Chapter 19 #2
Delilah turns away, fast—but I catch the flush on her neck before she does. The evidence of her arousal only makes mine harder to control. I shift, adjusting myself discreetly, grateful for the kitchen island between me and the others.
Ethan slinks back into the living room, muttering about philistines and unappreciated talent.
I'm still thinking about how close she got. And how I wanted her closer. How her body would feel pressed against mine, all those sharp edges softening under my hands. How she might sound when she comes apart. How those clever fingers would feel wrapped around my cock.
I need a cold shower. Or a stiff drink. Or both.
Instead, I go back to cooking, hyperaware of Delilah's every movement, caught in this exquisite agony of wanting someone so badly it physically hurts. Someone who's right there, close enough to touch, but still somehow out of reach.
Dinner goes down as a success, as always. Everyone’s full, loud, and busy stealing my credit for the damn fajitas. We settle into that post-meal haze, people sprawled on the couch, half-sentences floating in the air, a movie playing in the background that no one really watches.
Across the room, Delilah’s perched on the arm of a chair by the window, sipping soda like she’s trying not to let anyone know she’s enjoying herself. Her shoulders are relaxed, but her eyes are still sharp.
I toss a towel at Freddie’s face. He grunts. “Oh, by the way you left the wrench upstairs. I’ll need it tomorrow to fix her bike.”
Right. I used it the other day to try and tinker with my desk chair. I was unsuccessful; it still squeaks like a motherfucker.
I glance over. “Hey, Delilah. Come with?”
She squints at me. “Why?”
“Need your expert opinion on a wrench.” I flash a grin. “It might be too manly for me to handle alone.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not dragging me upstairs for some weird wrench striptease, Hawkins.”
“I mean, unless you’re asking nicely…” I lift a brow.
She groans. But she stands. That’s a win.
Upstairs, it’s quieter. I flick on the light and head into my room. She hesitates in the doorway like she’s debating whether this is a trap.
“This is weird,” she mutters.
“I’m looking for a wrench, Greer. Not handcuffs.” I pause, toss a smirk over my shoulder. “Unless you want those too. Pretty sure I’ve got a pair somewhere. I think they’re fluffy.”
She gives me a flat, unimpressed stare. One of those withering ones. The kind that should shut me up.
It doesn’t.
Because now I’m thinking about Delilah Greer in handcuffs, and that’s a level of dangerous I should not be entertaining
“Relax, Mittens, It’s just a room.”
She arches an eyebrow. “It’s your room.”
“Still not weird—unless you make it weird,” I tease.
I crouch by the bed watching her. Not exactly focused on the wrench anymore.
She finally steps inside and folds her arms like she needs to hold herself together.
The room smells of cedar and a hint of that cologne Alfie gave me last Christmas. My bed is unmade (oops), the windows are open letting in a cool breeze.
I dig around for the wrench—not that I’m really trying. When I stand, she’s drifted toward my desk, eyes fixed on the cluster of polaroids pinned above it.
“This your camp crew?” she asks, glancing back.
“Yeah.” I move closer, careful, like the floor might creak and break the moment.
“Started going in middle school. Ended up a counsellor.”
She points to a photo of me in a kayak, hair drenched, grinning like I’d just robbed a bank. “You look like a ten-year-old model.”
“What can I say?” I smirk. “Some of us peak early.”
She huffs out the tiniest laugh. Barely-there. But I catch it.
I take one step closer. Standing behind her, not touching. Close enough to see the gold in her eyes. Close enough to want to tuck that loose strand of hair behind her ear and—
No.
Stop.
Don’t be that guy. She’s made it clear she’s not into me like that. And yeah, maybe we’ve been flirting—lightly, safely, mostly for the bit—but that doesn’t mean I cross a line.
Then she turns her head slightly, voice low, teasing.
“You always bring girls up here to talk about hardware?”
I grin.
“Only the difficult ones I’m trying to impress with my… tool expertise.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile sticks.
And I know—know—if I moved just an inch closer, she wouldn’t stop me.
Which is exactly why I don’t.
She blinks, slow. Her gaze drops to my mouth.
And suddenly I’m one heartbeat away from doing the exact thing I just told myself I wouldn’t. A beat of silence.
“You got your wrench. Let’s go,” she says, voice clipped.
I nod.
We don’t move.
