17. Owen
The following weekend, I found myself back in Delia’s garage. This time, it was just the two of us, and still, nothing was resolved. She hadn’t been steering clear of me exactly, but the easy rapport we’d developed over the past few months was strained. As though she was trying to maintain that professional boundary.
And that was fine. I could wait her out. I wasn’t sure when my perception of Delia switched from simple business partner to someone I was interested in romantically. Maybe it was the way she’d stuck up for me that night at the club, or watching the way she interacted with her family.
Probably, it was seeing her pants-less and dancing around her kitchen last weekend. It was impossible to ignore that previously slumbering part of me that opened its eyes, lifted its head, and said, “ Mine .”
Clearly, my entire opinion of her had been wrong from the beginning, and I was doing my damnedest to make up for it.
All I wanted was a chance. And I’d give her however long she needed to come to terms with that fact—to recognize that she wanted me too.
That evening, Delia invited me over for a little tasting session, our first batch of spirits at last ready to sample. We knew in order to get really good liquor, they’d have to sit longer than six days, but we wanted to see if we were on the right track. Surprisingly, Liam had offered to set up some at home stills in his garage and keep an eye on them for us. In the wake of that combined with the success of his and Amara’s canned wine cocktails, Delia and I had agreed to bring him on as a consultant, and we were paying him nicely for his help.
He should’ve been here too, but he’d had to bail at the last second. I wasn’t too mad about it, excited about being alone with Delia.
It was barely five p.m., the sun clinging to the horizon before sinking below it when I pulled into her driveway. The first time I’d shown up here, the night of the party, it was pitch black. And when I’d left the next morning, I had been in such a rush to get away from the new and unexpected feeling swirling in my chest that I hadn’t given my surroundings much thought. Now, though, in the pre-dusk light, I looked my fill.
Delia and the previous owners of the home had clearly gone through a lot of trouble to maintain the structures’ original facade and integrity. With its wide wrap-around porch and gambrel roof, it was easy to imagine the home sitting alone surrounded by fields, with chickens pecking at errant seed spread on the ground and cows mooing softly in the distance.
The garage had clearly been a carriage house once upon a time, with a gabled roof, the points of which someone—presumably Delia—had accented with decorative corbels. It was painted a sage green that beautifully offset the bright white of the house, and vice versa.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine the days when this entire neighborhood had been nothing but fields of crops and dirt roads.
I rapped lightly on the garage door with my knuckles, mainly to alert her of my arrival, and Delia’s voice rang out a moment later, inviting me in.
The space looked vastly different than it had last weekend, what with two vehicles parked in the bays. Half of one was occupied by a drop cloth that had two sawhorses with a half-painted hollow core door balanced between them—presumably Delia’s latest DIY project. To the left of the space, Delia waited at the top of the stairs, a soft smile on her lips.
My mouth dried out. How was it possible the woman made a simple pair of loose-fitting jeans and an oversized Apple Blossom Bay Fall Festival tee look like couture?
“Come on up,” she said.
We moved into her office space, Delia’s steps confident and unhurried, completely oblivious to the turmoil roiling in my gut. When she turned to me again, the cool air from her brief trip beyond the cozy warmth of the room had tightened her nipples into peaks against her shirt.
She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I nearly went to my knees before her, begging her to let me taste her.
Fucking hell, I had to get my shit together.
Five bottles were lined up on a side table, one for each of our spirits: Outlaw Vodka, Bootlegger Rum, Highwayman Whiskey, Bandit Gin, and Hustler Bourbon.
The first time I’d shared the names with her, Delia had been gleeful over each of them, and I’d preened under her praise. Having a last name like mine made it easy to lean into those Wild West vibes, when criminals run rampant across the dusty trails.
Delia poured us each a finger of the whiskey into two highball glasses, handing me one before lifting hers. Her fingers brushed against mine, sending an electric current up my arm. While I was giving her time to come to terms with what she wanted, whether she wanted to pursue something further with me or not, it didn’t stop me from wanting her in a bone deep way.
And as her skin came into contact with mine, her breath hitched in a way that told me she wanted me too, that she wasn’t as unaffected by the connection between us as she pretended.
So what the fuck were we waiting for?
I cleared my throat and lifted my glass between us. When Delia mirrored me, I said, “To Unlawful.”
