It quickly becomes obvious that thinking about Delaney’s body isn’t exactly conducive to running because of what happens in my shorts. Finishing up a seven mile run after work, I have to consciously not think about her, and that’s been about as successful as trying to eat just one potato chip. My appetite for her has become insatiable, especially after what we shared five nights ago.

Which was, unfortunately, the last time we were intimate.

I’m pretty sure I know the reason, and that reason wears Chanel pantsuits. Delaney hasn’t said it’s my mother, but the change in her mood coincided with the night at the winery. I’m wishing I hadn’t brought her—should have spared her from Gloria’s shit. But I thought it would be a good idea for Mother to see us as a couple once again and hopefully get off my fucking back about Portia.

The end result did turn out that way...my mother was so pissed off at me after Saturday night, I’ve hardly seen her at the office. And when we did happen to run into one another—let’s just say there was no need for any AC in that room.

I’m in cool-down phase once I hit Singing Woods Lane, sweating and attracting a slew of black flies—otherwise known as the unofficial Maine state bird. I’ll take a quick shower, and then Delaney and I are meeting Portia for an impromptu birthday dinner. Our sales assistant Helen found out it was Portia’s birthday and asked her what she was doing to celebrate. When she said nothing, I felt guilty since she doesn’t seem to go out much, so I called Delaney and ran the dinner idea by her, and she suggested the Italian restaurant her friend owns.

Might have been imagining it, but I thought I detected some false enthusiasm in Delaney’s tone. I plan to follow up on that tonight on the way to Abelli’s. I hate the thought of her being stressed and down.

The fake joviality is confirmed for me when she climbs in the car. I brought the convertible tonight, and even though she looks pleasantly surprised when she sees it, she’s definitely subdued.

“Nice wheels.” She smiles and settles back into the white leather seat. “Great night for this.”

“I thought so. How are you?”

“I’m good. How’s the big black dog?”

“He’s great. I took him for a nice walk along the water before I ran tonight.”

“You’ve given him a wonderful life.”

“We. You’re part of it, too, you know—all those times you’ve taken him.”

She gives me a small smile tinged with sadness that gives me a little twist in my gut.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just tired, I guess, and a little keyed up about the opening Saturday.”

“It’ll be fine. It’ll be more than fine—it’s going to be fantastic. Also, you’re not being straight with me.”

Delaney looks ahead at the road. The breeze tousles her loose hair, and she pushes it back behind her ears.

“The wind too much on you?”

“No.”

“Tell me if it is. And tell me what’s got you upset. Please.”

She sighs.

“It’s the conversation you had with my mother Saturday night, isn’t it?”

“If you must know, yes, that has a lot to do with it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fold her arms across her chest and shrug. “But it really doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. Why would you say that?”

“I mean, since we’re not really a thing.”

Jesus. Does she really believe that? “We’re a thing, Delaney. I don’t know how we couldn’t be, especially after Friday night. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you or I feel. The reality is, your mother is an incredibly powerful woman who happens to run the multi-million dollar company that you work for. And she doesn’t want you with me. I don’t want to be responsible for causing issues between the two of you.”

I can’t help but snort at that. “Sprite, my mother and I have had issues long before you came along.”

“Then I don’t want to make them worse. You don’t really need me now. It’s been pretty established that Portia isn’t throwing herself at you like you’d worried she would, so even if your mom keeps trying to push the two of you together, it won’t matter. So you don’t...need me.”

I steal a glance at her. Delaney’s mouth is set in a firm line, but her eyes are brimming.

Abelli’s is just on the other side of Ellsworth, so I only have a couple minutes in the car. Pulling onto State Street, I reach over and take her hand. I half-expect her to pull it away and am glad when she doesn’t. “Are you telling me that I’m going to have to play the fulfilling-the-contract card? Because I will.”

“Fine.” Another sigh. But when I look over at her, there’s a little smile playing with the corner of her lips.

I like that.

Delaney’s friend, the restaurant owner, greets us in the lobby as we walk in. She’s athletic bordering on rugged, with a pleasant face and short auburn hair that’s spiky at the top. Her deep brown eyes are warm and shining as she gives Delaney a hug.

“Hey, girlfriend! So glad you brought your guy so I could finally meet him.” She reaches out a hand to me. “I’m Amanda. And you’re...gorgeous, even if you do have a penis. This comes from a completely objective, lesbian standpoint. So you know it’s true.”

