Chapter 9
nine
Delilah
Three weeks since Dad erupted like Vesuvius. Three weeks of silence from the man who used to call me just to tell me about a funny commercial he saw. I miss him with an ache that sits beneath my ribs, constant and dull. But when Mitch slides his arm around my waist as I stand at the kitchen window, when he presses his lips to my temple and murmurs "Morning, beautiful" against my skin, I know I've made the right choice. Some prices are worth paying, and the warmth that fills me when he looks at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted is worth any cost.
"Coffee?" Mitch asks, his voice still rough with sleep. His hair sticks up on one side, and he hasn't trimmed his beard in a few days, making him look slightly wild and entirely delicious.
"Please." I lean into his solid warmth, savoring the way his large hand splays across my stomach, possessive and protective at once.
He moves away to pour us each a mug, and I watch him—the easy confidence in his movements, the flex of muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way he automatically prepares mine exactly how I like it. These small details, these everyday intimacies, are what fill the spaces between the passion. They're what make this feel real, permanent.
The day after Mitch told Dad about us, I moved the last of my things from my childhood home. Dad wasn't there—a small mercy, avoiding that particular confrontation—but his absence felt like a statement nonetheless. I cried in the car on the way to Mitch's house, tears streaming silently down my face as I watched the familiar streets of my hometown blur past the window.
Mitch had taken one look at my red-rimmed eyes when I arrived and wordlessly pulled me into his arms, letting me sob against his chest until I had no tears left. Then he'd carried my bags inside and said, "Welcome home, Delilah," with such certainty that I believed him.
Now, three weeks later, his house—our house—feels more like home than anywhere I've ever lived. My books stand alongside his on the shelves. My favorite mug (the one with the chip in the handle that Dad always threatened to throw away) has its place in the cabinet. My clothes hang next to his in the closet, colorful dresses and tops breaking up the sea of flannel and denim.
But it's the things Mitch has done to make space for me that touch me most deeply. Like the vanity he built in the bathroom, complete with a lighted mirror for my makeup. Or the hooks he installed by the door specifically for my collection of light scarves. Or the extra-deep shelves he added to the linen closet because I "have too many damn towels, Delilah, who needs this many towels?"
"What are you thinking about?" Mitch asks, handing me my coffee—cream, no sugar, in my chipped mug.
"You," I answer honestly, taking a sip. "All the ways you've made room for me here."
He shrugs, like it's nothing, like he hasn't spent every free moment of the past three weeks turning his bachelor pad into our sanctuary. "Just want you to feel at home."
I set my mug down and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong beneath my ear. "I do," I tell him. "More than I ever have anywhere else."
His arms come around me, holding me against him with that perfect pressure—not too tight, not too loose. Just right. Like everything with Mitch. "Good," he says simply.
We stand like that for a long minute, just breathing together in our kitchen, morning sunlight painting golden rectangles on the floor around us. It's these moments I never anticipated when I plotted to seduce him—the quiet, ordinary miracles of waking up together, of finding the rhythm of shared space, of learning that passion is only one layer of what we can give each other.
"My dad called yesterday," Mitch says, his voice vibrating through his chest against my cheek. "Asked if I'd take on that deck project for the Nelsons."
I pull back to look at his face. "The one Dad was supposed to do?"
Mitch nods, watching me carefully. "I think it's his way of reaching out. He knows I need the work."
A complicated tangle of emotions knots in my throat—hope, bitterness, longing. "Did he ask about me?"
Mitch's expression softens. "No, baby. But he didn't hang up when I mentioned you'd been organizing my tool shed."
It's a small thing, but I cling to it. A hairline crack in Dad's wall of silence. An opening, maybe, for reconciliation someday.
"He'll come around," Mitch says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Give him time."
"I miss him," I admit, the words burning my throat. "But I don't regret us. Not for a second."
Mitch cups my face in his palms, making me look at him. "He's your father, Delilah. You're allowed to miss him. Doesn't mean you made the wrong choice."
I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm, rough with callouses. "When did you get so wise?"
His mouth quirks in that half-smile that still makes my heart stutter. "Something about this bossy redhead in my bed every night has knocked some sense into me."
The casual reference to our shared bed sends a different kind of warmth spreading through me. Each night, I fall asleep curled against him, his large body enveloping mine, his breath in my hair. Each morning, I wake to his hands on me, gentle or demanding depending on his mood, always knowing exactly what I need.
I never realized that safety could be so intoxicating. That being completely known, completely accepted, could make me feel not just loved but powerful.
