12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Delilah
“ M ay you what?” I whisper, my hand stopped in mid-motion, clutching onto the brush for dear life.
“Help with your hair,” he says seriously, as if he were referring to some menial task like putting a nail in the wall. I would think he’s being humorous, if it weren’t for the sober line of his mouth.
“They’re tangled,” he adds, as if that were explanation enough.
My brain must be waterlogged, because I unspokenly soften the grip on the brush so that he can take it from me.
Cedric’s reflection looks pensive as he starts brushing the back of my head, his strokes precise and gentle through the knots. His fingers tread through the locks as if he’d done this a million times–and he must have. With all his girlfriends, probably. Ha! What do I care about his girlfriends?
“Is something funny?” he asks, and I realize I must have laughed out loud.
“No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s just a little weird, that you’re good at this.”
“Brushing long hair hardly requires a business degree, which I have, by the way.” He says it matter-of-factly, not an ounce of pretentiousness about it.
“Well, it’s nice.”
His dark eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I force my breath to even out.
“Yeah?”
I nod, offering a small smile. I don’t trust myself to say anything more, since it’s clear I have no restraint on my tongue once my mouth is open. Not around this guy, anyway.
His eyes trail away from mine too soon as he continues brushing my hair, parting each lock delicately. I close my eyes against the pattering of the rain on the windows. I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me with this tenderness. It’s probably too intimate, and yet I’m not uncomfortable. I can barely feel the cold from my wet clothes now. I am so simply content I squeeze my eyes tight, in case a traitorous tear decides to escape.
I’ve been told I am too emotional more times than I like to think about, and for some reason, imagining it coming from Cedric is unbearable. I let out a sigh as his fingers suddenly leave me, and open my eyes slowly to find Cedric too far, that odd, indecipherable expression once again taking over his features. And because I know myself, I know that this hollow feeling in my chest is disappointment–that I can’t feel the warmth of his body anymore, that he stopped with the soothing motions entirely too soon.
Cedric clears his throat. “I should go,” he says, the pink brush looking like a doll accessory in his strong hand. I reach for it, our fingers brushing lightly, a zap of sensation traveling from the tip of my fingers to my arms. I swallow against it and quickly take the brush back. It seems my body and my brain can’t come to an agreement as to whether they want to be close to him or not.
“Are you sure?”
Cedric cocks his head. The gesture reminds me so much of Blaine, I barely suppress another laugh.
“Well, it’s still raining cats and dogs,” I elaborate. “You could…wait it out.”
Close it is, then. Cedric’s perpetual furred brows knit further on his forehead, and I don’t miss the look he shoots at the door. Is he going to make a run for it?
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Just for a bit.”
Something bright and happy warms my chest. It’s silly, maybe, but undeniable.
“You’re going to catch something if you don’t change, though, let me–”
“I’m not a child, Delilah.”
“What’s the correlation between being a child and changing into dry clothes?” I ask, perplexed. Blaine begins to enthusiastically sniff the patch of pavement Cedric is currently occupying.
“I don’t get sick,” he replies with a one-shoulder shrug.
“Is that right? Well, then, I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that there are rules under this scalloped roof,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Rules,” he echoes .
“Yep. No hideous workout clothes allowed,” I say seriously.
“Hideous?” Cedric squints at me as I’d spoken a dead tongue. At that, I can’t keep the laughter in any longer.
“You should see your face,” I say as my hands slap my thighs. “Oh my.”
Blaine barks once, clearly just as amused.
Cedric shakes his head, disbelief and a tad of wry amusement etched in his perfect face–though I suspect he’d never admit it.
“Don’t move,” I say.
Cedric
There is something utterly surreal about the past twenty-five minutes.
I’m sitting on a stool I’m worried about breaking, in the house of a woman I’ve known for a matter of days, soaking wet after I’ve offered to brush her hair.
Marcus would no doubt say I’m a willing masochist –or a freaky bastard.
I suppose no lines have been crossed, nothing that could compromise my job anyway. It’s not like Joe has minions watching my every move, and even if they did, what could they possibly say? That I prevented Delilah from smacking her face on the floor?
Those are hardly grounds for trouble.
Not that I wouldn’t love to do whatever it took to watch my father’s face turn tomato red, under different, non-life threatening circumstances .