Her echo of my words was barely more than a murmur, and then she was lifting the liquor to her lips, opening her mouth only slightly to let the liquid trickle in. I couldn’t tear my attention away as she savored the sip, letting it linger before swallowing it down. The muscles in her slender neck contracted, and it suddenly became the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.
“Damn, that’s smooth,” she said, her voice husky, eyes sparking when they met mine.
Like your skin , I thought, resisting the urge to stroke a finger down her cheek and prove it to myself.
Being around her was difficult, especially alone like this, with nothing but these four walls to bear witness if I were to grip the delicate point of her chin in my hand and tip her head back. If I ran my free hand down a thigh, hitching it high around my waist.
If I were to seal my lips over that plush mouth.
Fuck , I needed to get it together.
“Owen?” Delia said, and I shook my head, returning to the present. While I’d been lost in thoughts of her, she’d moved across the room to one of the oversized rolled arm chairs. And like a dumbass, I was still standing in the middle of the room, my eyes probably glazed over from my thousand-yard stare.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurted, moving to sit in the chair beside hers.
Her brows drew together, but a smirk played on her lips as she said, “Technically, you just did.”
“Okay, smart ass. Let me rephrase.” I batted my eyelashes and gave her a beatific smile. “Delia, I have a question for you.”
Tucking her feet up under her, she giggled and said, “Proceed.”
“Why did you dare Amara to make out with me at the lake that night?”
Delia blinked, clearly surprised, like she hadn’t been expecting that question. Truthfully, I hadn’t planned on asking it. But the way I felt about her was changing rapidly, and this was one thing that had continued to nag me. I couldn’t quell my curiosity any longer.
With a sigh, she said, “I wanted Cal and Amara to admit there was something there. That things were happening between them. I’m not saying I’m proud of the way I acted, but…I don’t like watching people needlessly suffer when the issue could be solved with a simple conversation or one moment of bravery.”
Then where’s your moment of bravery? I wanted to ask but wisely bit my tongue.
I pushed that thought away and said, “And Amara kissing Cal in front of us was that moment for her?”
Delia nodded. “Mar is a rule follower. She always has been, and she’s always done exactly what was asked of her when it comes to the family business. Her relationship with Cal is the first time I’ve ever seen her rebel and do something for herself. Call it a woman’s intuition or maybe just the fact that I know my sister that well, but…I had a good feeling about them. That they were endgame. As it turned out, I was right.” I opened my mouth to say something, though I wasn’t entirely sure what, but she continued. “I am sorry, though. For dragging you into it. That was shitty of me.”
“I accept your apology,” I said, sealing my forgiveness with a clink of my glass against hers.
She was silent for a beat before she leapt from her chair, some invisible tether snapping. “I just have all this…energy!” she said, pacing the length of floor from the chair to her desk and back. “And it often manifests in chaos.” Stilling, she turned to me, hands on hips and added, “Like, you know how everyone talks about having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other?”
I nodded.
“I don’t know if I have the angel,” she admitted, gaze dropping to the floor. “But I definitely have a devil, which I affectionately refer to as my inner chaos demon. And if I don’t pull the proverbial fire alarm from time to time to take the edge off, bad things happen.”
“Like what?” I asked, intrigued. I’d seen the energy she described flashing in her eyes now and then. She radiated the same spiritedness as my brother, West.
God, those two would get on like a forest fire.
Her eyes met mine again, a heavy sigh raising and lowering her shoulders dramatically. Then she said the last thing I ever expected.
“You’re not the first older guy I’ve ever had a crush on.”
I smirked, wiggling my brows. “You have a crush on me?”
“Not the point, QB.”
She was right, of course. The more time I’d spent with her, the less the ten years between us mattered to me. I’d come to realize that, once you reached a certain stage in your life, age really was just a number. I’d only been using the gap as an excuse not to work with her before because I’d thought she was a wildcard.
And she was, only…not in the ways I expected.
“How old are we talking here?”
“He was forty to my twenty-two.”
I whistled low, mostly to hide my shock. Nearly twenty years between them? Who had this guy been? Why was I compelled to rip his head from his body?
I could do it too. And with a goddamn smile on my face.
“What happened?” I asked softly, tone completely at odds with the rage and jealousy coursing through me.
For long, seemingly interminable moments, Delia didn’t respond. She moved to the little side table where the five bottles sat. This time, she poured herself two fingers of the vodka, draining it quickly before refilling it. Then she moved back to the chair opposite me and sat, spine and shoulders curved inward.
