I crumple the foil together with the wire cage, put it on a mirror-top side table, and give her a questioning look.
She laughs.
“I just told the bartender the bride asked for it,” she says. “It’s late, I’m a bridesmaid, they assume I want it for official wedding reasons.”
“What possible official wedding reason would your sister have for wanting an unopened bottle of champagne?” I ask, turning the bottle in my hands.
“She had monogrammed plates made for the two of them, so they could eat their first meal as husband and wife on something special,” she says. “At this point, no one questions her.”
I glance along the atrium: slim side tables against the wall, flower vases on top, windows, lighting sconces with electric candles.
“Think I could put a light out?” I ask, gesturing at one with the champagne bottle.
“If I say no, will that just make you more determined to try?”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“Seth, if you break something I was never here,” she says, but she’s laughing, still holding two plates of wedding cake. “I swear I’ll leave you here to deal with Vera all on your own, may God have mercy on your soul.”
I grin at her, then take the cork in one hand and twist.
“You’re no fun,” I tell her as it pops off into my palm.
“I’m just trying to be a good big sister and not ruin Ava’s wedding,” she says as I tilt the bottle to my mouth and drink. “God knows I’ve probably come close.”
It’s good, cold and fizzy and stiff. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand when I lower the bottle, then look over at her.
“What did you do?”
Delilah holds out one of the plates of wedding cake, so I put the champagne bottle on the side table and take it.
“I haven’t had my blowout fight with Vera yet, if that’s what you mean,” she says, picking up her own fork.
“Of course not,” I tell her. “You’re here, not shoveling the horse stables back at the estate.”
Delilah snorts.
“She’s a regular stepmother, not an evil fairy tale stepmother,” she says. “I’m not exactly Cinderella. This dress wasn’t made by mice and birds.”
“Good. I’m not exactly Prince Charming,” I say, which is an odd thing to say to your friend because didn’t Cinderella and Prince Charming fall in love? Didn’t they kiss at midnight and live happily ever after?
Delilah clears her throat.
“Sorry about the date thing,” she says.
I lift a piece of wedding cake into my mouth and try to really, really focus on it though the whiskey and champagne are making it hard.
It tastes like… cake?
“You’re right,” I say, scooping another forkful. “I’m not your date. I’m just some guy who happens to be seated next to you at this wedding.”
“I was so right that you came out here and missed the whole shoe game?” she says. “Not to mention the cake cutting. The server spatula thing was monogrammed. Made the whole ceremony feel super romantic.”
“I needed some air,” I say, and eat another bite.
Delilah takes a step back until she’s against the wall, then sighs, leans back, looks at the ceiling.
“Seth,” she says after a moment. “Would you like to be my date to my little sister’s wedding?”
I eat another forkful and pretend to think.
“When is it?”
She just looks over at me.
“I think I’m busy that day,” I tell her.
“You’re impossible,” she laughs. “Come on, there’ll be good whiskey and you can drink champagne straight from the bottle.”
“Can I drink the whiskey straight from the bottle?”
“What were you, raised by wolves?”
“I’m not the one who brought champagne and no glasses,” I point out.
Delilah steps closer, reaches around me, puts her empty cake plate on the side table. I stack mine on hers as she takes the bottle.
“I only have two hands, and I figured you’d prefer cake to manners,” she says, taking a long drink.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the dancing, or the way she’s lit or maybe it’s everything, but there’s something fierce and defiant and beautiful in the way she moves, drinking champagne straight from the bottle.
When she finishes she wipes the corner of her mouth with the pad of one finger, the movement delicate, precise, oddly graceful for the moment.
“Here,” I say, and swipe at my own lower lip. “You’ve got icing.”
She runs a finger along the outer edge, raises her eyebrows at me.
“Almost. Closer to the corner.”
Delilah tries again, misses. I shake my head, and she tries again.
It’s nothing. It’s the barest pink streak of icing, almost unnoticeable, certain to come off of its own accord in the next few minutes. I should just tell her it’s gone and move on, but I don’t.
I reach my hand toward her, stop an inch before her chin.
“Can I?” I ask.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I flick one finger along the edge of her mouth. She’s soft and warm and I’m teetering on the edge, standing on a cliff, staring down into a pool I promised I wouldn’t dive into.
But I could. I could dive right now, ignore the rocks at the bottom, let the cold water submerge me and knock the air from my lungs just one more time.
Without thinking I stick my finger in my mouth, lick it off. I take the bottle from her hand, drink again.
She’s staring, and her gaze feels like molten steel sliding down my body. Good. Delilah can stare at me all she wants, especially when I’ve had this much whiskey.
“Think you can still dance?” I ask, handing the bottle back.
“I think champagne only ever makes me a better dancer,” she says, drinking.
She turns her head to the side. I watch her from a foot away, unashamedly, unabashedly, too drunk to care if she notices and too cognizant of the past to worry about her reaction.
I’ve spent far too much time with my face between her thighs to care that she knows I think she’s pretty.
Behind the lace over her chest, in her slight cleavage, there’s an odd, hard shadow. She pulls the bottle from her mouth, wipes her lip with one finger.
“You got a new tattoo,” I say, pointing at my own chest.
“Shit,” she says, and looks down, pulling at the lace. “You can see it?”
“Only a little.”
She hands the bottle back, lifts the lace away from her chest, looks into her dress.
“Where?”
“Further down.”
She pokes gently at her chest, like she’s afraid to touch it.
“Further,” I prompt, and she glances up at me.
“Don’t watch,” she says, though she’s half-laughing. “This is unladylike.”
“I’ve never seen that before.”
“C’mon.”
Ever the gentleman, I turn my back, take another drink of champagne.
“What is it?” I ask the flowers on the side table.
There’s a pause.
“Nothing,” she says.