She’s got me chuckling and Delaney sputtering and laughing with chagrin. I’d heard she was a character. I bring Amanda’s hand to my lips and kiss the back of it. “My penis and I thank you.”

“Jesus Christ, Laney, he’s hot, charming and funny. You don’t have a sister by any chance, do you?”

“Sorry, no. But if I did...”

“She probably wouldn’t be gay.” Amanda sighs, and I’m laughing again.

“Anyway...enough about my romantic life. Or lack thereof. I’ve got a table for three next to the window. I don’t think your person is here yet, but I’ll bring her over when she is. You said it was her birthday?”

Delaney nods. “Yes. Can you do that little birthday thing with the candle in the tiramisu for after?”

“Planning on it, pumpkin.”

We follow her to our table. The place is classy and upscale—dark wood, burgundy walls, nice-looking oil paintings of vineyards, and tables draped in white cloth with flickering votives and fresh flowers in the center.

Amanda hands us the wine menu as we sit down. “I’m training a new bartender tonight, but I’ll be checking in with you and will keep an eye out for the birthday girl. Your server will be right over.”

“Thanks, Manda.” Delaney smiles at her.

“Anytime, sweets. See you in a bit.”

I pull out Delaney’s chair for her, and she looks up and grins, seeming more like her usual cheerful self.

“Thanks. Very gentlemanly of you.”

I bend down to whisper in her ear. “Don’t let that fool you, because I don’t think very gentlemanly thoughts when I’m near you.” I grin when I see her cheeks redden.

Delaney wants a bottle of Pinot Noir, so we order that and Gambretti e Polenta for an appetizer.

“Feeling better about things, Sprite?”

“I guess. For now.”

She is breathtaking in the candlelight, her bright blonde hair framing her angelic face. She’s wearing little makeup, which I prefer so her natural beauty can shine through.

“Please stop, Damon.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me. You’re making me a little...uncomfortable.” There’s an impish sparkle in her blue eyes.

“Uncomfortable as in...wet?”

“Oh my God, will you behave? We’re in public, remember?”

“Sorry. It’s hard to remember there are other people around. All I can see is you.”

I can see she’s struggling with how to respond to that, but she’s saved by Amanda bringing Portia to the table.

We both stand up. Ms. Bellamy is full of apologies. “I’m soo sorry I’m late, you two. I wish I had a glamorous excuse, but I was so knackered when I got home from the office, I laid down and fell asleep on the sofa, and I must not have set the calendar notification on my mobile properly.”

Amanda raises her eyebrows at Delaney. “Remember what we always say about accents, Lane? Definitely feeling it.”

I don’t know what that means, but Delaney laughs and shakes her head. “No apologies, Portia...I’ve been there with the falling asleep accidentally thing.”

Portia gives her a kiss on each cheek and then does the same to me. She takes off her wrap and sits down, I push her chair in and Amanda fills her wine glass before leaving. Portia looks first at me, then Delaney with dark, anxious eyes. “You two are raylee, raylee sweet to do this for me. It was totally unnecessary, but very much appreciated.”

“We were happy to do it. No one should be home alone on their birthday.” Delaney reaches over and gives Portia’s arm a little squeeze. The irony here is just amazing—I never imagined these two women would become friends, and yet that’s exactly what happened.

Portia smiles back at Delaney. “Your friend...Amanda? She’s chahming. And hilarious.”

“She is. Underneath that sense of humor and completely inappropriate language, she has a huge heart and runs an amazing restaurant. This is one of my favorite places. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will. And I’m famished.”

As if on cue, our waitress brings over fresh bread and butter along with the appetizer. We eat, talk about summer plans and Portia’s life in England and polish off the bottle of wine. Amanda brings over another bottle on the house and has us all laughing again. It’s almost like we’re just a group of friends out for dinner, and I’ve actually forgotten how we all came together until Portia brings it up—tongue in cheek.

“Should we take a photo and send it to your mum?” Her eyes are dancing.

“Make sure you crop me out. Give her false hope.” Delaney grins devilishly. I’m glad to see she can laugh at this. No doubt helped along by the wine, but still...it’s good.

Portia puts her hand on Delaney’s arm. “I’m raylee so sorry you’ve had to deal with this tosh. It’s obvious you two are quite smitten with one another, and I hope Gloria will accept that soon.”

