Delilah glances down at her outfit, and I repress a chuckle. I can already tell she’s going to fucking hate me by the time the summer’s over.
Or maybe she already does.
I’m sure I didn’t make the best impression last night, but she left me no choice. If she acts like a toddler, she’s going to get treated like one.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “But you do look like a schoolmarm and an Amish pastor had a baby.”
“You’re an asshole.” She hides her face with her book.
“You know, you really fit right in here,” I say. “You hate noise. And parties. And fun. You go to bed at a decent hour. And you wear funeral-appropriate swimwear. You can’t be much older than, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? But you’re basically retired. Please tell me you had at least one rebellious year of college, otherwise I’m going to be really fucking disappointed in you.”
Delilah releases an annoyed sigh, still hiding behind a book thicker than most poolside reads should be. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a small textbook. I move toward her, bending to read the title.
“When Marriages Fail?” I read the title aloud. “What the hell are you reading?”
She slams the book into her lap, lips tight. “I’m in grad school.”
“Studying . . . marriage?” I wrinkle my nose.
“I’m getting my MSW,” she says. “I’m going to be a licensed social worker, and I’d like to go into marriage and family counseling.”
“Okay,” I say. “But you’re on summer break, right? Shouldn’t you be reading Nora Roberts or something?”
“Impressive.” She shields her eyes. “I’m shocked you can actually name an author. Now, quick, name some more.”
I rake my teeth against my lower lip, biting back a smirk and knowing damn well I’ll get shit for this. “Danielle Steele. Jackie Collins.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
“Good.” Because I’m not exactly in the mood to explain that when I came to live with my grandmother at nine, I was illiterate. She taught me to read, and I quickly advanced to chapter books, but all she had lying around were trashy romance hardbacks. I inhaled them all over the course of one summer. No regrets. “Wasn’t going to tell you anyway.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be right now?” She straightens the beach blanket beneath her so it covers the slats in the chair. “You play football, right? Don’t you practice in the summer?”
“Camp doesn’t start until the end of July.”
“So you just . . . hang around and do whatever?”
“I work out. I stay in shape. I keep busy enough.” I yank the towel off my shoulder and drape it around my neck to block the beating sun. “Shouldn’t you be doing stuff for Rue and not lounging at the pool like some slacker who thinks she’s on summer vacation?”
She rolls her eyes. “Rue’s at a Bunco luncheon right now. We’re meeting with her real estate agent tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll be plenty busy this summer. You won’t be seeing much of me.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
Her gaze lowers, landing on the wet bulge of my board shorts. She can pretend she hates me all she wants, but that just told me everything I need to know. Beneath that uptight veneer is a whole other layer of Delilah.
Too bad for her, this is my summer of celibacy.
And fuck. Too bad for me too.
“Damn,” I say with a sarcastic gleam in my eye. “I was really looking forward to being babysat by the girl next door all summer. Now who’s going to monitor my schedule and make sure my parties aren’t too loud?”
She mumbles under her breath, swinging her legs over the chair and gathering her belongings into her arms.
“You leaving now?” My left brow lifts. “Jesus, Delilah, are you really that uptight? I thought we were playing around. Giving each other shit.”
Her arms are overflowing with towels and books and sunglasses and suntan lotion as she balances a straw hat on her head. Loose dark tendrils frame her face as our eyes lock.
“I’m not uptight.” She hoists her armful a bit higher. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m exhausted from traveling, and I have a to-do list a mile long this week. Is it too much to ask that you refrain from calling me a schoolmarm and make fun of what I’m reading when I’m trying to relax by the pool?”
“Stay.” I point to her chair. “I’m on my way out anyway.”
She freezes, watching me, unsure of her next move.
“But just so you know, gorgeous, you probably shouldn’t dish it out if you can’t take it,” I add one last dig because I can’t help myself, and I’m dying to squeeze a hint of a smile out of her before I take off.
“Oh, I can take it.”
“Clearly you can’t. Look at you. Sulking. Stomping off with an armful of shit because I teased you about your fucking 1850s swimsuit.”
She drops her belongings on the empty lounger. “And here we go again.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not funny. It’s rude.”
“You’re being too sensitive, gorgeous. Just chill the fuck out.”
“Stop calling me gorgeous every time you back yourself into a corner,” she spouts. “It’s not going to work on me, and it’s rude to assume all women want to be addressed in accordance with their perceived looks.”