Smolder (Wildwood 2)

She had a lot to be thankful for: her business, her friends. Her family was in good health, and she had a roof over her head, a decent car to drive, and a little bit of money in the bank. She firmly believed she’d never looked better—even in high school, and she remembered thinking she was hot shit back then.

Dancing five days a week for hours at a time helped keep her in shape. She also tried her best to eat right to be a good example for her students. Oh, she adored junk food like the rest of them, but didn’t want her girls to shove a bag of chips down their throats before they came into their jazz class. She was trying to teach them good habits as best she could.

Really, she was trying her best to do everything right, especially after moving through her early twenties with little focus and no direction. Slipping up was part of being human, but right now, she wanted to keep on the right track.

The only thing lacking was her love life. As in, it was nonexistent. She told herself time and again that she didn’t need a man. She had a vibrator and she secretly partook in a porn clip here and there to remind herself what it was like being with a man and not a sex toy, visually at least. It had been a while since she’d had a flesh-and-blood man between her legs.

Porn and vibrators really didn’t cut it though. She wasn’t even thirty yet and her nights were spent curled up on the couch, binge-watching TV series she really didn’t care about. Or she read.

She dated no one. Men were slim pickings in Wildwood, especially since she’d known the majority of them as long as she could remember.

Truly, her sex life should be off-the-charts amazing. She was the most flexible person she knew. The things she could do with her legs were kind of unreal. She could rock a man’s world . . . if he’d only let her.

More like if only Lane would let her. Despite his countless rejections, his endless supply of excuses, she couldn’t quit him. She refused to. And now, more than ever, he might need her. If only he would open his heart and mind and let her in. She’d help him out. Be there for him when he was feeling weak. When he needed support.

Did he know she’d be there for him? Probably not. Maybe she needed to go to him and tell him. Or even better—show him.

Hmm.

An idea sparked as she climbed into her car and started the engine. She knew just what to do to gain his attention. Let him know that she’d be there for him no matter what.

First though, she needed to make sure he’d be receptive to her approach.

Chapter Five

SNEAKING INTO A man’s house while he slept through the afternoon was probably not the smartest thing Delilah had ever done. Especially considering that the man was a deputy sheriff. As in, he wore a badge and carried a gun.

If he thought she was some sort of prowler breaking into his house, he’d shoot first and ask questions later, right? But what would-be robber would break into someone’s house to cook a meal?

That’s exactly what she was doing too. Cooking the one thing she was really good at: her grandma’s fried chicken. It was messy and it wasn’t even close to being healthy, but damn it, fried chicken was comfort food.

And her grandma’s fried chicken was absolutely delicious. As in, longtime residents of Wildwood still talked about her fried chicken and Delilah’s granny had been dead for almost ten years.

Delilah had gone straight home, showered quickly, twisted her wet hair into a tight bun, slipped on her prettiest sundress, and then went to the grocery store where she picked up all the pertinent ingredients for tonight’s meal, including a bottle of white wine. She’d already cracked it open and was drinking as she made a complete mess of Lane’s kitchen.

She hoped he knew she planned on cleaning up everything. Frying chicken was messy business. Seriously, there was flour everywhere, and the entire place reeked like fried food. The hot oil had spotted the tiled backsplash no matter how careful she was when she dunked the chicken into the pan. It had been a while since she made fried chicken, and the process reminded her why.

If her chicken turned out dry and awful, she was going to smack herself.

Despite the noise and the smells, for whatever reason Lane still hadn’t come out of his bedroom. The man could sleep like the dead. His brothers and Wren had always messed with him when they were younger, drawing mustaches or rude body parts on his face while he slept. The realistic penis West had drawn close to Lane’s mouth in black Sharpie would live forever in infamy considering Delilah knew West had a photo stashed away for blackmail purposes.

Delilah remembered drawing on Lane’s face herself once, back when she and West were going out. She also recalled taking advantage of Lane sprawled out on the family couch to thoroughly examine him, noting just how handsome he’d become.

West had still been a gangly teenage boy back then, but Lane? He’d looked like a full-blown man: his broad chest stretching his T-shirt tight, the gold-tipped stubble lining his cheeks and jaw making her skin tingle while she drew a daisy on his cheek.

She’d looked at Lane differently ever since. And the longer she’d looked, the more her attraction had grown.

To the point of doing insane things—like breaking into his house and using his kitchen to make him dinner without his permission.

Moving away from the frying pan, she went to the oven and cracked it open to check on the red potatoes that were baking. Another not-so-healthy dish. She’d smothered the cut-up potatoes in butter and garlic salt just like her mom had. They were looking good, but they wouldn’t be ready until the edges were golden brown. Crispy, just like the chicken.

At least she was counterbalancing all of this caloric food with the fresh green salad she’d made when she first arrived. It was now sitting in Lane’s giant—and mostly empty—refrigerator. He had a nice house and a very nice kitchen, but she could tell he barely spent any time here. It was too clean. The entire place had that unlived-in look that anyone would recognize. She’d been here more than a few times over the years, but had she ever really paid attention to the fine details? The lack of photographs. The rather sterile atmosphere.

His house was large and filled with furniture but it felt . . .

Empty.

And that made her sad.