DELILAH WATCHED CLAIRE stare after Josh and Ruby for what felt like a long time. She wanted to drop the sleeping bag she was holding, some mothball-smelling thing that Iris said belonged to Grant, and go over to the other woman and kiss her within an inch of her life, make her forget whatever Josh said or what he might mean to her.
She didn’t.
She pushed her feet into the pine straw–covered ground, forced herself to ignore the panic that laced through her chest like a fire.
Claire wasn’t Jax.
And Claire and Delilah sure as hell weren’t Jax and Delilah. They weren’t together. Weren’t emotional about this. They were fucking; that was it. Secretly, she might do well to remember. The fact that Delilah felt like hitting something right now—hitting, or pulling Claire off into the woods and showing her exactly why Josh wasn’t worth wasting any time on—was purely biological. Something territorial in Delilah was rearing its primitive head. That was all.
That was one hundred percent all this slightly nauseous feeling in her stomach was about.
“She’s been through it with him.”
Delilah blinked, turning to pull a face at Iris, who had come up next to her and was gazing at Claire as well. “What?”
“Josh and Claire. Ruby. They’ve been through a lot.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
Iris lifted a brow. “From?”
Delilah shook her head, but then realized she could tell the truth. “Astrid.”
Iris’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded, then gestured toward Claire. “She deserves something good. Someone good. Someone who really sees her, you know?”
This conversation was not helping her nausea or the tight feeling in her chest.
“So does Astrid,” Iris went on.
“And so do we all. Yes, it’s all so precious and touching,” Delilah said, rolling her eyes.
“Maybe not all of us,” Iris said, but she was smiling and then slapped Delilah on the butt with her water bottle. Delilah couldn’t help but laugh in relief, this slightly bitchy rapport she had with Iris comforting and familiar by now.
“Hey!” Astrid called, glancing at them with an annoyed look on her face. “Are we hiking to the springs or what? Spencer and I want some exercise.”
“Yeah, ladies,” Spencer said, rubbing his palms together. “We didn’t come out here to talk about lip gloss and hair dye.”
“Oh damn,” Iris said, snapping her fingers. “I thought we were giving you a makeover, Spence?”
He laughed. “Not on your life. And it’s Spencer.”
“Sure thing, Spence.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Astrid took his hand and led him into their tent to change, shooting Iris a look over her shoulder as they disappeared inside.
“God, I hate that guy,” Iris said.
“Why? He’s such a peach,” Delilah said as Claire came up next to her. Their arms brushed, and Delilah felt the immediate rush of goose bumps over her skin, Claire’s meadowy scent filling her senses.
She stepped a little closer to Iris. Jesus, she needed to get a grip.
“I guess we should get ready to hike, huh?” Claire asked, folding her arms.
“Maybe there’s a ravine Delilah can push him down,” Iris said.
“Oh sure,” Delilah said, “make me the murderer.”
“You could make it look like an accident.” Iris nudged her arm. “Like the river? Pure brilliance.”
“Um, in case you don’t recall, I also went into the river. I’m not taking a tumble down a ravine to break up a wedding. I’m here to ruin some happiness, not, you know, die.”
“Ruin some happiness?” Claire asked, brow furrowed.
Delilah sucked her teeth. She’d nearly forgotten who she was with. For a second there, it felt like she was simply talking with . . . friends. Bantering. Laughing. Joking. All things she’d never really had before, but Iris and Claire weren’t really her friends. They were Astrid’s.
“Spencer’s,” Delilah said, forcing a smile.
Problem was, Delilah wasn’t even sure what she was doing anymore. Astrid and Isabel had dragged her back to Bright Falls, dangling money and her father’s memory just to exert some sort of sick control over her, and when Claire and Iris wanted to get rid of Spencer, the thought of witnessing the Parker-Greens facing a canceled society wedding was just too delicious to pass up. Now, though, seeing Claire looking at her so sweetly, remembering Astrid’s devastated expression as she’d stared at the unhappy photo of herself by Spencer’s side, verbally sparring with Iris in a way that usually ended in laughter—it all felt like something so much more than a two-week trip to the place she hated most in the world.
It felt like the start of something.
Which couldn’t be right. Her something was in New York City. Her something was huge crowds and dive bars and women whose names she only occasionally remembered. The Whitney. Fellow artists. Potential agents and sales and making a name for herself.