She swallows. My heart kicks.
Still—no one moves.
Then, finally, she spins and walks out.
I exhale. Drag a hand through my hair.
What the actual fuck was that?
I'm halfway to following her when she spins back around.
"Hey, you know what—no!"
Delilah's voice cracks through the hallway like lightning. She storms back into the room, all five-foot-seven of furious intensity, eyes blazing like she's about to commit a felony I'd happily be the victim of.
I step back, heart hammering against my ribs. "No?"
“No, you can't just—" She gestures wildly between us, her fingers slicing through the air. “You can't do that to me. It's not fair.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Do what?”
She glances toward the hall, then steps in and shuts the door. The click rings loud in the silence. My throat goes dry.
The house goes quiet. Too quiet. I’d bet Ethan’s eavesdropping like his life depends on it.
She steps closer. Her voice drops to something dangerously soft.
“This. This feeling.”
“Feeling?”
“Yes! Don’t play dumb.” She's vibrating with frustration now. “The touches, the smirks, the... stupid lines. I’m not the kind of girl who falls for the mighty Troy freaking Hawkins. For your stupid sexy smile. I don’t do that.
” She glares at me. “And it’s not fair for you to keep acting like this, like you actually mean it. ”
I try not to grin and I fail spectacularly. “So... you do think I’m mighty? And that my smile is sexy?”
“Oh my god.” She groans and looks away but she’s blushing. Bright pink, all the way to her ears. “You are actually insufferable!”
God, she’s hot when she’s mad. Which is, like, 90% of the time around me.
I step closer. Not fast—slow enough that she sees it coming. Slow enough that she could back away if she wanted to.
She doesn't back up. Not one inch.
Then I reach out and tilt her chin up with two fingers, the contact sending a jolt straight through me.
“Hey. Look at me.”
She jerks her head away like I've burned her. I follow her line of sight, gentler now. Try again.
“I’m not messing with you, Greer,” I say, voice quiet but certain. “There’s no angle. No plan. I’m not trying to win anything here.”
I take a breath, the words coming slower now. Lower. More honest than I've been with anyone in years.
“I'm attracted to you. And I'm trying really, really hard not to kiss you right now… because I don't know if that's something you'd want.”
Her lips part just slightly, her eyes flickering back to mine like she's searching for the lie. For the joke. I push forward before I can talk myself out of it.
“You drive me insane. You act like the entire world is out to get you and you’re the only one smart enough to fight back.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt.
“But I like being around you,” I continue, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I like how your laugh sounds when you forget to hate me. I like when you smile even though you don't want to, especially when it's at my expense.”
Something shifts in her expression.
It’s not a smile. Not quite. But it’s not nothing, either.
“You challenge me. You make me think harder. Sharper. You confuse the hell out of me. You piss me off.” My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it.
I lean in, just slightly, just enough that she can feel it—how close I am to crossing a line neither of us is ready to admit we want crossed.
“And I like you,” I say. “So much that it’s actually terrifying.”
She's still staring. And I'm still falling. Free-falling without a parachute, and I've never been more terrified or exhilarated in my life.
A long pause stretches between us, humming with electricity and every word I just said.
She looks like she's running calculations behind those eyes. Weighing every possibility.
Actually, she looks like she might slap me. Honestly, I’m about 60% sure she’s going to slap me.
I tense and brace for it, jaw tight, eyes half closed, full-body flinch mode activated.
But instead, she grabs a fistful of my shirt, yanks me in and kisses me.
Hard. Fierce. Like she's been waiting for it since the day she hated me on sight.
There's nothing careful about it. No hesitation. Just the full-force of Delilah Greer crashing into me. It's fire and frustration and her mouth claiming mine.
I groan into her, hands sliding to her waist, fingers digging into the soft curves there. She tastes like lime and sweetness.
She's all heat and soft skin and infuriating energy, and the second her body presses into mine, everything else disappears. The project. The roommates. My name. My past. Gone.
When we finally break apart, she's flushed and breathless, lips swollen like a dare I want to accept over and over again.
“Still think I'm playing a game?” I manage, my voice low and wrecked.
She glares at me, but there's something new in her eyes. Something that makes my heart stumble. “Yes. But right now, I don't care.”
And then she kisses me again and it's deeper, hotter. Like she's not finished. Like we've barely started.