51. 51
Why do I feel like I’m being buttered up—buttered up and about to be a snack?
Claire Jones sits across from me on the fanciest couch I have ever laid eyes on. Like—my butt shouldn’t be touching this thing. After I leave, someone will have to come in and dry-clean the furniture.
I offered to take my shoes off before I walked on that off-white carpet. But she told me she had no desire to see my socks.
I”m not sure what that means. I”m clean. I shower and I wash my clothes and I”m not overly smelly—no more than any other man. And yet, I am one hundred percent sure a dry cleaner will be cleaning up after me.
Still, Claire is smiling and asking me question after question after question, and the way she acts after I give a short answer—well, it’s a little too excited.
“I’d love to see photos of your wedding day. Delaney’s the most beautiful girl. I’m certain she made a beautiful bride. It’s a difficult thing for a mother to miss, you know?”
I clear my throat. I have zero pictures of that day, and Delaney was in jeans and a T-shirt—if I’m remembering correctly. “I don’t have anything on me.” I press my lips together. “Sorry.”
“That’s perfectly fine. I’ll get my hands on them. I’ll need one for the house.”
I peer around this museum—I mean, sitting room. I don’t see anything resembling family photos. Not like Mom’s dedicated wall and mantel. There are a few photographs in this room, all in black and white and ancient-looking. Besides, if Delaney told her our marriage wasn’t real, then why would she need a picture?
I’m anxious—but mostly I’m confused.
“You said Delaney needed my help.”
“And she does. We don’t want your little”—she wrinkles her nose, and strangely the action reminds me of Delaney—“secret getting out.”
There’s a buzzing in my pocket, and I feel as though I have literally been saved by the bell.
I swallow and peer at Claire, who clearly thinks I’m being rude. “It’s Delaney,” I tell her, hoping that will help my case.
“You can talk to her later,” she says, and the perma-grin on her face falters. Which tells me she never told Delaney that I arrived or that she invited me like she said she would.
“I better answer,” I say, standing and walking to the corner of the room, though Claire has no intention of giving me privacy.
“Delaney?”
“Miles!” she spouts as if we are stars in the next Chainsaw Massacre movie. One glance back at Claire, and I’m not so sure we aren’t. “Tell me that was a joke and you are not at my mother’s house!” She bellows each word—it will be a miraculous event, going in all the good books, if Claire hasn’t heard her.
Still, I keep cool—just in case we are witnessing a phenomenon. “I’m here now.”
“Nooooo! After she kills you, I will be bringing you back from the dead just so I can slug you.”
“Sounds great, honey.” I offer a grin to Claire. “So, I’ll see you soon?” Please tell me I’ll see you soon, Delaney.
“You’re scared, huh?”
“You bet,” I say, still smiling—though Claire isn’t trying anymore. She’s as good as grimacing.
“I’m almost there. Don’t eat anything! And don’t tell her anything about yourself!”
“I’ve already done both,” I say through that frozen grin on my face.
Eat anything?Is she saying her mother would poison me? That’s crazy. Right? She’s strange, but she isn’t homicidal. I slide my eyes back to Claire, who stares daggers through my head. Yep, she looks exactly like the kind of woman who’d poison a man for marrying her daughter without permission.
Delaney curses under her breath. “I am almost there.”
Is this like a 911 call—am I supposed to stay on the line until help arrives?
I keep the phone to my ear, listening to Delaney’s mutterings, giving a grunt and an “uh-huh” every now and then. I cup my hand over the phone. “She’s on her way,” I say to Claire as if this were a perfectly normal situation.
I”m not sure if I hear it over the phone or outside the house, but Delaney”s car door slams, and I end our call, heading toward the front door. I don”t care that this isn”t my house. Or that Claire most likely finds my actions boorish.
Apparently, Delaney doesn’t care whose house it is either because she opens the front door without bothering to knock.
We spot one another and all the questions and doubts seem to dissipate—or at least, most of them do. I am washed over with peace, love, and assurance, just taking her in.
“Miles,” she says, breathless.
It’s only been a week and we’ve only been together for four—so why does this absence feel like a long journey, like a battle? We’ve fought to be reunited, and here we are.
“Laney,” I say, unable to hold back my smile.
My feet are nailed to the ground, so she walks to me. Her hand cups my cheek and I peer down, taking in every bit of her. Lifting up on her toes she snakes her arms around my neck and presses a kiss to my lips. My arms wind around her back, holding her close and forgetting altogether where we are until—
“Please. Spare me the show.”
I loosen my grip on Delaney and her heels hit the floor. We both turn our heads, facing her mother, who has lost every ounce of sweetness she conjured when I first arrived.
“You expect me to believe that you actually married this hillbilly? This painter? By choice?” Claire snarls at her daughter, talking to her as if I weren’t a real human, just an extra annoying figment of her imagination.
“Hillbilly?” I say. I’ve been called a few things in my life… but hillbilly?
“Believe it or not, I don’t care.” Delaney holds up her left hand, showing off her simple gold band. The ring we didn’t even purchase.
I make a mental note to actually buy her a ring. Something that I pick out, something that reminds me of her. Or—maybe it’s too soon for that.
I’m pondering things so much sweeter, things I want to think about when the word “hick” flies at me next.
“Hey,” I say, though I don’t know what else Claire has said.
“Come on,” Delaney says, grabbing me by the hand. But she doesn’t lead me out the front; we walk past her seething mother, through a large kitchen to a back door.
“I heard you, Delaney Sage. I know the truth. None of this is real, and I’m not afraid to leak it.”
Delaney stops and turns back to look at her mother. She swallows. “I don’t know what you heard. Or what you believe. But you’re a smart woman, Mother. So, know this: my feelings for Miles are very, very real. And I know you see that.”
I squeeze her fingers.
A month ago, I was sitting in my tiny studio, painting a piece that a handful would see and trying to figure out how to get Lars to rent me the building across the street. Today, I own that building, my name is on the front, and I’ve sold every painting I’ve created, with orders for more, and I’m holding Delaney’s hand.
Funny how only one of those things feels important anymore.