“He was one of my professors at Northwestern. ”
My blood chilled.
“You don’t owe me anything, Whiskey,” I said, reaching out my arm to circle my fingers around her right wrist. “But I’m here if you want to talk about it. I’m always here.”
I didn’t want to force her to talk about anything she didn’t want to, but the ice in my veins demanded answers.
She looked at me then, her eyes lined with silver and pain, cheeks pink with…embarrassment?
What the fuck did she have to be embarrassed about?
Get yourself in check, Lawless , I coaxed myself. Flying off the handle right now does no one any good.
“Accounting has never really been my strong suit,” she started, eyes darting around but always coming back to meet mine. “So I started taking advantage of his office hours early in the semester. I wanted to get a jump start on understanding the material so I wasn’t floundering when exam time came. At first, everything was normal. He was attentive, but not overtly so. He never touched me, his gaze never lingered, he never made any suggestive comments.
“Until the week before I turned twenty-two. I was gearing up for my birthday and Halloween, so that day, I’d tested out my costume makeup. Nothing crazy, but more than I typically wore. I was dressing up as a vampire, and I wanted to make sure I really nailed the smoky eye, you know?”
Being the man I was, I obviously had no idea, but I didn’t dare speak and interrupt her.
“Something in his entire demeanor shifted when I walked into his office that day. I still remember exactly what I was wearing. A red plaid skirt, one I’d worn probably ten times already that semester, and this gauzy white blouse with black tights, a red headband, and black flats. The whole thing was very Blair Waldorf.”
Okay, that reference I understood. I was in my teens when Gossip Girl first aired.
“And I just didn’t stop him when he leaned in to kiss me,” Delia continued, voice barely above a whisper. “He was…handsome. Not in the way you are, but softer. Prettier, in a way. And the fact that he was older and showing me , this lowly college junior, attention? I couldn’t help myself. It was so frowned upon, but so…hot. The stuff people write forbidden romances about. But we were never destined for a happy ending.”
“So how did it end?”
“The more time we spent together, the less like myself I felt,” she admitted. “Instead of doing normal college girl things, I was spending all my free time with him. And because he was my professor, that meant we holed up in his house, or took weekend trips to B&Bs in small towns where no one would recognize us. At first, it was so romantic. But…well, you know what they say about rose-colored glasses. I had mine practically glued to my face. Pretty much right around the time I told him I loved him, and he responded with, ‘Of course you do, my pet,’ I realized how stupid I’d been. All he wanted from me was sex and the thrill of fucking one of his students. So I broke it off. Thankfully, by then, the semester had ended so I never had to see him again unless we randomly bumped into each other on campus.
“It fucked me up, Owen,” she continued quietly. “And I’m still not sure I deserve to be happy because of it.”
“What? No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “That’s not how it works, Whiskey. You were young. You didn’t do anything wrong. He is the one who doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
“Logically, I know you’re right. But nothing about the way I feel is logical.”
“Does he still teach there?” I asked through clenched teeth, mentally calculating how long it would take to drive from here to Evanston. I hated the man for taking something so precious from her.
Delia shook her head, slipping her wrist from my grasp to lace her fingers with mine, as though anchoring herself to the present, lest the past sweep her away. “He got fired after it came to light that he’d been sleeping with a student.”
I sucked in a gasp. “You got caught?”
Another head shake. “Someone else came forward.”
“Jesus Christ,” I swore, squeezing her hand. “I’m so sorry, Delia.”
After swiping at her eyes with her free hand, she said, “So to answer your earlier question, of course I have a crush on you. But I don’t know if I’m ready, Owen. That relationship broke me for a long time, and is solely responsible for the chaos demon that lives in my brain. I haven’t been in a relationship that wasn’t purely physical since then, and you deserve better than that. Especially at your advanced age,” she added with a chuckle, and I gripped her hand tighter in warning. With a sigh, she added, “It’s hard for me to trust, and I know you’ve never done anything to show me I can’t trust you, but I need time.”
“Then time is what you’ll get.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, offering me a watery smile.
“Now I have a question for you. ”
“Shoot,” I said.
“Were things ever serious with my sister?”
“No,” I answered immediately. “It was just sex, Whiskey. A summer fling. We’re just friends now.”
Delia nodded. “That’s what she’s always said too, but I needed to hear it from you.”