Cue the awkward silence. Delaney’s eyes dart up to meet mine. I can practically hear what she’s thinking: Gloria will never accept me. And Portia doesn’t know the truth about us.

Our server comes over to take our dinner orders. The topic of conversation shifts to safer topics, like the power boat I’m looking at and the upcoming debut of Memory Lane Café, which makes Delaney smile like a kid on Christmas. Once we finish our meals, Amanda comes over carrying a plate of tiramisu and a lit candle, and we sing a round of Happy Birthday, joined by the guests at nearby tables. Portia raves to Amanda about the Tortellini di Granchio and tells her about restaurants in the U.K. While they’re chatting, I look over at Delaney, who has become quiet again.

I’m not liking that. I lean in to take her mind off whatever it is that’s troubling her. “Hey, what did Amanda mean earlier about what you two always say about accents?”

This makes her smile. But only a little. She lowers her voice. “We always say that when we hear someone speak in an accent or a foreign language, our response is to take off our clothes.”

“Good to know.” I grin, putting my high school French skills to the test. “Je veux être avec toi.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing softly. “It helps if I were to know what that means. I took Latin in school.”

“It means, ‘I want to be with you.’ Hey…how about if you come over tonight? I owe you some sleepovers.”

A shadow crosses her face. She starts to reply but then closes her mouth. Amanda heads back to the bar, and I’m aware that Portia is studying our faces keenly.

“Thank you both so much for this lovely dinnah. But I’ve taken up enough of your time, so I think I’ll sober up a bit at the bar with some coffee before driving home.” She gives us double-cheek kisses and tells us to have a lovely evening, and then it’s just Delaney and me.

She’s having trouble looking me in the eye. I want to take her in my arms, ease all of her doubts and fears like I was able to do last week, but I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with her.

“Talk to me, Sprite. Tell me what’s bothering you so I can fix it.”

She takes a sip of her water, her gaze sweeping around the restaurant before coming back to mine. “I’m not sure you can,” she says softly. “I guess I’m wondering what we’re doing.”

“What we’re doing?”

“Yes...how we’re seeing a lot of each other and being intimate, when maybe we should be just together in public occasionally to keep your mother off your back, since you don’t need me now.”

“I do need you.” That comes out a little more forcefully than I intend, and she’s a little taken aback. “Is all this about my mother?”

“That’s most of it. Her refusal to accept me, but honestly, maybe there’s truth in what she’s saying. I’ve never been rich, Damon, and I don’t know how to act that way.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But maybe you deserve someone who’s more similar to you...someone upper class.”

“Fuck what I deserve. And fuck the upper class. You know that’s not important to me. Look, we have something pretty significant here. I don’t want to lose that, and I don’t think you do, either.”

She regards me seriously. I think she’s going to agree, but she tells me she’d like a little time to reassess everything. Then she asks me softly to please take her home.

We don’t say anything on the drive. It’s awkward, so I’m glad it’s a short trip. I’m frustrated as hell, but if she needs space and time, that’s exactly what I’ll give her. I pull in her parking lot, and when she unbuckles her seatbelt, I grab her hand and lean over to kiss her forehead. I let my lips linger there so I can soak in the scent of her, and fuck, I don’t want to leave her.

But I do.

Later, at home, I sit on the couch with a Sam Summer and my laptop in front of the living room windows that overlook the sea. The moon is bright tonight, silvering the lawn and trees and illuminating a broad strip of the water, making it look like a lighted path you could walk on. I open up my laptop, get on the Queen Anne’s Flower Shop site and peruse the selections, deciding on a big floral arrangement of snapdragons, hydrangea, white tulips and yellow roses to be delivered Saturday, the day Memory Lane Café has its grand opening. I’m slightly irritated to realize I don’t know what Delaney’s favorite flower is and figure that having a variety of blooms ups the chances she’ll like what I chose. The bouquet looks like her: bright, unique, beautiful.

I’m on my second beer and watching the Sox game when I get her text.

I’m sorry. I should have come over.

No worries. Although I wish you were here. What are you doing?

Going over plans for the opening, to see if I’m missing anything. I’m scared.

Absolutely no need to be scared.

Do you really think it will do well?

I don’t think it...I know it. You’re going to kick ass.

I owe it to you. And I’m so grateful.

I owe you as well.

For helping you stay single?

For helping me think about not wanting to.

There are no more texts exchanged for the rest of the night. I hope she’s thinking about what I said.

I know I am.