Including Claire Sutherland. So of course she didn’t recognize Delilah now. Plus, Delilah’s late twenties had been kind to her. She finally figured out what to do with her curly hair, how to make it look more like, well,hair, as opposed to a bird’s nest, and every tattoo that now spiraled up and down her arms she’d gotten in the last five years. She knew she looked different than she had as a teenager, as a twenty-five-year-old the last time she was here. Less makeup, better-fitting clothes.
Still, the blankness in Claire’s eyes stung like a slap.
“Hi,” Claire said, then lowered her eyes, lashes fanning her cheeks, lips curving into the tiniest of smiles. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and took a deep breath.
Delilah lifted a brow. Was she...? Yeah, she was. Claire Sutherland was blushing, pink blooming on her round cheeks as thoughshe’d been out in the wind. She took in the way Claire was standing—one knee bent, her hip popped out slightly, her forearms resting on the bar just close enough to Delilah’s that she could almost feel the little hairs along Claire’s skin. She glanced up at Delilah, smiled and turned even pinker, and glanced back down.
Claire Sutherland was hitting on her.
Her. Delilah Green, the Ghoul of Wisteria House. That’s what Astrid and Claire and Iris had said about her one time. They were all fourteen or so and were in the kitchen—the kitchen Delilah’sfatherhad designed—and Delilah slipped in to grab an apple. The three girls had been talking, laughing, making a total mess while they baked snickerdoodles or oatmeal butterscotch-chip cookies or some shit. But the conversation, the motion, it all stopped dead when Delilah entered the room. Her cheeks burned—she remembered that, the fire that felt like it would consume her anytime Astrid’s friends were over. She could never tell if it was from embarrassment or anger or desperation to belong.
“Hi, Delilah,” Claire had said then.
Delilah remembered that too. Claire often said hello, but again, she could never figure outwhy.Delilah lifted her hand in greeting, the stiff, awkward gesture of a lonely fourteen-year-old girl, grabbed one of the six-dollar organic Honeycrisp apples Isabel insisted on buying from the bowl on the kitchen’s island, and fled.
“God,” she heard Iris say as she left. “Why does she always skulk around like that?”
“Iris,” Claire had said, but laughter edged her voice.
“What? She’s like a ghost, haunting the hallways of Wisteria House. No, wait, she’s like a ghoul.”
“What’s the difference?” Astrid asked.
“I don’t know. Ghouls are creepier?”
Then Iris made a wobblywooooonoise and all three girlsdissolved back into laughter. Upstairs, Delilah closed herself in her bedroom and bit into her apple, crunching so hard she remembered worrying she might crack a tooth.
And now, here she was, the Ghoul of Wisteria House sitting in Stella’s Tavern while a very cute Claire Sutherland smiled at her.
“Hi, there,” Delilah said, spinning on her stool so she could face Claire. This also gave Claire a full view of her face, which, come on, hadn’t changed all that much since high school. Sure, her naturally thick eyebrows were a bit more under control and she’d learned how to go easy on the eyeliner, but still.
She tilted her head at Claire, giving her every chance to figure it out.
Claire just tilted her head too, the tiniest smile on her lips.
“What are you drinking?” Claire asked.
Delilah watched her for a beat. She could tell her. Sheshouldtell her. She should open her mouth right now and say,Hey, remember me?
Or.
She could flirt with this gorgeous woman—maybe even more than flirt, fulfilling every daydream teenage Delilah had about Claire Sutherland—and see what happened. Claire was clearly attracted to her. She wouldn’t be standing here right now, lashes fluttering, if she wasn’t. A warm and fuzzy feeling filled Delilah’s chest, thinking about waking up in bed next to Astrid’s mean girl BFF... andthentelling her.
Added bonus? Astrid would be so pissed.
“Bourbon,” Delilah said.
Claire motioned to Tom for the same, leaning over the bar as she waited. Once the glass slid between her fingers—Tom frowning at Delilah as he very unceremoniously poured the drink—Delilah noticed Claire’s hands were shaking.
“Cold?” Delilah asked, motioning to her bourbon.
Claire laughed. “No. I think... I think I’m nervous.”
Delilah nearly cackled. This was too perfect.
“About?”
Claire took a sip of her drink and then turned to face her. Delilah spread her knees, just a little, just enough that Claire was almost between them. She expected another blush, but Claire simply looked down and lifted a brow.
