I wonder, briefly, what else I don’t know, and then I push the thought away.
I know Delilah’s family is beyond rich and into the realm of wealthy, and I also know she feels weird about it even though it obviously benefits her. The vast majority of people can’t drop out of college once and art school twice, then open their own business debt-free and she knows it.
Anyway, she owns a condo, as do all three of her sisters. Her parents own the penthouse upstairs. There’s a whole Radcliffe wing of this place.
As someone whose family vacations almost always involved tents, I feel a little out of my element.
“You forgot I didn’t know you owned a condo in a ski resort?” I ask, still walking. This place is huge. “Tell me now if you’ve got a private island somewhere.”
“I don’t think so,” she muses. Pauses. Then: “The condo was a gift, actually.”
Hell of a gift.
“From your parents?”
Delilah drinks the last sip of her champagne, then stops at a door near the end of the hall.
“It was a wedding present,” she says, pulling out the key. “It sort of became a tradition, because then Winona and Olivia and Ava also got condos when they got married and now there’s a whole compound up here.”
She pushes the door open, walks in, looks at me over her shoulder.
“Voila!”
This was his. This place belonged to him. He stayed here, he slept here. He sat on that couch. He ate in this kitchen and all this was his and now I’m here, in the place he’s already possessed and left.
“I know it’s kind of a lot,” Delilah is saying as she tosses the keys on the counter, hangs her coat on a row of hooks near the door. “But I actually don’t come here much and we mostly rent it out, and there’s a certain look that people really want in their slope side ski condo.”
I finally unzip my coat, hang it next to hers.
“I guess you got it in the divorce?” I say, hoping I sound casual.
There’s a stone fireplace, a huge flat-screen TV, leather couches. A kitchen with marble counters and a huge stainless steel fridge. It’s all sleek and rustic at the same time, all perfectly matching. It doesn’t look a thing like Delilah’s house.
“Well, technically it’s owned by the Radcliffe Family Trust, not me,” she says, crossing her arms and surveying it. “So it wasn’t up for grabs in the divorce because it never became joint property. He kept his beach house in the Outer Banks, I kept this place.”
“It’s a hell of a place,” I say, and she just laughs.
I’m not jealous of Nolan, her ex-husband. Not exactly. The truth is that I don’t know the word for how I feel about the man who married the girl I was in love with, who got the huge wedding and the big house in the suburbs and even the cute dog. The man who apparently had a beach house of his own and God knows what else.
It’s hard not to feel inadequate sometimes, like I’m unversed in all this rich people shit. It’s hard not to see that I don’t fit as neatly into her life as someone with his own beach house.
“I’m probably lucky that Vera and my dad didn’t take it away again after I got divorced,” she says, walking into the living room and looking at our suitcases, left there by some silent, helpful being. “Ava had a bedroom in their penthouse until a month and a half ago. I sound insane, don’t I?”
“Should I really answer that?” I tease.
“I just mean that I wish it had been, I don’t know, a graduation present or a birthday present or anything besides a wedding present,” she says. “As if getting a man is the only thing that really matters and everything else is just fluff. Oh, good, there’s an itinerary. I was afraid we might be left to our own devices for more than an hour here and there.”
There’s a sheet of paper on the table. Delilah grabs it, and I follow, reading over her shoulder and forcing myself to stop thinking about how many times her ex-husband ate at this table.
He’s gone. I’m here. That’s all that matters, right?
“We’re expected at happy hour this evening, and that one’s labeled casual attire,” she says. “Then after that is dinner in the Ridgeline Suite — that’s Dad and Vera’s penthouse — also casual attire, as is Family Game Night afterward —”
I pull the sheet of paper from her hands and spin her to face me.
“Delilah, it’s okay,” I tell her. “Whatever you think I think of you right now, I don’t. I don’t care if the toilet is made of gold and the fireplace is lined with diamonds.”
She smiles, and I swear her shoulders relax an inch.
“I’m pretty sure they’re not,” she says. “But thank you.”
“I can’t believe I’m trying to make you feel better about being rich.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite kept man,” she teases, so I lean in and kiss her, and she’s warm and soft and rises on her toes to meet me, and all that makes it easy to forget everything else about this and focus on her.
“Which one’s our bedroom?” I ask when it’s over.
“First left,” she points. “It’s the one with rubies and emeralds studding the walls.”
I give her a look.
“Kidding,” she grins. “Just a big-ass TV.”
I pick up both of our suitcases and carry them to the bedroom. Sure, they’ve got wheels, but I prefer lifting them because I know she’s watching and I know what Delilah likes.
The master bedroom does have a huge flat screen, along with another stone fireplace and a four-poster bed that’s the biggest bed I’ve seen in my life. There’s a sitting area and an en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub and a shower that’s got an entire wall of buttons, one of which probably makes the New York Philharmonic show up to play you Vivaldi while you shower.
She’s standing in the doorway, watching me, and because of that I take an extra moment before putting the suitcases down, one by one.
“Yes?” I finally ask.
“Just trying to think of more heavy things you could lift while I watch,” she teases.
“Excuse me, miss, my eyes are up here.”
“Mhm. Pick up the suitcases again?” she says, grinning.
“I can’t believe you’re objectifying me like this,” I say, crossing the room toward her. “Keep it up and I’m sleeping in the other bedroom.”
“Would that involve carrying the suitcase some more?”
“Don’t tell me you’d pick that over getting to snuggle this hunk of burning love all night,” I say.
She’s still leaning against the door frame, and she reaches out, grabs the fabric of my t-shirt in one hand, tugs me closer as she looks up at me. My heart spins in my chest, dizzy.
“No, but I’d get to watch you pick up a heavy thing now, and we’re not sleeping until later,” she says, still tugging. “And waiting for what I want is so hard.”
I don’t answer her, just take her chin in my hand, run my thumb along the valley just below her bottom lip and as I do, Delilah tilts her head up, deep brown eyes looking right into mine.
“Worth it, but hard,” she says.