Delilah Green Doesn’t Care

CLAIRE HAD NO clue what she’d been thinking.

Well, Help Astrid. That was the spirit behind her whole share a bed with Delilah Green idea—keep her best friend from completely melting down during the one pre-wedding activity Claire and Iris were actually looking forward to. She’d seen it brewing, the freak-out, Astrid breathing like a bull facing a matador, and she knew how terrible Astrid must be feeling for leaving Delilah out.

What’s more, Claire saw Delilah’s disappointment. Or, not disappointment so much as . . . she wasn’t sure. But something had been behind Delilah’s eyes when it was clear what had happened. Her face remained expressionless, bored even, but her eyes had flickered, like a strong wind nearly snuffing a candle out before the flame reared back to life.

So, of course, offering to bunk up with Delilah seemed like the best course of action. Iris surely wasn’t going to do it, and if Delilah and Astrid shared a room, the trip would probably end in some sort of bloodshed.

Claire was the obvious choice.

But now, as the door shut behind the two of them in their room, a pang of nervousness shot through Claire’s belly.

“This is nice,” Delilah said, rolling her suitcase to the bed and flopping down on the crisp white linens, spreading out like a starfish.

“Um, yeah” was all Claire could seem to get out. In her flopping, Delilah’s black tank top had ridden up, revealing a stripe of smooth, pale skin. A belly button. Hip bones.

Claire turned away. Breathed. She set her own suitcase on an armchair in the corner and unzipped it, rummaging pointlessly through her clothes in an effort to do something, anything, other than watch Delilah snow-angel on the bed.

The room was nice. Dark hardwood floors, light gray walls with bright-toned artwork to offset all the neutral colors, a huge bed with a white duvet cover and sheets, blue accent pillows arranged just so. A wide window covered most of the back wall, and the view was incredible, all shimmery distant valleys and rows of juice-filled grapes rolling like green-leafed waves. And as Claire brought her toiletry bag into the bathroom, she walked into what was pretty much a mini spa with its sea-glass tile floors and huge glass shower, a dual vanity with white porcelain bowls and bronzed nickel fixtures.

She turned on the water in the far sink, running her fingers under the cool stream while she got her head on straight. The suite was ridiculously huge for one person, the bed like the state of Oregon itself. She and Delilah would hardly even notice each other.

Probably.

Maybe.

“Hey.”

Claire jumped as Delilah appeared behind her.

“Whoa, sorry,” Delilah said, dropping her own toiletry bag onto the marble counter. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Claire managed to smile at her, but then Delilah leaned on the counter and she had to look away.

“I guess we should get undressed, huh?”

Claire dropped the little pot of lip gloss she’d mindlessly opened, finger swirling through the shimmery pink just for something to do. It clattered into the sink with the water still flowing, soaking the gloss before Claire could snatch it back.

“What?” she asked, grabbing a fluffy hand towel and wiping the pot dry.

In the mirror, Delilah’s eyes flicked to the lip gloss and back to Claire. “Massages? Thirty minutes?” She brandished a creamy rectangle of paper that detailed the services Astrid had already arranged for them. This schedule, thankfully, did include Delilah.

“Oh,” Claire said. “Right.”

Delilah looked down at the paper. “It says here we’re supposed to undress and put on the robes provided before we head downstairs to our assigned massage room.” She set the paper on the counter and grabbed the two fluffy white robes that hung on the wall next to the shower, holding one out to Claire.

Claire took it, curling it to her chest, and then she just stood there, staring at Delilah like she was waiting to see who would start undressing first.

Delilah cleared her throat and Claire jolted.

God, was Claire waiting to see who would start undressing first? She was officially a disaster. A horny, stressed-the-hell-out disaster.

And from the small smile that lifted the corners of her mouth, Delilah knew it.

“You want to change in here and I’ll take the bedroom?” she asked.

Claire nodded way too vigorously. “Yes. Good. Perfect.”

That little smile again. “Good. Perfect,” Delilah said before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Claire slumped against the counter, rubbing her forehead with the robe. She had to get a grip. It was just a robe. It was just a spa. Delilah was just a person. A gorgeous person, true, but a person nonetheless, like Claire. A person she had absolutely no business thinking about naked or what the skin just under her ear might taste like.

“Do you think we’re supposed to leave on our underwear?” Delilah called from the other room, her voice completely guileless.

Claire groaned into the robe. “I don’t know!”

“Hmm. I’m taking mine off.”

Oh, for god’s sake.

Claire stripped down to her undies and bra—decidedly leaving both on—and splashed some cold water on her face. Then she wrapped the cloudlike robe around her, securing the tie around her waist, and sat on the edge of the huge soaker tub while she took a few deep breaths. What she really wanted to do was call Ruby, but her phone was out in the bedroom. While she sat there, trying not to think about tonight or nakedness or Delilah’s underwear on the floor, a knock sounded on the outside door.

“Who is it?” she heard Delilah call.

“Me.”

Claire recognized Iris’s voice and stood up.

“Me who?” Delilah said.

“Iris.”

“Prove it.”

Claire cracked a smile and opened the door into the bedroom an inch, just to make sure Delilah was robed—she was, and sat on the end of the bed scrolling lazily through her phone—and then went to let Iris in. She was thankful for the distraction in the form of her best friend, her voice of reason when it came to Delilah Green.

