“Well, you’re not hers.”
Delilah’s eyebrows popped up. “You don’t think so?”
“No way.”
“That’s not what it felt like last night.”
Astrid straightened even more, if that was possible. She was like a dry twig in the winter, ready to snap. “What about last night?”
Delilah shrugged and turned back to the mirror. “Just, you know.”
“No, I don’t. Claire would never go for you.”
Now, that stung a bit, but Delilah tried not to let it show. She fiddled with her hair a bit more, twirling an errant curl by her ear into the right pattern. “And why not?”
Astrid laughed, a bitter sound. “Um, because she actually likes people?”
Delilah’s mouth dropped open, a clever retort right on the tip of her tongue, but nothing came out. It took her a second to get her composure back, to remind herself that she needed the money from this job, that she wasn’t the same girl she’d been in high school, that she didn’t need Astrid’s fucking approval, and that Claire Sutherland had very clearly been into her last night.
A fact she had no doubt would drive Astrid absolutely crazy, not to mention Isabel, who adored Claire and Iris like they were her own. And here came the big, bad dyke Delilah Green to corrupt her sweet little girls. God, that woman must’ve really loved her father to have wanted Delilah at the wedding.
“I think I’m exactly Claire Sutherland’s type,” she said.
“I just meant she’s not into casual, Del. And . . . well, you are.”
Delilah gritted her teeth. She hated when Astrid called her Del. Her stepsister hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true, at least as far as she knew. She’d never told Astrid about Jax, whom Delilah met seven years ago at a queer wedding she was working. What started as a standard hookup with the maid of honor led to Delilah falling hard and fast for the first and only time in her life, a shared apartment in Brooklyn within six months, and dreams of years spent entangled on the couch watching movies and rushing home from a job to kiss a familiar mouth.
Jax, as it turned out, had other dreams.
Before her, Delilah hadn’t done relationships. And after . . . well, she definitely didn’t do them after. They simply weren’t worth it, and Jax had made it clear Delilah wasn’t worth it either, even after nearly two years together. Delilah liked sex though. She loved sex, and New York City was full of queer people just like her, women and enbys who simply wanted that—skin and breath and mouths, one night with someone else filling your bed without a single sticky string attached.
But Astrid, her sister, part of the tangle of reasons Delilah didn’t do relationships in the first place, telling her she could never get someone like Claire Sutherland? The implication made her feel like she was fourteen again, an oddball, Astrid and the girls standing around the kitchen and laughing.
Delilah turned around. “You’re wrong.”
Astrid shook her head. “Leave her alone, okay? She’s been through enough.”
Delilah frowned. She remembered hearing Claire had a kid young, didn’t go to college like the rest of the coven, and stayed in Bright Falls to run her family’s bookstore. Oh, damn, yeah, that was rough, having a job and a roof over your head and a successful business. “All the more reason for her to have a little fun.”
“Just drop it, will you? Let’s go.”
But she didn’t want to drop it. She wanted to be right. For once, she wanted to win against Astrid Parker, to be someone other than the woman who needed her stepsister’s money to pay her rent this month, the girl on the outside. Even the whisper of a victory, ghoulish little Delilah Green wooing one of Astrid’s perfect princesses into her bed, felt like a drug in her veins.
“Let’s make a bet,” she said.
“A bet,” Astrid said, her voice flat.
“I’ll bet you I can get Claire to realize I’m exactly her type by your wedding.”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? I’m not betting on my best friend’s love life. What’s even in that for me?”
“Winning? Being right? I know you love that.”
“I’ve already won,” Astrid said. “She’d never do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because she loves me and she’s my best friend, two concepts I know are completely foreign to you.”
She spit the words, and they had their desired effect, Delilah’s lungs feeling suddenly airless. She didn’t let on, though, keeping her face perfectly passive as she got herself together inwardly.
Besides, this time, Astrid Parker was wrong. True, Delilah hadn’t expected her to actually take the bet, but it was enough that it was out there, a challenge that Delilah was damn sure she was going to win, especially since Claire was the one who started this whole thing last night at Stella’s, fluttering her lashes at Delilah the way she did.
“Can we just go already?” Astrid said. Delilah smiled at her reflection in the mirror, pulling on one of the armholes of her shirt to reveal just a little more side boob.
Astrid huffed through her nose before spinning and all but stomping back into the bedroom.
“Ready,” Delilah singsonged, looping her camera bag over her shoulder.
“Here,” Astrid said, shoving the coffee cup at her stepsister.
Delilah took a sip of the drink, the bitterness of plain black coffee making her shudder. Most definitely not her favorite.
* * *
WHERE THE KALEIDOSCOPE Inn was drenched in flowers, Vivian’s Tearoom in downtown Bright Falls was drowning in crystal. Chandeliers, salt and pepper shakers on the white linen–covered tables, vases full of cream-colored mini calla lilies, and flickering ivory candles inside round crystalline globes as the centerpieces. Everything was cream, white, ivory, or gold, as though an elite wedding planner came in and projectile vomited all over the place.
Delilah had only been inside the room for a total of thirty seconds before Isabel descended.
“There she is,” her stepmother said. Delilah braced herself but soon realized Isabel wasn’t even talking to her.
She was talking to Astrid.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, dear?” Isabel said, gliding over like a bat through her cave. She was dressed in an ivory pantsuit—the color matched Astrid’s dress perfectly, because of course it did—and three-inch ivory pumps. The woman was already a solid five feet nine without her precious stilettos and pushing sixty years old, but god forbid she ever went anywhere without heels. No, Isabel Parker-Green had to positively tower over her minions, or else they might just forget their place.