Page 21 of Delilah Green Doesn't Care

“This shirt doesn’t work with a bra.” Delilah slipped on her favorite black silk tank she’d planned to wear today, specifically for its modest neckline and bordering-on-inappropriate low armholes that revealed half her rib cage. She turned to grab her high-waisted linen pants out of her suitcase and nearly smiled as Astrid’s horror grew. She must’ve seen the side boob.

“We’re going toVivian’s,” she said.

“I know.” Delilah pulled on the cream-colored pants, tucking in the tank and smoothing down the pleats before slipping on a pair of black heeled sandals and draping a few thin gold chains around herneck. The final look was sleek as hell. And by Astrid’s resigned sigh, she agreed.

“Just don’t turn to the side when Mom’s around, okay?” she said.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Oh, she would though. She would totally dare.

“And do something with your hair.”

Delilah smiled with all her teeth. “You’re a delight.”

Astrid winced. “I’m a little on edge, okay?”

Delilah decided to ignore this, heading into the bathroom and brushing her teeth for the full dentist-prescribed two minutes. Then she added a touch of mascara and some cherry-red lipstick—god, Isabel would love that—before checking out her hair in the mirror.

It was huge, curls and corkscrews frizzing out all over the place. Usually, she slept with it all piled on top of her head or wrapped in a silk scarf to avoid waking up in such a way, but last night, well, she’d been jet-lagged and half drunk, not to mention a little amped-up from Claire-freaking-Sutherland.

“So who’s going to be there today?” she asked Astrid as she took out a bottle of her favorite blueberry hair gel, squeezed out a penny-size blob, and mixed it with some water before smoothing it over each section of her hair.

“Well, Mom, of course,” Astrid called. “And Spencer’s mother, grandmother, and sister. The girls.”

The girls.

“Ah, the coven.”

“Don’t call them that,” Astrid said, appearing in the doorway. She was wearing an ivory bandage dress, simple pearls around her neck, a single diamond solitaire sparkling on her finger.

“What? Covens are powerful, feminist, badass groups of women.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you meant it like that.”

Delilah grinned at her in the mirror. “So... Claire’s looking well.”

Astrid’s posture went rigid, her eyes narrowing on Delilah’s reflection.

God, she made it too easy. Delilah tilted her head innocently, widening her eyes like an ingenue. “Verywell.”

“Don’t,” Astrid said.

“Don’t what?”

“Claire is not your type.”

Delilah turned around and folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, I think she is.”

“Well, you’re not hers.”

Delilah’s eyebrows popped up. “You don’t think so?”

“No way.”

“That’s not what it felt like last night.”

Astrid straightened even more, if that was possible. She was like a dry twig in the winter, ready to snap. “What about last night?”

Delilah shrugged and turned back to the mirror. “Just, you know.”