One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

We’ve been in lust for years. Time to try something new.

“Reservations are at six-thirty,” I tell her, taking off my coat and scarf and hanging them on the rack.

“I know, you keep reminding me,” she laughs, pushing herself off the railing and disappearing, her voice getting dimmer. “You’re the one who was early!”

“I’m not that early,” I say, and glance at the clock on my phone.

Ten minutes barely counts as early, but I quit arguing and head into Delilah’s house.

It’s a surprise.

Maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe I, of all people, should know that a proper, staid exterior can hide a whimsical, airy interior, but I didn’t even think about it.

The outside of her house is an old farmhouse, the same as every other old farmhouse around here: two stories, white siding, Adirondack chairs on the front porch. Windows. A door.

But inside it’s open to the roof beams, the soaring ceiling clearly responsible for the odd acoustics. The entire ground floor is open, nothing but an island separating the kitchen from the living room. The back wall is glass almost floor-to-ceiling. One corner has a fireplace set in smooth black stones that go all the way up the wall.

The staircase leads to a second-floor landing that overlooks the living room, one of the doors slightly ajar. I can’t really see inside from this angle, but despite myself I sure do try.

Everything here is bright. It’s eclectic. Hanging from the ceiling is a chandelier made of what looks like driftwood. The coffee table is glass and steel. The couch is deep brown leather, flanked on one side by a sleek, modern steel lamp, and on the other by a lamp shaped like a hula girl. The wall next to the fireplace is floor-to-ceiling with framed art: paintings and photographs and drawings. Prints. A vintage-looking poster for the Ringling Brothers.

I stand there for a moment, looking around, soaking it in. Even if I’ve never been in here before, it feels oddly familiar and comforting. Like it’s a home I never knew I had.

Upstairs, a hair dryer starts, and I head into Delilah’s kitchen. It matches her living room: a breakfast nook with benches upholstered in bright floral fabrics, wall above it covered in art, windows looking out onto her front porch. White cabinets, marble countertops.

After a few tries, I find her liquor cabinet. Delilah’s selection is unusual, but I like a challenge, so I push up my sleeves and get to work.

I’m just pouring my concoction into the glasses I found when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Moments later, she walks into the living room.

I almost knock a glass over.

“I meant grab a beer and sit on the couch,” she says, laughing. “You didn’t have to play bartender.”

I just shrug and glance at my hand so I can make sure I’m putting the cocktail shaker down squarely on the counter and not dropping it into empty space or something.

“I had to do something while I waited,” I tease, still staring.

She’s wearing a dress, the bright green of fancy olives. It’s high-necked, long-sleeved, knee-length. It’s tied around the waist and moves with her and even though this dress is modest enough to wear to a meeting with the Pope, I feel like it was designed specifically to remind me of what’s under it.

Her hair’s down, her mane tumbling past her shoulders. Gray tights, brown boots. Freckles on her face, her neck, her forearms when she pushes up her sleeves and leans against the far side of the kitchen island.

I tear my eyes away long enough to crack open a can of seltzer that I found in her fridge.

“What are they?” she asks, raising one eyebrow. “I didn’t know I had ingredients for… anything.”

“A creation of my own devising,” I tell her, pouring the seltzer. “Sweet vermouth, rum, a splash of lime, a little grenadine, and soda. Oh, and celery bitters.”

“Fascinating,” she says, putting her chin in one hand. “You think it’s a good idea to make us drinks?”

I give each glass one quick stir and push one toward her.

“I’ve got no idea what you mean,” I say, holding mine up. “I’m just a near-stranger who you let rummage through your kitchen. Besides, they’re pretty weak.”

She lifts her glass, clinks it gently against mine and we both take sips. Delilah raises one eyebrow.

“Huh,” she says, thoughtfully, as we both lower our glasses.

“Well,” I say. “It’s not bad.”

“I didn’t know I had vermouth or celery bitters,” she says. “Would you believe I don’t actually drink that often?”

“Based on what I found, yes,” I say. “For the record, you’ve also got Creme de Menthe and tequila, but I couldn’t work those in.”

“Thank God.”

We both take another sip. The second one is better.

“Do I get a tour?” I ask.

Delilah scoops one hand under the glass, holds it from the bottom.