Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. Except go home and assemble his new furniture.
He was covered in sweat and had pulled out every piece of his toolbox by the time he finished. The table base required a Phillips head screwdriver, the top a flathead. The chairs took a different size screw and then needed tightening with a hexbolt. And everything really needed two people to make the job go smoothly, but Brandon was determined that he was smarter and better than the furniture and he was going to win.
There was a certain satisfaction to be found in standing over the completed set. It looked good there in the middle of the patio. It invited you to sit. To stay a while. The bright red cushions shiny and new.
Brandon, on the other hand was anything but shiny and new. He needed another shower. He slowly gathered his tools and dragged himself inside. A little knot of worry grew in him as five o’clock approached.
Cleaned up, he kept himself busy preparing the steaks with a meat rub and a dash of pepper. He shucked the corn and wrapped it in tinfoil. He started the grill, closing the lid, letting it get rocket hot. He went back inside and ran a comb through his hair which was now almost completely dry.
When he was out of things to do, he checked his doorbell to be certain that it worked. Then he opened the patio doors wide so he’d be sure to hear her and sat down in one of the new chairs with a beer. Only then did he allow himself to look at his watch, telling himself it only felt later. Surely it wasn’t yet five, he was just anxious.
It was five after five.
No big deal. Maybe his watch was a little fast.
Slowly he finished the beer.
Five twenty-five.
No Delilah. No word.
Son of a bitch.
He stood up and called himself any of a handful of names he knew.
Well, that was that. That was the end of Brandon and Delilah. That deserved another beer.
He thought about eating the steaks, but wasn’t hungry. He tried to call her names, too, but he only had some for himself. She’d been honest. She flat out told him she didn’t want to date him. He was the one who pushed. And he knew better.
Brandon tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. It was that moment, when things were finished, and right then he realized just how deep he’d gotten by how much it hurt. How pissed he was. And how much it didn’t surprise him.
He sipped the beer.
When the doorbell rang, he stood up wondering if the college student selling magazine subscriptions who was likely at his door would like a filet. He looked at the grill, disgusted with himself. He’d left it on, hoping he was wrong. With a flick of his wrist, he cut the gas as he walked by.
He was looking down when he opened the door, so what he saw first was a pretty little set of feet encased in red slip-on sneakers with ribbon bows. It bothered him that he wasn’t sure if they were Delilah’s feet or not.
“Am I still welcome?”
At the sound of her voice, his head snapped up to her pretty face, passing the huge bowl of salad she carried. Her face wore a weary look. “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to be.”
She said the last part as though she knew he needed to hear that.
He was grateful, but for some reason his words didn’t come out that way. “You could have called. I’ve been sitting here, waiting.”
Brandon held his face steady, even though he hadn’t intended to give that much away. He didn’t want her to know how tight the strings that held him were.
She didn’t seem to notice, instead she shook her head. “Traffic was piled up on the surface streets from some accident on the freeway and my cell phone died. Tristan called and wouldn’t get off the line and my phone just gave out on him.”
Relief shuddered through him. She’d been trying to get to him. Her phone had died.
Then he registered something else. “Tristan?”
“My brother. He wanted to meet you. But I guess not.” She handed over the bowl. “Here’s your salad. Enjoy your steak.”
She turned to walk away.
Only then did Brandon see that he’d planted himself in the doorway, not allowing her in. His feet were spread apart and he could feel the scowl on his face. Instantly, he changed it. Tucking the salad into the arm that already held his beer, he reached out for her, managing to snag her arm. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. Please. Come in.”
She looked at him with uncertain eyes. It seemed neither of them was ever certain at the same time. Slowly, her arm still loosely in his grip, she made the decision to change directions and walk through the door. She didn’t smile, but lifted the salad bowl from his awkward grip as she passed.
Brandon used the opportunity to catch her, carefully tangling his fingers in her loose blonde hair and turning her for a kiss that weakened his knees. When he pulled back, he handed the information over freely. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I was sitting here waiting for you. And I decided that you’d ditched me.”
She shrugged, there wasn’t much she could say. She’d already explained herself and Brandon accepted that. So he wasn’t really prepared when she tucked the bulky salad bowl to one side and grabbed him. This time, for the first time since that first night, she kissed him.
Just as abruptly, she let him go and walked away, leaving him more than a little stunned. Still, he managed to find his feet and follow her into his own kitchen.
She found adequate counter space and opened her shoulder bag, producing salad forks and a bottle of what looked like homemade dressing. He turned the grill back on, happy as a little clam now that she was here. He put the corn on and carried plates and silverware out to the table. When she asked, Brandon happily fessed up that it was all new.
He slipped easily into the role of host, asking how she liked her steak done and demanding that she sit in one of the new chairs. “Can I get you a drink?”
“God, yes.” Delilah shook her head, finally relaxing. The sight of the tension easing from her shoulders made some of his own tension ease up. “It’s ten blocks you know. But it’s the weekend, so I wasn’t expecting bad traffic. It was a parking lot. I almost just ditched the car and walked. By the time I got serious about doing it, suddenly everything cleared up.”
