The last part at least wasn’t a surprise. Well, not completely a surprise.
I did ask for the divorce. I simply expected to pay Skye Brewer several thousand dollars for the privilege of having her argue with Connor’s attorneys over who got to maintain custody of our Ninja blender.
Now, we’re skipping right past that. Kane just took care of it. The party favor of all party favors.
I lift one hand to my swollen lips.
Bad choice. My mouth is transported back to that closet before the rest of me is prepared.
Heat rolls through me, thoroughly inappropriate for a woman wearing Target pajama bottoms with a hole near the crotch.
I kissed him back. Enthusiastically. There was tongue participation. My hands combed through his hair… And did I moan?
Oh, God, I did, didn’t I?
I moaned.
Loudly.
Repeatedly.
If the champagne headache doesn’t kill me, the shame certainly will.
Something knocks against the front of the bakery.
I sit up too fast and nearly detach my brain stem.
“Jesus fucking holy mother goddamn shit ow.”
The knock comes again.
I have no idea who it is. Nobody should be here for another forty-five minutes.
Priya has keys. Cameron usually shows up late carrying Dunkin’ and yet another story about the R train.
I stagger out of the office, wearing my cardigan and a hangover severe enough to qualify for workers’ comp.
As I waddle through the kitchen, I pass the wine-colored dress hanging on the back of the office door on a wire hanger. Even after Kane dropped me off here at three in the morning, I was sober enough to know that if I left it on the floor, I’d never forgive myself.
Below it, on the seat of my desk chair, is the envelope containing the settlement.
We’ll come back to that later.
First, I need to see who’s trying to break down my door.
The bakery is dark except for the emergency lights over the ovens. Snow presses gray against the front windows.
A huge figure shadows the glass. At first, before my eyes clear, I get a lurch of fear in my stomach. I’m extremely grateful that Kane sent that repair guy to install the most insane lock I’ve ever seen in my life.
Then my vision resolves and I realize that no lock in the history of humanity would keep out this morning’s unexpected visitor.
Because Kane Makov is here.
He looks offensively put together. I’m basically a cave troll, but he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wearing a clean black suit with a black shirt underneath, a rose gold chain looped around his throat, and matching rings.
I unlock the door. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I own a watch, so, yes.”
“Okay, good. Follow-up question: Do you not sleep? Wait, wait, let me guess: You’re one of those ‘sleep is for the weak’ macho men, aren’t you?”
He suppresses a smile. “You don’t make a billion dollars before thirty by staying cozy in your bed.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.”
His gaze moves over me, starting at my hair and pausing around the general region of my pajama bottoms. Something hot flickers in his eyes.
I pull the cardigan closed. “Well, hurry up and come in if that’s what you want. It’s freezing outside.”
But he lingers for another second on the threshold. “You smell like champagne and Advil.”
“I wish I smelled like Advil. I haven’t gotten around to finding any yet.”
“Then you must smell naturally medicinal.”
I step back to let him inside. “You have a real gift for romance.”
He passes close enough that his coat brushes my bare toes. “You thought last night was romantic?”
“More along the lines of ‘traumatically confusing.’ Though I guess some women would call that the same thing.”
His eyes settle on my mouth. My body, traitorous pudding that it is, liquefies immediately.
“I brought you breakfast.”
He holds up a to-go coffee cup and paper bag I hadn’t noticed. I recognize the blue logo from a nearby diner.
I take it because principles are lovely, but they do not contain bacon.
Inside are two egg sandwiches and a bottle of orange Gatorade. There’s also a packet of Liquid I.V. He doesn’t deserve a “God bless him,” but he’s moving in the right direction.
I carry the bag to the counter. “How do you know my hangover order?”
“Lucky guess. How’d I do?”
“Suspiciously good. If I had more energy, I’d ask if you were stalking me.”
“Lucky for me that you’re too hungover for that, then.”
I glare at him while opening the sandwich, which is in fact exactly correct. “You can’t keep conducting background checks every time I need a beverage.”
“Old dogs never learn new tricks, I’m afraid.” He settles onto the adjacent stool.
I take an enormous bite so I don’t smile.
It’s divine.
The egg is greasy. The roll has been buttered within an inch of its life. It may be the closest I ever come to seeing God.
Kane waits until I swallow. “I’m not sure if you remember reading this part, but the settlement takes effect at noon.”
The sandwich stops halfway back to my mouth. “Come again?”
“Your lawyer has already approved it, so you don’t have to worry about that,” he continues.
I’m massively confused. “You contacted Skye?”
Kane nods. “She went through it all last night, a little after midnight. Rest assured that she was well-compensated for her time.”
He fixes his cuffs, looking a little too pleased with himself for my liking.
“The county clerk also made a few processing exceptions as a favor to me. So, at noon today, the marital settlement becomes effective pending court entry. The house in Sheepshead Bay is yours. Sole title. Your husband has signed away everything in it that isn’t his personally.”
I set the sandwich down carefully. “And Connor?”
“Connor is out.”
“Out of…?”
“The house. He left it Wednesday night,” Kane says. “He’s staying with his father in Bay Ridge. His things are gone. He didn’t take anything he wasn’t entitled to, because he was told what would happen if he did.”
I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “There’s no way in hell he went that easy.”
He smirks. “Men agree to many things when properly motivated.”
I look down at the greasy wrapper. Then I pinch my thigh, just to test out a new theory I’m developing.
But I don’t wake up.
Maybe this isn’t a dream after all.
“Let me get this straight: You evicted my husband before sunrise on New Year’s Day?”
“Your former husband.”
“He isn’t former until the judge stamps something.”
“I’m an optimist.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The green eyes are calm, almost bright. I’m curious what other kinds of potentially felonious things he’s gotten up to this morning to kick off the New Year, but I’m scared that he might answer honestly.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Kane!”
“He was given time to pack.”
“How much time?”
“Enough.”
“That is not a valid unit of measurement.”
“He’s alive.”
“That’s a very low bar.”
“It’s the only one that interests me where Connor Boyd is concerned.”
This is all too much. It’s domineering. It’s presumptuous. It’s crazy!
But if “crazy” gets that cheating parasite thrown out of my real estate…
Do I care?
I don’t know. My head hurts and I’m very tired. A girl can only take so much when there’s alcohol currently ruining her body from the inside out.
Kane reaches for my sandwich and folds the wrapper around it. “Get dressed. We’ll take this to go.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re taking a field trip.”
I glance at the dark kitchen. “My staff arrives soon.”
“I’ll have someone stay behind to inform them and lend an extra hand if necessary.”
My eyes narrow. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?” I snap, sounding way more irritated than I actually feel.
Kane grins. “Only one way to find out.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clean clothes, with brushed teeth and a washed face, on the way to Sheepshead Bay in the back of Kane’s black Escalade, with our old friend Stepan at the wheel.