Page 16 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Lara

T hat same day, I leave the office feeling lighter, like someone’s removed a sandbag from between my shoulder blades, and head straight to work.

The diner assaults the senses, silverware scraping against ceramic plates, dozens of conversations melting into a honeyed murmur, the ancient jukebox crackling in the corner as Frank Sinatra fights through decades of dust and neglect.

I duck into the cramped staff room, where the fluorescent light flickers, casting everyone in a jaundiced glow.

I tug on my polyester uniform, forever scented with fries no matter how many times I wash it, and smooth my hair with palms still carrying the faint trace of office hand sanitizer.

When I step back into the dining area, the wall of noise hits like a physical force. And then I see her.

Delilah.

Perched in a booth near the window, one leg crossed over the other, revealing an expanse of tanned calf.

Her blood-red manicure taps a silent rhythm against her water glass, condensation beading beneath her fingers.

Expensive, whiskey-colored eyes lock on me, precise, predatory, like a sniper waiting for the perfect shot.

My stomach plummets.

I glance at the dog-eared seating chart taped beside the register. Relief floods me when I see she’s not in my section.

Before I can slip past, Barbara rushes up, coat half-buttoned over her uniform, her usually perfect lipstick smudged at one corner. Panic widens her pupils. “Emergency. My kid’s school called. I have to go. Can you cover?”

My tongue dries to sandpaper. “Which tables?”

She points directly at Delilah.

Of course. The universe has impeccable comedic timing.

I nod, stretching my lips into what I hope passes for a professional smile. Plastic wrap over teeth.

Delilah’s face lights up with malicious delight as I approach. “Well, look who’s finally making herself useful,” she says, each word dripping with saccharine venom.

“Just doing my job,” I reply, voice as flat as a frozen pond. “Ready to order?”

“I already did,” she says, flicking her wrist at the plate. “But this soup is cold. I’d send it back if I thought you’d actually fix it instead of spitting in it.”

I bite down a retort that tastes like battery acid and take the bowl, careful not to brush her fingers. On my way to the kitchen, I pass my manager, Diane, whose perpetually furrowed brow has carved permanent lines between her eyebrows. I murmur, “Can we nudge the thermostat?”

She raises one penciled eyebrow, the arch so perfect it could support architecture. “It’s 74 degrees.”

“Customer request,” I say, sparing names and explanations.

Okay, so I lied a smidge. I knew Delilah would complain about the diner’s temperature next. I clock her t-shirt and leggings when she usually sports sweaters. Lady is perpetually chilled. Must be from her darkening heart.

Back at t he booth, Delilah smirks, glossy lips curved like a scythe. “It’s freezing in here. Can you turn up the heat? Or do they not trust you with the thermostat either?”

“Already handled,” I say, setting down the fresh, steaming soup.

“Hmm.” She dips her spoon, letting the liquid drip back into the bowl without touching her lips. Her gaze flicks to mine. “I’ll take a refill, too. No ice this time.” She hugs her arms across her chest. “Too cold.”

I retrieve her drink, setting it down with steady hands. Her French-manicured nail taps the rim. “Lemon,” she says, not looking up.

Three minutes later, I slide a lemon wedge onto her table.

Five minutes: “Ketchup.” She points to a half-full bottle.

Seven minutes: Her finger jabs at my apron pocket. “Pepper.”

Nine minutes: She unfolds her napkin with two fingers, as if it’s contaminated. “Is this recycled toilet paper?”

At the next table, a woman with kind eyes catches mine, lips forming a silent “Sorry” as she winces. I give the tiniest nod.

Delilah stretches her arm across the booth’s backrest. “Gideon mentioned your little startup idea the other day.” Her voice drops to a stage whisper. “Right before he asked me to pass the salt.” She examines her cuticles. “Funny how you’re still here, though.”

My knuckles whiten around the pepper packets. “And yet you found your way to my section.”

Delilah doesn’t realize her mistake. Why would she and Gideon discuss my startup? I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. For him to bring it up at all tells me he’s been keeping tabs. Ha.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “He keeps your photo in his desk drawer, you know. Says it reminds him of...” She pauses, savoring the moment. “What not to do.”

I place e ach pepper packet in a perfect row, fingertips pressing them flat against the laminate. “Next time you rifle through his things, tell him I said hello.”

“Relax. I’m only here for the soup.” She lifts her arm with theatrical flair, the bowl wobbling in warning.

Before I can reply, a voice cuts across the room, sharp as a cleaver against bone.

“Stop.”

Calvin steps into view, all six-foot-two of him unfolding from the shadows by the jukebox.

His jaw clenches tight enough to crack walnuts, the muscle twitching beneath stubble that catches the light.

His eyes, the same whiskey-brown as Delilah’s but warmer, lock onto hers.

Without a word, he captures her wrist mid-swing, fingers circling the delicate bones like a steel bracelet.

Delilah freezes, crimson flooding her face from neck to hairline, turning her designer highlights into flames. “What the hell, Calvin?” she snaps.

He doesn’t flinch. Not a single eyelash quivers. His voice is cold as the walk-in freezer, steady as the ancient ceiling fan above. “I’d control yourself, sis.”

“I was only,” Her free hand flutters.

“Don’t care,” Calvin interrupts, each syllable a door slamming shut.

“But, Calvin, I, ” Her diamond earrings catch the light as she tilts her head, deploying the pout that’s worked since childhood.

“I. Don’t. Care.” Each word lands.

Delilah stands up straight, her spine a perfect rod of indignation.

Her eyes blaze with the particular fury of someone unused to being thwarted, but she doesn’t move.

After a beat that stretches like warm taffy, she huffs, a sound that could wither houseplants, and yanks her arm from Cal vin’s grasp.

Then she throws cash on the table, including a generous tip that I’m sure she didn’t even calculate, before storming away.

The bell above the door jingles, a cheerful counterpoint to her furious exit.

I exhale, feeling my shoulders drop a full inch.

“Thanks,” I murmur to Calvin, my voice barely audible over the renewed clatter of silverware as the diner comes back to life.

He gives me a slight nod, the corner of his lips pulling into a small, rare smile that transforms his face from intimidating to almost boyish. “Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to the family BBQ. You know, no Delilah.”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly like carbonation, the knot in my chest finally loosening. “Definitely no Delilah,” I say, my voice light enough to float away.

“So, speaking of the annoying little gnat,” I start, “were you spying on her while she spied on me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that she lied to you, you know. She’s not dating Gideon. In fact, I don’t even think they’re friends anymore.”

Using his own statement against him, I say, “It doesn’t matter.”

Calvin gives me a quick, conspiratorial wink before walking out, his shoulders relaxed, hands in pockets.

The past showed up in a diner booth and tried to claw me back. I served her nothing but an empty chair.

Okay, not really, but you know what I mean.