At the sound of her name, both Claire’s and Delilah’s heads swung toward the voice. Astrid stood about ten feet away, shucking off her raincoat, no doubt Lululemon or some shit, her mouth running a mile a minute to a redhead—Iris Kelly, the final member of Astrid’s triad—who was already sitting and drinking some clear liquor.
“Oh, there’s my friend,” Claire said. Delilah just hummed, watching her stepsister pour the rest of a bottle of Syrah into what must’ve been Claire’s glass, filling it nearly to the brim.
“Easy, killer,” Delilah heard Iris say.
“She’s a little stressed,” Claire said. “She’s getting married in two weeks.”
Delilah turned to look at Claire, who was still beautifully oblivious. “Is she now?”
Claire nodded, then leaned in and whispered, “To a total douche.”
Delilah’s brows shot up. She hadn’t met Steven . . . Spencer? No, Simon. It was definitely Simon. She hadn’t even laid eyes on him, but this little tidbit of information, coming from one of Astrid’s posse, was . . . interesting.
“Really?” she asked. “How so?”
Claire shrugged. “Spencer’s just”—dammit, it was Spencer—“demanding.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven, then.”
The words slipped out, and Claire frowned, eyes narrowing softly. Her mouth opened, but before she could say anything, Astrid’s voice split between them again.
“You will not believe what my sister did,” Astrid said, taking a long pull of wine. “Well, almost did, but still, it’s just like her to—”
Her tirade cut off as her eyes landed on Delilah.
“Wait . . .” Claire said, leaning back. Delilah watched her, could see the pieces coming together. Her pretty mouth dropped open, and her eyes went wide behind her glasses. “Oh my—”
“Delilah?” Astrid said. She stood up, wineglass still in hand. She was dressed in dark skinny jeans, a fitted white T-shirt, and a tailored black blazer that probably cost more than Delilah’s whole closet. Her blond hair was shoulder-length, shaggy bangs brushing her brows. Gold hoops hung from her ears, and a huge-ass diamond sparkled on her left hand.
“Hey, sis,” Delilah said, then lifted her glass in salute before knocking back the rest of the liquor. She was going to need it.
Chapter Four
CLAIRE’S CHEEKS BURNED as she stared at the woman, whose flirty smile had turned into a full-on smirk. Anger, confusion, surprise—it all streaked through Claire like a flash flood.
This was Delilah? As in Astrid’s reclusive stepsister who took off the second she turned eighteen and never looked back? Or barely looked back, at least. Claire remembered Astrid mentioning Delilah’s promises to come home for Christmas or Thanksgiving each year and then only showing up once or twice. There was that spring trip about five years ago, but Claire didn’t think she even saw Delilah then.
Not that she’d tried to see her. After Delilah had spent their childhood pretty much acting like Astrid didn’t exist, Claire had very little reason or desire to seek the woman out. Besides, about five years ago, Claire was dealing with the fallout of another one of Josh’s disappearing acts, trying to comfort her devastated six-year-old. An earthquake could’ve broken the town in half and she might not have noticed.
She blinked at the woman—at Delilah—trying to figure out how she’d missed it. The tattoos, those were new, and she could actually see her face now, whereas back in high school, Delilah’s hair usually curtained around her features, hiding her from the world. Claire didn’t even think she knew what color eyes Astrid’s stepsister had, but now, she could see them clear as day.
Blue.
Like, sapphire blue. Dark and deep and fixed on Claire, a challenge in the set of her straight brows.
“Good to see you again, Claire,” Delilah said as she set her now-empty glass on the bar.
Claire tried to think of something to say back, something smart and pithy, but all that came out was a brilliant “Uhhh . . .” as Delilah hopped off the stool and slid into a dark gray jacket. Claire’s pulse was still in her throat, her breath fluttering in her chest from the woman’s mouth brushing up against her ear.
Delilah. Delilah Green’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” Astrid said as Delilah made her way over to the table.
“I’m drinking,” Delilah said.
“Holy shit, you look different,” Iris said.
“And you look exactly the same,” Delilah said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Iris said, grinning up at her.
Delilah shrugged and took a sip of Astrid’s wine. Claire was still frozen by the bar, her fingers clammy on her own glass. She went back through the night, every moment since she saw Delilah walk into Stella’s. Was she that into the woman that she hadn’t made the connection? Clearly, because she still felt the tiniest thrum between her legs, an ache that started up the second Delilah had turned to face her, knees spread wide and taking up all the space in the world she wanted. The complete opposite of high school Delilah Green.
The complete opposite of grown-up Claire Sutherland, if she was being honest.
She shook her head, swallowed back the last of her bourbon, and walked over to the group.
“How was your flight?” Astrid asked her stepsister.
Delilah laughed. “We don’t have to do this.”
Astrid blinked, but then her mouth tightened. “Fine. Good night. You’ll be there tomorrow?”
Delilah sighed, took another hearty swig of Astrid’s wine. “You emailed me the itinerary for the next two weeks. Three times. I know where to be.”
“I don’t know what you know.”
“See you tomorrow at noon,” Delilah said as she took one more sip.
“Oh shit,” Iris said. Even Claire tensed. Astrid made sure the week’s itinerary was burned into all of their brains, and noon was definitely not the right answer here.
Predictably, Astrid’s face contorted. “It’s ten. Ten a.m. for the brunch at Vivian’s Tearoom. Remember? Delilah, tell me you remember.”
From behind the wineglass, Delilah smiled, and Claire nearly screamed at her. She was playing Astrid like a fiddle.
“Ugh, just be there, okay?” Astrid said, snatching her drink back. A bit of red wine sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the rough wooden table.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Delilah said smoothly, then started for the door with her suitcase. She glanced at Claire once, something flaring in her eyes Claire couldn’t name. Claire lifted her chin, trying to appear completely unaffected, like she openly hit on her best friend’s sister on the regular and, of course, she knew who Delilah was the whole time. But then Delilah lifted a brow and pursed her lips as if to call bullshit, and Claire was the first one to look away.