Her laughter follows me through the living room and out the front door. Her beat-up, gray SUV sits right out front, and I shake my head as I make my way over, waiting for her to pop the trunk. “When are you going to get a newer car?” I ask.
She shoots me a look. “When I’m a rich and famous ghostwriter, that’s when,” she deadpans, pulling open the hatch.
I snort. “Normal people need safe cars too.” I set the box in the back, maneuvering it so it won’t slide around during transit.
“It’s perfectly safe,” she counters.
I eye the suspiciously low rear tire. “You sure about that?”
“Besides, I work from home—I don’t need to drive as much as other people.”
My eyebrows draw together. “That’s not an answer to my question.”
Delilah just shoots me one of her dimply smiles before shutting the trunk and hopping into the driver’s seat. “Meet you at my place!” she calls before starting the car.
I shake my head with an amused grin before trekking across the parking lot to my truck. Delilah’s apartment complex is only a couple blocks from ours, and I know which unit is hers.Harrison and I were basically manual labor for the day she moved in.
I pull up next to Delilah’s SUV, wrangling the TV box from the back as soon as she opens the trunk. “How are things going with the whole ghostwriting job?” I ask as I wait for her to lock her car.
She shrugs. “Fine. Normal. Pays the bills.”
I follow her up the concrete stairs to her landing. “Anything else new in your life?” I press.
“Nah,” she says.
“Got yourself a boyfriend yet?”
She throws a suspicious look over her shoulder. “Are you trying to get intel on me for Harrison?”
That draws a laugh out of me. “Mainly just making conversation, but yeah, if you were dating, Harrison would definitely like to know.”
“I’m sure he would,” she mutters, struggling with the lock on her front door.
I laugh harder. “You seem annoyed by that.”
She shoots me another look, her big, brown eyes somehow bigger, before focusing back on the lock. “Yeah, if you had Harrison for an older brother, you’d be wary of telling him about your dating life too.”
“It’s just cause he worries about you,” I defend, following Delilah into the apartment when she finally gets the door unlocked. I glance around. She’s rearranged since moving in. I realize it’s been two years since I’ve been in here—the day Harrison and I helped move all her stuff.
“What’s he worried about? I barely date anyway,” she comments, tossing her purse on the kitchen counter.
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow.
She shoots me a quizzical look.
I shoot her one back.
“What are you accusing me of?” she says with a shake of her head.
“You barely date?” I deadpan. I’m not blind. Delilah may be my best friend’s little sister—complete with vivid memories of how annoying she’d been in elementary school—but I’m still acutely aware of how, well,cuteshe is. I’d assume she has no trouble dating at all. In fact, I’d guess that chasing guys off with a stick would be the more pressing issue at hand. Hence, Harrison’s concern.
“I barely date,” she repeats, as if I’d just declared the sky blue.
“Yeah. Okay.” I’m not buying it. She looks like she’s going to argue with me, but I ask, “Where do you want the TV?”
She blinks, then points to the TV stand on the far wall where a very small, very old TV sits. I cross the room, setting the box down. “Want me to help set it up?” I offer.
She shoots me a slightly guilty smile. “Do you mind?”