“Then you need a good drink.”
Delilah took a gin and tonic, rambling sweetly about anything and everything while he tended to the grill. He’d stuck a tiny umbrella in her drink for fun, and occasionally she jostled it, making the paper garnish swirl in little circles. She frowned at it a few times, but kept talking.
When the steak was done, he poured them each a glass of red wine and sat down with her. She looked good on his patio, daintily eating steak and praising him for it. He plowed through salad filled with nuts and grapes and frilly little lettuces he couldn’t identify. But it all worked together, even if he didn’t know what it all was. Kind of like him and Delilah.
She told him again that he had to meet her brother. “My mom and dad both died and Tristan took over. He’s worse than both of them.”
Brandon laughed. It didn’t matter. “I can handle your brother.”
She looked skyward, like she was sure he didn’t know what he was getting into. But he’d handled worse. Hell, he’d been worse. Delilah would make her own decisions anyway.
They were stuffed, sitting there talking, when the bugs started coming out. So together they cleaned up, hauling all the dishes into the sink in several trips before Delilah packed her bowl and salad forks back into her bag. Patiently, he waited until she finished, before turning her around and kissing her like he’d wanted to all evening.
She kissed him back, arms around his neck, and he’d never been more certain of anything.
Until she pulled away.
“I have to go.”
“What?”
She seemed distracted, nervous. “I have to work tonight. I’m going to go home.”
“You work at three a.m.” The words tumbled over each other. He wondered how she wa
s slipping away so fast.
Delilah opened her mouth to mount another argument, and he realized that he had to let her go. If he had any hope of holding onto her, he couldn’t do it by badgering her or following her home anymore. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Brandon held himself in check. He didn’t want to be the one to ask, but she was walking away and she wasn’t saying anything. Deciding he’d be more upset about not having something on the table than about not holding onto his pride, he asked what he had to. “When can I see you again? Are you working all week?”
He hated that he sounded desperate. He hated that he was desperate.
“Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Then I’m off Thursday.” She smiled. “So I can see you Wednesday night.”
At least she didn’t seem to be playing him. Brandon had to accept the fact that for whatever reason, he was far more invested than she was.
He kissed her one last time before watching her walk out his door.
Chapter 18
Delilah made cakes and pastries like the devil himself was at her heels. Flour made snowy white patches against the stainless steel countertops in the kitchens at Othello. Bowls of berries sat plump and at the ready. She popped one into her mouth each time she passed by. Her whisk was a rapid metallic scrape against the bottom of the copper bowl and the egg whites didn’t stand a chance against her. She was driven to turn out as many desserts as she possibly could. Not that she could figure out why.
She expected Tristan to come by her apartment as he always did Sundays after dropping in at Blessed Be and checking the previous night’s receipts. She wondered if there was ever a day he didn’t start with a cup of coffee and a ledger. Since the store wasn’t open on Sundays and he didn’t hang around or spend time running the store, it usually didn’t take long for him to arrive.
With her frantic drive, she’d worked a whole shift in six hours, then arrived home ready for a shower to see that someone sat on her couch watching TV. Brown hair fell in soft waves, the top of his head all that was visible on the man slouched there.
Her heart kicked up at the notion that it might be Brandon. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be—she hadn’t given him a key. Not unless Tristan had gotten here first and let him in. That thought alone was enough to give her the willies. If and when the two men met she needed to be right there in the middle, running interference.
She hadn’t spilled all the beans the night before. She’d gotten as far as telling Brandon that her brother wanted to meet him and grill him like one of the steaks. That seemed like enough information for one evening. Then, feeling guilty about not telling him the whole truth, she’d completely chickened out of staying over, too.
She did have to get up and go to work, which she could have easily done from his place. But, since she hadn’t yet confessed and been forgiven, she hadn’t felt quite right about it. And he let her go. Delilah had no idea how much his easy acceptance of her not staying over would scare her until he said ‘okay.’ She’d expected the usual argument and instead it was as if she tugged and he suddenly let go. It left her stumbling.
So she was grateful now that it was Tristan on her couch and not Brandon. His voice carried up to her even though he didn’t turn. “I figured you’d be early.”
“Because?” She prodded.
“Don’t know. Just figured.”
“Somehow I worked really fast. Nothing on today’s menu needed a long bake time.” She walked by, slinging the white jacket into the hamper just inside her bedroom door. Delilah didn’t say anything else as she made her way to the bathroom and slipped into a hot shower. Tristan hardly qualified as a proper guest. In fact, he’d already come in with his own key and made himself at home. She didn’t worry about making him wait.
Refreshed and clean, she emerged twenty minutes later, ready to do what she’d been doing all morning: set up shop and start cooking.
It didn’t matter that she’d been baking for hours. Besides, this was different. This was her own kitchen. This wasn’t just food. This was a meal for her family and she would sit down and eat it with her brother.