"Come on," Mitch says, releasing me to pick up his coffee. "I promised to finish your reading nook today."
The reading nook. Another example of how he's making space for me. The small alcove in the living room that was once cluttered with tools and boxes has been transformed. He built the windowseat himself, installed bookshelves on either side, even found an antique lamp at the flea market because I mentioned once that I liked reading by warm light.
"You don't have to do that today," I say, though I'm excited to see it completed. "You worked all week."
"Want to," he says simply, carrying his mug to the sink. "Been looking forward to it."
And that's Mitch—a man of few words but considerable action. He shows love through what he does, not what he says. Every shelf he builds, every repair he makes, every space he clears is a declaration more eloquent than any flowery speech.
I follow him to the alcove, watching as he measures and marks, his movements precise and confident. I sit cross-legged on the floor nearby, sipping my coffee and thinking about how differently this summer has unfolded than I expected.
When I came home, I had a plan—seduce Mitch, have my hot summer fling, scratch the itch that had been plaguing me for years. I never planned on falling so deeply, on wanting forever. I never imagined I'd choose him over my father's approval, over the easy path. I never thought I'd be setting up house, building a life.
"What?" Mitch asks, glancing up from the cushion he's cutting to size for the windowseat. He always seems to sense when my thoughts turn inward.
"Just thinking about how much better reality is than fantasy," I say, setting my empty mug aside. "All those years writing about you in my journal, and nothing I imagined comes close to this."
His hands still on the fabric. "You know, you've never shown me that journal."
Heat blooms in my cheeks. "It's embarrassing."
"I doubt that." His voice drops lower, taking on that edge that never fails to make my skin tingle. "I'd like to read it sometime. See what you've been thinking about all these years."
The thought of Mitch reading my most private fantasies, my detailed descriptions of what I wanted him to do to me, makes my mouth go dry. "Maybe someday," I hedge. "When I'm feeling particularly brave."
He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what effect his request had on me, then returns to his work. I watch his hands—those big, capable hands that can build a house or take me apart with equal skill—and feel a surge of gratitude so intense it's almost painful.
"Thank you," I say suddenly.
He looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"For making room for me," I explain. "Not just in your house, but in your life. I know it wasn't easy. I know what it cost you."
Mitch sets his tools aside and moves to sit beside me on the floor, his back against the wall, shoulder pressing against mine.
"Delilah," he says, my name sounding like a prayer in his deep voice. "The only thing that would have cost me is losing you. Everything else is just noise."
"But Dad?—"
"Will come around or he won't." Mitch takes my hand, enveloping it in his much larger one. "Either way, I've got what matters most right here."
Tears prick at my eyes. For all the bravado I showed pursuing him, for all my determination and schemes, I never expected to be loved like this—steadfastly, wholeheartedly, without reservation.
"Besides," he continues, thumb stroking my palm, "I never had much of a family before. You and Bill, you were the closest thing. And while I hate that this has come between you two, I can't regret that it's brought you to me."
I lean my head against his shoulder, inhaling the scent that's become home to me—sawdust and soap and warm skin. "I just wish he could see how happy we are. How good we are together."
"He will," Mitch says with quiet certainty. "Just give him time."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming through the window.
"You know," Mitch says finally, his voice taking on an unusual hesitancy, "I've been thinking about something."
"What's that?" I lift my head to look at him, curious about this rare uncertainty.
He turns to face me fully, his blue eyes serious in the way that makes my heart skip. "I've never said it. Not properly. Not when we weren't—" He clears his throat. "Not in the middle of everything else."
My pulse quickens. "Said what?"
He takes both my hands in his, engulfing them completely. "I love you, Delilah Carter. Have for longer than I should admit. Will for the rest of my life, I expect."
The words aren't a surprise—I've felt his love in a thousand actions, heard it in the way he says my name, seen it in how he looks at me across a room. But hearing him declare it, simply and directly in the morning light of our home, makes something final click into place inside me.
"I love you too," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "So much it scares me sometimes."
He pulls me into his lap, cradling me against his chest like something precious. "No need to be scared," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you. Always will."
And I believe him. Despite the cost, despite the uncertainty with my father, despite the whispers in town about the builder who stole his best friend's daughter—I believe in us. In this life we're building together, sturdy and true as the walls Mitch raises with his hands.
When he kisses me, gentle and thorough, I feel the final pieces of doubt dissolve. This is where I belong. This is who I was meant to find. And no matter what happens next, we'll face it together—the builder and the girl who was bold enough to claim him.
In his arms, I am home.