“I’m all about some Spencer-ruining,” Iris said as she unzipped their tent’s door and took the sleeping bag out from under Delilah’s arm, tossing it through the entrance. “I’m going to get changed.”
Then she disappeared, leaving Claire and Delilah alone for the first time since Delilah sneaked out of Claire’s house this morning while the first streaks of light silvered across the sky.
As soon as the door zipped closed, Claire closed her hand around Delilah’s wrist and tugged her across the campsite, behind Josh and Ruby’s tent and out of view. Before Delilah could ask what was going on, Claire’s mouth was on hers, soft and warm. Her arms settled on Delilah’s shoulders, fingers slipping into her hair. Delilah’s hands found Claire’s hips, pulling her closer. She opened to her, tongue sliding over Claire’s like silk, pulling the gentlest moan from Claire’s throat.
God, this woman made her crazy. She felt wild, unhinged, like a horny teenager chasing her next make-out session.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” Claire said when they broke apart.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Another kiss. Another soft moan.
“Better be careful,” Delilah whispered against her mouth, sliding her hands down to Claire’s ample ass. “I’m about to take you right here, right now.”
Claire stiffened and pulled back.
“Calm down. I won’t,” Delilah said.
“That’s not what I . . .” Claire closed her mouth, her eyes searching Delilah’s. “I want to be alone with you.”
Delilah grinned, pressed her mouth to Claire’s neck, growling a little into her skin. “Me too.”
Claire laughed. “Not for that.”
Delilah’s tongue traced a path up to her ear, and Claire sucked in a sharp breath.
“Okay, not only for that,” Claire said. “But I want . . . I want to talk too.”
Delilah pulled back, alarm tightening her stomach. “What about? I won’t tell anyone what we’re doing. I already told you that.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
Claire sighed and pressed her forehead against Delilah’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Delilah said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “What is it?”
Claire lifted her head and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I can tell.”
Claire shook her head. “No really . . . I . . .” Then her brows lifted, just a little. “I want to see that picture. The one you took of me by the river five years ago.”
Delilah’s eyes widened. She had a feeling that’s not at all what Claire actually wanted to talk about, but she let it go. “Really?”
Claire nodded and her arms tightened, hands sliding down Delilah’s back. “Of course I do. You know Iris and I plundered your Instagram, right?”
Heat spilled in Delilah’s cheeks. She still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of anyone other than total strangers roaming through her art.
“I had a feeling,” she said.
Claire frowned. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just weird.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be. You’re really talented, Delilah. Even Iris likes your work. The way you use light and your angles. I don’t know anything about photography, but your stuff . . . I don’t know. It’s emotional. Angry and sad and empowered. It made me feel something.”
Like any artist, Delilah viewed her own work with a dizzying mix of self-loathing and self-aggrandizement, so Claire’s words nestled like an ember deep in her chest and stayed there, glowing warm and bright.
“Really?” she asked.
“Really,” Claire whispered. “Your pieces at the Whitney are going to be breathtaking.” Then she kissed her softly, slowly. That ember in Delilah’s chest flared, igniting into a full flame. In that moment, Delilah didn’t care about secrets or Josh or Astrid or the way Jax had pulverized her heart or how the idea of showing at the Whitney and still not advancing in her career made her want to curl into a fetal position and suck her thumb. She only cared about this, Claire in her arms, whispering things that made Delilah feel seen for the first time in . . .
Shit.
Maybe this was the first time she’d ever felt this seen. Or, no, not this exact moment, but every tiny moment with Claire since she’d been back in Bright Falls—talking with Claire at the bookstore, lying with her in bed at Blue Lily, listening to her talk about her worries over Josh, telling her about Jax, watching how Claire’s eyes literally sparkled when she talked about Ruby. Hell, even letting the woman unknowingly hit on her at Stella’s.
Then last night, her skin, her body, her touch. Just sex that suddenly felt like anything but.
Delilah leaned into the kiss, trying to shut down her thoughts with her mouth, her tongue, her hands sliding into the back pocket of Claire’s shorts.
It didn’t work. Claire, sighing into her mouth, like she was happy. It all swirled in Delilah’s mind like a hurricane gathering strength. She pulled back, needing air, needing space. Needing to get her head back in this casual sex game.
Claire frowned at her. “You okay?”
Delilah didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Zips echoed through the campsite, followed by Spencer’s booming voice directing Astrid to fill up his water bottle.
“Better get this happiness-ruining going,” Delilah said as she turned away, swallowing around the infuriating thickness in her throat.