Making him turn off the TV, Delilah demanded that he help. But that was normal, so Tristan didn’t complain. Unlike Brandon, Tristan knew his way around a kitchen fairly well. He couldn’t cook anything for himself, didn’t know how to put it together, but he could identify all the utensils and chop and dice with the best of them.
They didn’t speak when she popped the remaining egg baklava into the oven to reheat. She cleaned and seeded red bell peppers and made Tristan cut them and asparagus into skinny even strips. She mixed the veggies and sprayed them with olive oil before sautéing them in white wine. She turned the task over to Tristan and set about scooping perfect balls of melon from a honeydew and a cantaloupe.
They were quiet, working side by side with only Delilah’s instructions and the occasional question from Tristan, until they sat down to eat. Then Tristan broke the silence before popping the first bite into his mouth. “So, did you tell him?”
Delilah sighed. In true big brother form, there was no getting away from him. She couldn’t even pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. She savored the melon on her tongue, then responded. “I told him you wanted to meet him.”
“And?”
“He said okay.” It wasn’t what Tristan had been after, but she hoped he’d take it.
Of course, he didn’t. “So you didn’t tell him about the forget spell?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t tell him that you’re a witch.” It wasn’t a question this time.
“No, because then he would have figured out the forget spell.” She put down her fork. He was ruining her meal, big time. “Lay off. I will tell him before you meet him. Because I know if I don’t, you’ll find a way to let the cat out of the bag.”
Tristan had the nerve to look offended. Delilah leveled a look at him that told him what she thought of that. There was no way Tristan would meet Brandon, grill him about dating the little sister, and somehow not mention that they were witches. Not when he was convinced that Brandon needed to either be told everything or be sent packing. Tristan didn’t have room for any middle ground in Delilah’s life.
Once again, she wanted to be offended by his need to take things over for her. To dictate how she should be living her life. But the fact was, he’d taken care of her when no one else had been there. He was doing it because he cared. Then there was the issue that he was probably right.
Still he insisted on protesting his innocence. As though he would let Brandon go without telling him. “I would never—”
She cut him off. “Stuff it.”
Thankfully he managed to bottle it for the rest of the meal, and they only spoke of the mundane things that kept them a family. Her job, his store, Yasmin and the ‘beginners’ class’ that always went awry somehow and left Tristan constantly grumbling and wondering why on earth he let her have that class anyway.
They cleaned up side by side, working easily in concert from years of experience. The only adjustments they made had been taking the number of working pairs of hands from three to two. When they finished, he hugged her and left, knowing she’d been up for twelve hours, cooking the whole time, and running on very little sleep. Delilah closed the door behind him, sagging against it, before dragging her weary feet to her bedroom.
Stripping down to her underwear, she slid between the cool sheets, unhappy that they didn’t smell like Brandon this time. Her mushy brain turned to thoughts of him and how she could get him back here. Then it turned cold.
He’d let her go very easily last night. Was he getting close to being done with her? He’d asked when he could see her again, but there was no phone call or text message this morning. He should have been awake for a while by now.
It would serve her right if he just let her go, and she knew it. To have pushed him away for so long, to have fought and bucked at the attraction she’d felt, only to have him gi
ve up on her when she was finally giving in.
Her brain worked with that thought for a few minutes. If she was giving in, then she wanted to be with Brandon. She had to admit that much. So she took a moment to savor the thought. But quickly her brain threw in another issue. If she wanted to stay with Brandon she could no longer delude herself that she could put off telling him. Couldn’t tell herself it wasn’t necessary because she might be getting rid of him anyway. And that brought up the very real possibility that he might be getting rid of her once she told him what she was and what she’d done.
She tossed and turned for hours, peeling her eyes open when her alarm went off at two a.m. Delilah figured she must have slept, because she’d woken up. She didn’t remember sleeping, and worse, she did remember tossing and turning for hours.
Still, she had a job to get to. So she hauled herself awake, threw on her clothes and grabbed breakfast, still blinking her eyes to try to come around. She checked her phone for messages and tried not to be disappointed that there weren’t any. She managed to get herself safely to work, then, like the night before, threw herself into it. She was greeted by a refrigerator full of raspberries and a question. “Can you do anything with these?”
Chuckling to herself, she imagined she was a contestant on the dessert version of some cooking contest. Only she got eight hours instead of one, and she didn’t have to face a panel of Japanese judges who said all kinds of things about the food that always seemed to translate to “It is good. I liked it.”
Still, tonight’s work was time consuming, and she worked the full eight hours. Delilah was glad it took all her time. She desperately needed the distraction. Even so, things needed bake time, and things needed to be whisked and stood over and stirred, which meant her body had to be there, but not her brain.
Surprisingly it wasn’t Brandon that occupied her thoughts, but Juliet.
The dream about them driving on Mullholland the other day stuck with her. It brought back with it a host of memories of the days before she found out about Juliet and David. That discovery tainted all her memories. It seemed that what Jules had done in the end colored over and gave a new darker cast to everything that went before.
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