“You don’t even know what all we talked about.” Delilah playfully smacks my chest.
“I don’t need to know. Carissa is a liar. She lies.” I shrug as I state the facts. “And I’m only going to say one more thing before we move on because I’m not going to sit here and talk about the woman who made my life hell for the past three goddamned years.”
“Okay, fine. What is it?”
“Next time you’re in my house, do not open my door and let random people inside.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little presumptive?”
I scratch my temple, brows up. “What am I presuming?”
“That I’m going to be a regular fixture over here.” Her elbow is bent, resting on the arm of the loveseat as she situates herself farther away.
“Because you’ve only been here a couple days and already you can’t stay away from me.”
She rolls her eyes, trying not to smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, de la Cruz. I only came here with cookies to make a peace offering, not because I couldn’t get enough of bumping into you all over Laguna Palms.”
De la Cruz.
She’s warming up to me.
“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” I tease.
Her eyes squint and her nose wrinkles. She’s horrible at pretending she’s mad at me, but I’ll let it go because she’s so fucking adorable looking all scrunch-faced.
“I kind of look forward to it . . . if I’m being honest,” I say.
Our stares catch.
Her expression softens, her lips move, but nothing comes out.
Boom.
That’s how it’s done.
“I just want us to get along.” Her request seems gentler now. “I don’t want to spend my summer worrying about fifty thousand ways to avoid you every time I step outside.”
“Then don’t. Don’t avoid me. Embrace this as what it is.”
Her chin rests against her hand as she studies me. “Dare I ask what you think this is?”
“Do I really need to say it? Isn’t it obvious?”
Delilah releases a heavy breath. “Clearly it isn’t or else I wouldn’t be asking.”
“You want to fuck me.” I can’t help but grin ear to ear like an arrogant asshole because I know I’ve nailed it.
It’s going to happen.
She’s going to lick her lips and blush and act like she’s all indecisive, and then I’ll move in for the kill.
Screw Coach’s orders.
I can break the rules just this once.
Just for her.
“Go to hell.” Delilah rises, throwing a couch pillow in my face and storming toward the door. It slams, and I watch from the living room loveseat as she marches back to Rue’s house.
Chapter 7
Delilah
My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out my thoughts, and my feet carry me down the sidewalk with quick, determined steps. It’s a good thing the agent and buyer are gone already because I need to get inside Rue’s house and take a minute to figure out why the hell I ran out of there scared shitless when all Zane did was speak the truth.
I do want to fuck him.
So badly.
I want to fuck Zane de la Cruz so badly it scares me.
And I didn’t even realize it until he just put it out there like that.
My body was all, “Yes! Do me right here, right now! Slap my ass and pull my hair while you’re at it.” And my head was all, “Absolutely not! This guy is an asshole, get the hell out of here immediately unless you want to be yet another one of Zane de la Cruz’s many conquests.”
My defense mechanism kicked in, and I bolted, and now I’m standing at Rue’s door, trying the security code over and over and getting a red light instead of a green one.
He’s the antithesis of the kind of man I’m usually drawn toward, and I know he could crush my heart in two seconds flat if I so much as entertained any kind of mutually beneficial, physical situation he might be seeking.
And Rue.
Damn it.
Rue would be so upset with me. And she’d literally chop off his balls. And that’s just not something I want to be responsible for.
I try the code one last time, slower now, pressing the keys harder, and waiting a full one-Mississippi between each number.
Green light.
Thank God.
I’m greeted with a burst of cold air, a quiet house, and loud thoughts.
Heading to my room, I plop down on the bed and grab a book in a feeble attempt to distract myself from what just happened. My eyes are laser-focused on the words, my fingertips grazing the thick paper, but it’s no use because my mind is still next door, running an instant replay of my conversation with Zane.
I slam the book shut and push it aside, swapping it out for a pillow instead.
Maybe I should nap.
If I’m asleep, then I can’t think about him.
And if I can’t think about him, then I won’t think about what it might be like to sleep with him.
Using a method that I learned in a one-credit graduate study techniques class I took last fall, I quiet my mind using simple breathing exercises as I try to envision my mind as a white canvas. Any thoughts that float in are carried away on a light breeze.
Mentally, I repeat my mantra: Be still. Be present.
And it works . . .
. . . for a minute.
That smug, dimpled smirk of his fills my mind’s eye, and I can’t stop picturing the way his white teeth play off his muscled, tawny skin and golden, honeyed eyes.