“Hey,” Iris said with her own fluffy robe in place, her red hair piled on top of her head just like Claire’s. She glared at Delilah. “Are you always like this?”

Delilah looked up. “Define this.”

“Annoying bitch?”

“Iris,” Claire said.

Delilah’s smile was beatific. “For you, I put my best foot forward.”

Iris sighed and popped her hands onto her hips. “Fine. Whatever, I’m sorry. So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Delilah asked.

“Yes, plan,” Iris said.

“To . . . get massages and a mud mask?” Delilah said.

Iris shook her head. “To dethrone lover boy.”

A pit opened up in Claire’s stomach. Last night, she and Iris had definitely decided that they needed to get serious about Astrid and Spencer. But the decision had been alcohol-induced, fueled by witnessing his covert dickishness and empowered by seeing Delilah haul him into the river. Actually doing something about it in the sober light of day, essentially ruining their best friend’s wedding, was a whole other matter.

Claire pressed her hands to her stomach. “Iris—”

“Oh no,” Iris said, pointing at her. “Oh hell no. You are not backing out now. You’re the one who said we couldn’t let her marry him.”

“I’m not backing out. I’m just . . . thinking.”

“You’re backing out. Even Delilah can see he’s a ghastly excuse for a human being.”

Delilah tapped her chin. “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

“Choose away,” Iris said, but then continued staring at Delilah. “Will you help us?”

“Help you get rid of Spencer?”

“Not get rid,” Claire said. “Just . . . maybe—”

“Yes. Get rid,” Iris said. “Our darling Claire here is too kindhearted.”

“Get rid sounds so violent,” Claire said. “We just need to talk to Astrid.”

“And three is better than two,” Iris said. “After last night, I like your style.”

Delilah flashed a grin at that but then grew serious. “What do you plan on doing? Tossing Astrid in a river?”

“Of course not,” Iris said.

“Oh, I know,” Delilah said, clasping her hands together under her chin and fluttering her lashes dramatically. “Sit her down for a nice heart-to-heart and convince her that her true love is still out there somewhere over the rainbow.”

Claire and Iris looked at each other. This wasn’t exactly what they planned on doing, but it was close.

“Do you have a better idea?” Iris asked.

Delilah looked at them both for a few seconds before answering. “Maybe I do.”

Iris stared at her. “Care to share, oh wise one?”

Delilah sucked her teeth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Which means you’ve already thought about this,” Iris said, lighting up like a firework. “You have, haven’t you?”

Delilah waved a nonchalant hand. “Why would I care who Astrid marries?”

“Trust me, I know you don’t care,” Iris said spitefully, and Delilah lifted a brow.

“Okay, enough,” Claire said, then looked at Delilah. She could’ve sworn the other woman’s gaze softened. “Look, we do want to talk to Astrid about this. We just don’t know how.”

“Aren’t you two supposed to know her better than anyone?” Delilah said.

“Yes. We do.” Claire grappled for the right words. “But Astrid’s . . . complex. She doesn’t open up easily, even to us.” She looked at Iris. “Remember when she had a crush on Toby McIntosh for all of tenth grade? She didn’t even admit it until graduation.”

“I remember,” Iris said.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Claire said to Delilah. “But, if you think of any ideas . . .”

Delilah stared at her for a second, Claire’s heart in her throat. Finally, the other woman released a huge sigh. “Fine. Jesus. But if you’re going to do this, you have to be careful about it. Astrid would have to be completely convinced that he’s wrong for her, not just mad at him over something you say he did. It has to come from her.”

“You mean we’d have to be manipulative,” Claire said, wincing.

“No, I mean what I said. Careful. Get her to talk about him, ask her questions about what she likes about him, things like that. Help her realize it all on her own.”

Iris paced, her thumbnail in her mouth. “Yes. That’s perfect. It needs to be her idea or she’ll never see it. You know Delilah’s right, Claire.”

Claire rubbed her eyes under her glasses. Delilah was right. Astrid would never, ever walk away from something she’d committed to unless it was her idea. Isabel raised her to be ruthless like that, always in control, always the one with the upper hand. Honestly, this die-hard trait was why Claire believed Astrid chose Spencer in the first place. He called the shots. He wore the pants. Astrid had been the perfect student, tried hard to be the perfect daughter, and now she was the perfect business manager. So for this one area in her life, she didn’t have to work so hard. She didn’t have to constantly be thinking about how to make her relationship succeed.

She just had to say yes to everything her already-perfect fiancé said.

Claire felt an almost unbearable sadness settle over her at the thought. She had to believe there were plenty of men out there who would love partnering with Astrid, working together to be successful together—or hell, even failing together—instead of this imbalance of power she had with Spencer.

“All right,” Claire said. “It’s a start, I guess.”

“Exactly,” Iris said. “So we’re all agreed”—here she waved her hand in a dramatic circle to include Delilah—“that our plan is getting her to talk and think about Spencer and his douchebag ways.”

Claire nodded while Delilah simply stood up, tightened her robe belt, and headed for the door.

Iris cleared her throat.

“What?” Delilah asked, dropping her phone into her robe’s pocket and slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. “You want to come up with a secret handshake or something?”

Iris just glared.