Something sticky touches my bare calf, and when I look down, I see the top of Delilah’s giant-eared dog’s head as his tongue licks the damp skin like a bloody icicle.
“Bad puppy,” I say, pushing lightly on its fluffy neck. He relents for approximately three seconds before diving back in, and I decide defeat is preferable to raising my voice at my gracious host’s companion. With a sigh, I look around me, truly taking in my surroundings. It’s uncanny, how this house–or this part of it, anyway–screams Delilah.
The walls are painted of the lightest shade of sage green, though pink detailing is all around–the curtains, the kitchen cabinets, the small sofa. Fresh flowers and plants I wouldn’t know the names of hang from crocheted pots; hand-painted daisies decorate the door frame to wherever Delilah disappeared. Hell, even the calendar attached to the fridge is pink. I get up, slowly walking up to it. I’m not typically the nosy sort, but I’ll admit I will never not be curious when it comes to this girl.
I squint at the scribbles, and it’s quite funny how they match her personality–a tad chaotic, colorful. There are written reminders that I’d assume are about groceries and perhaps orders for the shop, but the one item that stands out from the rest is a circle covered in dots, tiny sparkles doodled in its orbit, and several exclamation points around it. For some reason, it strikes me as odd that Delilah would feel so enthusiastic about the mo–
“Hey!” she says, and I take a step back. She covers the calendar by stepping between me and the fridge with a pinched smile that doesn’t hold a candle to her usual ones.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” I say.
“No worries,” she says breathily, though I don’t miss the nervous glance she shoots over her shoulder. “Here. ”
She hands me a folded pile of dark clothes that I’m rather sure do not belong to her. I must stare at them for a beat too long, because she says my name one, two times, before I accept them.
“Bathroom’s on the left,” Delilah adds, pointing to it with her thumb.
I’m not sure I thank her out loud, and despite it being unforgivably rude of me, a high-pitch sound is ringing in my ears. Inside the small bathroom, surrounded by her smell, I need to physically force myself to breathe deeply. So what, if she has men’s clothes hanging around her house? It means nothing–and if it means something, it’s none of my bloody business. I change into them as quickly as possible, folding my own wet running attire in a neat pile. The pants are of a soft, dark brown material, as is the t-shirt. I notice a faded logo I don’t recognize near the hem, and dispel any conjectures my mind might start toying with. I push my arms through the hoodie, which is on the tighter side, but it’ll do nicely, since I hadn’t realized how cold I actually am.
“Get it together,” I whisper to my reflection, and head back to the living room where Delilah is crouched, scratching her dog’s neck.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and an expression I’ve never seen on her passes through her eyes for a second; it looks a lot like sadness.
It makes me unreasonably angry, and I’m not sure if the reason for it is the clothes, or me wearing them.
I’m about to thank her when she slowly walks up to me, and my mouth instantly dries. Her eyes trail to the shirt’s logo peaking above the collar of the hoodie.
“You don’t need to give them back to me,” she says softly. “You can throw them away when you get to the hotel. ”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m telling you so,” she says, as if it were the only possible answer.
“I’ll have them washed if that’s your concern.”
“It’s not. I’ve been meaning to throw them away anyway.”
Delilah straightens, and as if nothing odd had occurred, and a bright smile blooms on her lips. I want to ask her why her entire demeanor changed at the sight of the clothes on me–or me in the clothes, if it makes any difference to her, but something tells me it’s not a good time, and it’s not my place. I can’t avoid thinking I wish it were.
“Sooo,” Delilah singsongs as she somehow opens two cupboards and a drawer simultaneously. “I will let you know there is no such drink as hellish as black coffee here, but I do have tea.”
“I, uh, well.”
My mumbling prompts her to turn around, wielding a kettle as if it were a weapon.
“Yes?”
I shake my head, determined not to utter a word about it. “It’s nothing.”
Delilah’s mouth quirks to the side, a knowing look in her eyes that claws at my heartstrings. Whatever those are.
“Tell me,” she says.
“Tell you what?”
“What you were going to say!”
“What makes you think I was going to say something?”
“You’re an opinionated man,” she shrugs innocently as she fills the kettle with water, and it drives me absolutely crazy.