“Turns out, she wasn’t the Delatou sister for me.”
Delia blinked slowly at me. “Are you saying I am?”
I shrugged. “I’m saying you could be if you give us a chance.”
“I’m trying,” she whispered. “But…”
“You need time. I know.”
Delia grinned, her shoulders relaxing, and my entire chest lit up at the sight of it.
I pulled my hand away to take a fortifying sip of my whiskey, then steered the conversation to safer ground.
“You should try exercising,” I said. “It’ll take the edge off.”
Delia’s forehead scrunched in confusion. “Off what?”
“All that pent up energy.”
It was something I was all too familiar with, thanks to the million younger siblings and pushing myself for years with football.
Delia was once again on her feet, lifting my empty glass out of my hand to refill it. As she poured liquid—it looked like the bourbon this time—she glanced at me over her shoulder.
“You talking about sex?” she asked. “You offering?”
I nearly choked on my own spit. Once I’d composed myself by hacking up a lung, I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. Leave it to her to make light of sex right after telling me the story of a man preying on her na?veté and the power he held over her.
“No, like weight lifting. Cardio. Yoga. Normal shit.”
“Sex is normal.”
“Delia,” I sighed, exasperated.
“What? It is! And I prefer it. If I’m going to work out, it should at least feel good.”
“Well clearly, that’s not working for you,” I bit out.
“How do you know?”
“You’re practically vibrating. Every time I see you, you’re a rapidly fraying rope about to snap. And I don’t think that has anything to do with your work-life balance, because you love your job, and you love your life outside of it. Whoever you’ve been fucking”—I thought of TJ’s dweeb ass, though I’d bet all my money they never got that far—“wasn’t doing it right.”
I was playing with fire here, but this conversation was suddenly like a train wreck I couldn’t look away from. I wanted— needed —to see it through.
Delia frowned, propping her fists on the gentle swells of her hips. “I’ll have you know, QB, that I have fabulous sex.”
I smirked, understanding the words for what they were: lies.
And that bothered me. This woman was loud and riotous and way too sexy for her own good. But she was also insightful, loyal, a hell of a business partner, and one of the hardest workers I’d ever known. Beneath her seemingly tough-girl exterior was a soft underbelly of trauma and pain that needed to be handled with care.
If she was mine, she’d never have to lie about being satisfied. It would simply be a reality. But I’d take care of her in other ways too. In all the ways she’d let me.
That was dangerous territory to consider for so many reasons, the least of which being the story she’d just shared with me. This situation itself was too precarious—me and her cozied up in her garage, sampling our spirits. Already, the alcohol buzzed in my veins, setting my nerve endings alight exactly like her eyes did every time they met mine. They were a dangerous combination, the liquor and those caramel depths. I couldn’t afford the inhibitions either would provide if I imbibed too long. Not right now, anyway.
When I took Delia for the first time, it would be because she was clear-headed. Not because alcohol got the best of us.
When I claimed her, we’d both be of sound mind and body.
“Come workout with me one day,” I said.
“Why?”
“Just give it a chance,” I implored. “Who knows, you might like it.”
“I run nearly every day,” she grumbled.
“You run because it keeps you fit and nothing more,” I shot back.
Delia gaped like a fish, and I grinned in satisfaction of having pegged her motivation so easily.
“You checking out the goods, QB?” Delia quipped, turning her hips side to side. But something in her eyes clued me into the fact that how I handled her question mattered in a big way.
“All women’s bodies are beautiful, Whiskey. Yours is no exception. Only a fool would say otherwise.”
Her cheeks heated, and a small, pleased smile danced on her lips. But she recovered quickly, schooling her expression to neutrality. “So what’s wrong with running to stay fit, then? Clearly it’s working.”
“Nothing,” I said, shrugging. “And I’m not saying running isn’t hard. It takes a level of mental fortitude few possess. But clearly it’s not enough to dispel all your excess energy. What I am saying is…don’t you want to be strong too?”
“I am strong.”
I snorted. “Your arms are string beans.” To demonstrate, I looped a palm around her biceps, my thumb easily meeting my fingers.
“I renovated this entire house myself, QB. That takes some level of strength, don’t you think?”
“So prove it,” I dared. “Come workout with me. Just once. See how much better you feel after.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t do it again,” I said. “What’s the harm in trying?”
What was the harm, indeed?