Page 13 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Ten

Delilah

I don’t storm out.

That would give them too much power.

Instead, I walk out of the bar like I haven’t just told two grown-ass men I’d fuck them—together or apart—as long as they quit playing whatever secret-agent-hormonal-tango they’ve got going on.

I walk like my legs aren’t jelly like I’m not half a breath away from turning around and begging one—or both—of them to finish what they started.

I walk like a liar.

Because my body? She’s traitorous. She’s still keyed up, vibrating from Cassian’s breath grazing my lips, and the way Malerick gripped my arm like he was two seconds from losing every ounce of control. Like he wanted to ruin me slowly and all at once.

This isn’t strength. It’s survival.

It’s walking before I melt down between them like some overbaked pastry filled with frustration and sex-deprived insanity.

The second I hit the street, the cold cracks against me. A slap of wind that slices through my clothes and latches onto my skin. I forgot my coat. Of course I did. Because my brain is MIA, probably curled up somewhere between Cassian’s smirk and Mal’s glare.

But the heat? Still there.

Still crawling under my skin like an unfinished sentence, a question with no punctuation.

My entire body is a buzzing contradiction—cold on the outside, feverish beneath.

I cross the street like I’m not about to combust. Arms wrapped tight around myself like I can cage the feelings I’m not ready to name.

And naturally—because apparently, my life is now a tragicomedy—my mother appears like a matchmaking hallucination. She’s the last person I need right now. If she gets a whiff of what’s happening with Mal and Cassian . . . she’ll either be scandalized or start a game show to see who I can pick.

“Lilah, mi pequena,” Mom sings out, just as I nearly plow into her like a walking emotional landslide.

She smells like cinnamon and nosy intentions.

The paper bag in her hand is from the bakery—probably filled with something she’s going to give away to someone in exchange for information.

She’s better than every intelligence agency combined.

Maybe I should have her go and drag the truth out of those men, but that’d be telling her what’s happening and she’d freak out.

Mom eyes me like she already knows everything and is just waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she can be dramatically correct.

“You look flushed,” she says, tilting her head like I’m a lab rat she’s monitoring for symptoms. “And not in a glowing way. Are you sick? Are you hormonal? Are you pregnant?” She gasps. “No. It’s the coat. Dios mío, mijita, how can you be out without a jacket? Te me vas a enfermar.”

A few minutes without a coat and she swears I’m going to get sick. It’s like she loaded a shotgun with maternal panic and fired blindly.

“I’m fine,” I try my best not to snap. Too quickly. Way too quickly.

Her brows shoot up. “Mhm. Were you at Cassian’s bar?”

I blink. “Yes.” There’s no point lying. She’ll smell it on me—like sin and cinnamon rolls.

Her smile morphs into something triumphant. “So it’s happening. We’ve chosen the bartender.”

“We haven’t chosen anyone,” I hiss, voice pitched low like we’re in a spy thriller and the walls have ears.

Mom’s expression goes full smug. “Don’t play with me. Your lips are swollen. Your pupils are dilated. And you’re walking like your thighs remember more than your brain’s willing to admit.”

I groan. “Mom, I swear to God?—”

“I’m just saying,” she waves her free hand like she’s clearing my objections. “Malerick was always the top contender. But Cassian’s a surprise dark horse. He’s polite. He listens. He wants kids.”

I rear back. “What?”

“You always wanted a big family,” she says sweetly. “Don’t deny it. You used to name imaginary babies when you were eight.”

“I also tried to marry a stuffed giraffe. That doesn’t mean I was serious.”

She’s already walking off. Muttering something about grandkids and retirement parties.

“I said I want to stay single,” I call after her, like shouting into the wind will make a difference.

“But you might reconsider parenting,” she says over her shoulder, casual as if we’re discussing grocery lists and not the collapse of my sanity.

I sneeze.

She gasps like it’s a death knell. “Let’s take you back inside. I’ll make you tea. Then we strategize.”

By the time I’m back at the bakery, I’m oscillating between frozen, overheated, and emotionally whiplashed. All I need is a psychic telling me my aura smells like foreplay.

“You should go home,” Mom says as I peel off my scarf.

“I—”

“We’re fully staffed. You’re going through something. Go home. Shower. Do whatever you need to do to calm down so tomorrow is a better day.”

Normally I’d protest, dig in, and fight for control. But I nod.

Because she’s right.

I need space. Not just from her meddling or the scent of fresh croissants—no, I need space from them—Cassian and Malerick.

The two men who’ve somehow taken up residence in my nervous system and are currently wreaking havoc on every fantasy I’ve ever had.

When I get home, I kick off my boots like they’ve betrayed me. My coat lands on the hook, barely. My fingers twitch with leftover adrenaline, my jaw aches from clenching, and my living room floor looks too empty to pace but I try anyway. Back and forth. Back and forth.

As if carving a path across these worn floorboards will help me make sense of anything.

Cassian said something without saying it. Malerick didn’t deny a damn thing. They both looked at me like I was the answer to a question they weren’t supposed to ask. And I just walked out.

Like a flustered idiot.

There’s still want pulsing through me. Too much want. Want that makes my hands itch and my throat dry. Want that makes me press my palm flat to my chest, like I can physically stop the way my heart is rioting against reason.

They touched me without really touching me.

Looked at me like I was a decision they couldn’t take back.

If they keep their mouths shut, there won’t be answers.

Or sex.

Or any kind of resolution.

And honestly?

I don’t know what would kill me faster—my curiosity or my libido.

Since I’m buzzing, I decide to talk to someone, anyone.

Nysa might know about this guy, right? She has some kind of connection with these people, but when I ring her she texts me back that she’ll call when she’s available.

I guess it’s just me and a new criminal board, and my targets are those two.

It’s definitely not a fuck, marry, kill scenario. I just want to know what’s happening.

Is that too much to ask?