“Hey,” Claire said.
“Hey, yourself,” Astrid said back as she came closer. She was wearing a strapless ivory jumpsuit with wide legs, sleek and expensive. Ironically, it paired perfectly with Delilah’s own strapless black jumpsuit.
The angel and the devil.
If Astrid noticed, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she air-kissed Claire’s cheeks while she side-eyed her stepsister.
“You made it,” she said to Delilah.
“Miraculously,” Delilah said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you remembered where it was.”
Delilah just tilted her head at her stepsister. “Point me toward the champagne tower?”
“There isn’t one,” Astrid said, her tone laced with venom.
“Pity.”
“Okay, so,” Claire said brightly, “everything’s set up outside?”
Astrid seemed to unclench and nodded, so Delilah let herself shift into professional mode and mentally ran through the lens she’d need for that kind of light. The champagne tower incident was therapeutic, but she wouldn’t put it past Isabel to fire her ass, and at the end of the day, she had to get paid. A fact Astrid knew full well.
Wisteria House had a huge backyard, flat and green with a pool area just below the porch and a vast space of green lawn that rolled down into the banks of Bright River. There was a dock with a couple of Adirondack chairs set up, a little skiff that Isabel strictly forbade anyone from using when they were kids, and a tire swing that hung from the huge oak whose thick branches arched over the silver-blue water.
“Any particular shots you want me to get?” Delilah asked, but before Astrid could answer, a man appeared around the corner in dark gray pants and a blue button-down, both of which had that very expensive sheen to them. He was tall and lean, his golden blond hair cut short on the side and a little longer on top. He sauntered toward them, hands in his pockets until he reached Astrid, then he hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her closer.
“There you are, babe,” he said, while Delilah watched his fingers dig into Astrid’s hips. She fought an eye roll—cishet white men and their proprietary pet names.
Astrid, though, immediately curled into his side, putting a hand on his chest. “Spencer, this is Delilah.”
His eyebrows rose. “Delilah, huh?”
“In the flesh,” Delilah said. She didn’t lift her hand to shake his. For his part, though, neither did he.
“I never thought I’d have the pleasure,” he said, but he didn’t give Delilah time to respond to that little tidbit. Instead, he turned to Astrid, hoisting her closer, and said, “I need more champagne, babe. Help a guy out?”
“Sure, of course,” Astrid said, then looked at Claire and Delilah. “Do you two want some as well?”
“God, yes,” Delilah said, but it echoed. She looked at Claire as she realized they’d both said the exact same thing at the same time. Claire laughed.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Astrid said, her brow furrowed. “Coming right up.”
She click-clacked toward the kitchen while Spencer just stood there watching her go, his legs wide and his hands on his hips.
“She’s a good girl,” he said, and Delilah’s jaw clenched even tighter.
“I think you mean woman,” she said. Claire shifted, her shoulder just touching Delilah’s.
Spencer turned back to them. “Excuse me?”
“Woman.” Delilah waved to where Astrid had disappeared into the kitchen. “Astrid, your fiancée, is a woman. Nearly thirty years old, if I recall correctly.”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, but then he smiled. “Astrid said you were . . . fiery.”
“And Astrid said next to nothing about you.” The words just came out, rude tone and all. She heard Claire’s quiet intake of breath and knew she should shut up—she was on thin ice with Isabel already—but something about this guy felt like sandpaper rubbed over a sunburn. No one could ever accuse Delilah of feeling affection for her stepsister, but she felt even less for assholes who so obviously wielded their dicks like swords.
His smile didn’t budge, his stance still space-taking. Finally, he swung his gaze to Claire, eyes flicking to her chest for a split second and then back to her eyes. “Good to see you, Claire.”
“You too, Spencer,” Claire said, her voice like stone.
And then he sauntered down the hall until he reached the back door, disappearing onto the porch, where a dozen human-shaped shadows undulated in the dusky light.
Next to her, Claire exhaled so heavily, Delilah was sure she’d crumple to the ground. She shook out her hands and shivered. Delilah watched her, waiting to see what else she’d do.
Claire caught her looking and shook her head. “Sorry. I just . . . well, now you’ve met Spencer.”
“Is he always such a dick?”
Claire stilled. “Is he a dick?”
“Um, hell yes,” Delilah said.
“God.” Claire clutched her stomach. “I’m so glad to hear someone other than Iris and me say that.”
“It’s not obvious to literally everyone?”
Claire deflated, her shoulders slumping south. “Well, Astrid’s one of the smartest people I know, and she’s marrying him.”
Delilah wrinkled her nose.
“Plus,” Claire went on, “Iris and I have really only hung out with the two of them a few times. If she’s not with us, they do their own thing. I was hoping he’d grow on me as time went on.”
“How’d she meet him?”
“She redesigned his office late last fall. He’d just moved here from Portland, took over Dr. Latimer’s practice after he retired.”
“Dr. Latimer only just retired last year?”
Claire laughed. “God, I know, he had to have been in his seventies when we were in high school.”
“At least.”
“Anyway, Spencer asked Astrid out after the job was done in January. Iris and I met him a couple weeks after their first date, and they were engaged two months later.”
“Two months? Jesus. So they’ve only been engaged since March?” Delilah now remembered when Astrid called her about photographing the wedding—it had been cool in New York, winter just loosening its hold over the city.
“I know, right?” Claire said. “It took her a year to pick out a couch for her living room.”