I raise an eyebrow, unwilling to tear my gaze away from her. To be honest, even if I were willing, I don’t think I’d be able to. She’s changed, too, while I was in the bathroom, and is now wearing a dark pink shirt and matching comfortable pants. And for a fragile second, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to inhabit a space with her, to have the privilege of seeing her at her most relaxed, her most unguarded, in a true home like this one.
“Alright, alright, you win,” she says with a shaky laugh, the hint of a blush grazing her cheeks as she turns and selects a tea bag from a ceramic bowl.
I swallow, once again taking place at the kitchen table. She hums sweetly under her breath as she moves around the small space. We’re not talking, yet it’s far from uncomfortable. I have the half mind of staying here forever; a foolish scenario that could never come true.
“...of sugar?”
“Sure,” I say absently.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need a number,” Delilah says, clearly amused.
“Right–none.”
Her eyes widen comically. “Only the brave,” she says while I am mesmerized by her delicate fingers curling around the kettle’s handle.
"Not a huge fan of sugar in general," I shrug. “Perhaps I’ve yet to taste the dessert that will change my mind.”
“Is that a challenge? Because I’m a great baker,” she says, eyes glinting as she pours steaming tea in a candy-cane striped mug and offers it to me.
“That’s the most serious-looking one I could find,” she adds, sheepishly.
“Do the others light up?”
Delilah inclines her head, a playful smile curving her lips. “How did you know? ”
I ignore the rhetorical question, though I am terribly tempted to smile back at her.
I take a deep breath before taking the first sip, and swallow it as smoothly as possible. I can tell she’s still watching me, so I gulp down some more.
“Cedric?”
“Mmh?”
“Do you–not like it?”
“Of course I do,” I say, and drink more to prove the point.
Delilah puts down her own mug with a thud, stray droplets spilling over the border. “You don’t like tea!” she says, not loudly enough to bother me, not quietly enough not to startle me.
“I did not say that.”
“Your face did the job for you!” Her eyes are big and her mouth open in wonder. She’s acting as if she’d come across the discovery of some exotic animal species. This girl is truly something else.
“Well, it would have been rude of me to point it out,” I say.
At that, her expression changes rapidly, matching her now-crossed arms. “ Cedric ,” she says again, pointedly, each letter rolling off her tongue as if it belonged there. It is all but lost on me how terribly good my name sounds through her voice. “There’s nothing rude about saying no to something you don’t want.”
Her eyebrows furrow, as if surprised by the vehemence of her own words. “Let me take that–”
“No,” I say, cradling the mug with both hands. She shoots me an exasperated look, though something odd still lingers in her eyes. “I’m not a tea enthusiast, fine, but it’s warm, and it’s not terrible. I’d rather drink it. If that’s alright with you. ”
She nods, and though I’m not sure she believes me, she concedes.
We sit at the kitchen table in companionable silence for a few more minutes, and it’s almost strange enough that I get the urge to say something, though I shouldn’t have worried as Delilah precedes me.
“Oh,” she starts, hopping off her seat and turning to another cabinet, producing a packet of butter biscuits. “Have you checked in with your boss yet?”
The tea I was sipping nearly sloshes down the wrong pipe.
She blinks rapidly, her munching slowing down. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I just remembered there are some, uh, business things I need to take a look at.”
“Business things,” she repeats with a smirk.
“Indeed. And, look, it’s not raining as much,” I add, gulping the last dregs of tea and starting to rise from my seat. I avoid looking at her, because no matter what I risk seeing on her face, perhaps I am finally remembering myself. I will never be part of her life. She’s intrinsically good, and I’m taking advantage of it because I like her company, but that doesn’t change the fact that we aren’t supposed to become friends, or get close, or be anything but temporary co-workers at best.
It’s getting harder by the minute for my brain and other organs to comply.
“You don’t have to go, you know.”
I close my eyes against the disappointment in her voice. Am I imagining that? “I do.”
She makes a sound not unlike a sigh, then asks me to wait for a second. She comes to stand beside me shortly after, offering a canvas bag.
“For your wet clothes,” she says. So kindly, so gently.
I want to press her up against the wall. I want to yell at her to stop looking at me.
I could never yell at her.
“Thank you,” I say, as blankly as possible, which is not much.
I get out the door as fast as I can.