He takes my bag from me before I can protest, and when our fingers brush, it’s not even electric. It’sgrounding.
32
DELILAH
I'm standing in front of Troy's childhood home, clutching a bouquet of dusty pink roses in one hand and the box of pretentiously expensive tea in the other. The house is nothing like I expected—a cozy two-story with weathered blue trim and a porch swing that looks like it's held years of laughter and arguments and late-night confessions.
“You're overthinking again,” Troy says beside me, his breath visible in the crisp mountain air. “I can literally hear the gears turning.”
“I'm not,” I lie.
He raises an eyebrow. “Your forehead gets this little crease when you're stressing. Right there.” He gently touches the spot between my brows. “Dead giveaway, Greer.”
I swat his hand away, but the tension breaks a little. “I just want to make a good impression.”
“They're going to love you,” he says, voice so certain it makes my chest ache. “Mom's been asking about you for days. And you already know Tara and Alfie. They drove up a couple hours earlier than us so will be here already.”
“Yeah, that doesn't help the pressure.”
He laughs, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my temple, then takes my hand. “Come on. Before the food gets cold and Tara eats all the rolls.”
The front door swings open before we reach it, and there's Tara—bundled in a fluffy sweater, cheeks pink from the warmth inside, bouncing on her toes like an excited puppy.
“Finally!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me like we're old friends. “I thought Troy was keeping you all to himself.”
I freeze for a split second before awkwardly patting her back with the hand still clutching the tea box. I’m still not used to he exorbitant displays of affection.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “The drive took longer than?—”
“Don't apologize,” she cuts in, pulling back to grab my wrist. “Just come in. Mom's been driving us crazy trying to make everything perfect.”
She practically drags me into a foyer that smells like cinnamon and roasted garlic. Family photos line the walls—mostly of Tara and Troy, from toddler years to recent graduation photos. I spot a gap on the wall where a frame appears to have been removed, but before I can wonder about it, Troy's mother appears from around the corner.
“You must be Delilah,” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel before extending one toward me. “I'm Claire. We're so glad you could join us.”
I expect a handshake, but instead, she pulls me into a gentle hug. It's brief, respectful of boundaries, but warm enough that I feel something in my chest loosen slightly. Troy's family apparently doesn't believe in personal space.
“These are for you,” I say when she steps back, thrusting the flowers and tea forward like I'm completing a transaction. “Thank you for having me.”
She accepts them with a genuine smile. “How thoughtful! Troy mentioned you're a tea drinker. I've been wanting to try something new.”
Troy steps in from behind me, a large tupperware container in his hands. “And as promised, Mom,” he says, presenting it with a flourish, “two dozen of your favorite chocolate chip cookies.”
Claire's face lights up in a way that transforms her entirely. “You remembered!”
“Of course, I remembered,” Troy says, setting the cookies on the hallway table and wrapping his mom in a one-armed hug. “Made them last night so they’re fresh.”
I catch Alfie's look from where he's leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. The drive up had been filled with Troy's running commentary about his mother's sweet tooth and how he needed to make sure these were perfect.
“He was up until 1 AM baking those last night,” Alfie says quietly to me. “Wouldn't let anyone help.”
I nod, watching as Troy fusses over his mom, making sure she sits to try one immediately.
“Come on,” Claire continues, ushering us further into the house, the cookie half-eaten in her hand. “Dinner's almost ready. I hope you're hungry.”
The living room opens into a dining area where a table has been set with actual cloth napkins and what I suspect might be real silver. Not fancy in a showy way, but in the way things are when they've been passed down and cared for.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, suddenly desperate for something to do with my hands.
