9. Delaney
DELANEY
The moment the clock hits five, I pour myself a glass of wine. It’s maladaptive behavior, or whatever my therapist always says, but I feel like I get points for not day drinking alone in this big house.
My mom is on a shopping trip somewhere, Italy maybe. I never know where she is. And Dad is in L.A. for business. A decade away from this place, and nothing has changed. I can’t count the number of weekends I spent here alone.
I plop down on the oversized sofa and pull out my phone. The last thing I should to be doing is a tipsy scroll through social media.
So, of course, I pour myself another glass of wine and read every post I can find about myself.
Maladaptive might as well be my middle name.
A knock on the back door yanks my attention away from my phone. I check the clock. 6:57. Nearly two hours of scrolling, nearly a full bottle of wine, and I’m in a worse mood than I was this morning.
“Connor, what the hell?” I shout, crossing the room to the glass door that leads to the back deck. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I open the door to a big, goofy smile and way too many groceries bags for one meal.
“What’s all this?” I ask, the last sip of my drink threatening to slosh over the rim as I gesture to the mountain of bags he’s balancing.
“Proper nutrition.” He smiles down at me. “Figured I should stock your kitchen while I’m here.”
I wordlessly lead him to the kitchen and hop up onto the counter, watching as he assess the sorry state of it.
“I’m warning you,” I say, words slurring just a little, “I’ve been scrolling gossip accounts all evening and have worked myself into a god-awful mood.”
“She may be a bitch, but at least she’s a self-aware bitch.” Connor teases.
“Never pretended to be anything else.” I swing my legs off the edge of the counter.
Connor shakes his head, his back to me as he unloads the groceries into my barren fridge.
“Wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Something about the low gravel in his voice has my heart racing, and the sharp edge of my mood fading just a little.
Want you.
For a moment, I can see it. A partner, someone like Connor, cooking for me. A quiet Saturday night in. A small-town zip code. Normalcy. Contentment. Love.
But that’s a future that I’ll never have.
Too much baggage, too many expectations, and too much notoriety to slip into an ordinary life.
A quiet, simple existence is not in the cards for me.
“So what’s on the menu, chef?” I ask, pulling myself out of my daydream. Connor stands at the sink across the kitchen, rinsing something green.
He shrugs. “Nothing fancy. Asparagus, baby potatoes, and salmon.”
Nothing fancy, but more than I’d ever cook for myself. A pang of embarrassment hits me. I’ve been saving recipes and cooking videos for years, telling myself I’ll take the time to learn. But honestly, it’s been hard to find motivation when my life has always been fully staffed.
“Maybe you could teach me to cook,” I blurt out, hopping off my perch. “Just… the basics.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as he shifts to look at me. Dumb idea. I start to open my mouth to take it back, but he beats me to it with that easy, goofy smile.
“Sure, Delaney. Happy to.”
Any embarrassment melts away as his eyes meet mine.
“I’ll add it to your contract,” I say, swiping my phone open to text my assistant.
Connor crosses the room in three easy strides and steps into my space, towering over me.
Has he always been this tall?
Gently, he takes the phone from my hand.
“Not everything has to be a contractual obligation.”
There’s that gravelly voice again. And his hand still cupping my elbow. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Him.
My voice comes out barely above a whisper, caught up in all that is Connor Majors.
“Thanks.” We linger there for a moment too long before he steps back, and I miss the contact immediately.
“We probably should go over it, though,” He says, turning back to the counter.
“I signed the paperwork this morning, so I get the big picture, but I need some clarification on your expectations. Like, are we a PDA kind of couple? Weekly date nights? Should I post on my socials, too? Or can I keep my accounts private?”
His back is to me again as he chops potatoes. It feels so domestic, so intimate to have him here, filling the silence of this big, empty house.
My heart might actually explode.
More wine. That’s the only solution.
I clear my throat as I cross the kitchen for another bottle. “I’m not big on PDA. We just need enough to sell it, make the students think it’s real, too.”
Connor nods slowly. “Got it.”
I pour myself another glass and settle onto a barstool at the island.
“I’m sorry about all of it,” I say quietly. “I know it’s dumb. It’s…” I search for the right word at the bottom of my glass.
It isn’t there.
“It’s gotten so complicated. Playing the part used to be easy, but now…” I let my words trail off again, opting for a long sip instead.
Connor keeps working in silence, unbothered by my lack of clarity. He occupies himself, sliding pans into the oven, washing prep dishes, throwing scraps away. Finally, he stops across from me, leaning his forearms against the counter.
“I don’t understand the world you’re in.
I don't understand why you can’t just stop if it’s stressing you out this much.
” His voice is gentle, probably more gentle than I deserve.
“But I do understand that you need my help. And if doing this whole pretend-couple thing takes some of that stress away, then it’s truly my pleasure to do it. Don’t thank me anymore. I’m all in.”
Fuck. Connor Majors, always a knight in shining armor.
I guess that makes me the perpetual damsel in distress.
He straightens and sticks out his hand. “I’m all in,” he repeats. “And we’re gonna have one hell of a time working together, business partner.”
I can’t help but crack a smile as I take his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Sounds good, partner.”
“Now, no more moping. And no more scrolling.” He swipes my phone off the counter like he can read my mind. “Why do you read that shit anyway? Especially when you, of all people, know it’s fake.”
I shrug, taking another long sip that goes straight to my head. “Can’t help myself. It’s my favorite form of masochism.”
Connor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word. Instead, he gets back to work, plating our food before pulling up a barstool beside mine.
Unsurprisingly, it’s delicious. So good that neither of us speak until our plates are nearly clean.
“Is there anything you aren’t good at, Connor?” I use my last potato to scrape up the remaining cream sauce.
He chuckles. “Plenty, trust me. But my dad was always in the kitchen, so I didn’t really have a choice but to learn. This was nice, though,” he adds, gesturing to our empty plates. “Having someone else to cook for. Usually I have leftovers for days.”
This piques my interest. “No potential Mrs. Majors on the horizon?”
Connor rolls his eyes. “Dating in this town is a minefield. Anyone who’s single I’ve either taught or graduated with.”
He stands to start cleaning, and I stand to pour one more glass.
Connor crosses his arms, surveying the tidy kitchen. “I put some breakfast stuff in the fridge, and more fruits and veggies. Contrary to popular belief, you can’t survive on air and wine.”
I laugh, fully tipsy now. “Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”
He shakes his head and walks out the back door.
And as I watch him go through the window above the sink, I give myself until he fades from view to daydream, just a little, about a quiet little life with a man like Connor in a quiet town like Ridgecrest
Another maladaptive behavior my therapist will love hearing about.