Page 14 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Eleven

Cassian

It’s past noon when I pull up to Delilah’s place.

Rosalinda told me where to find her—because, of course, she did. With a cheerful wave and a warning laced in cinnamon-scented threat, she said something like, “If you hurt her, I’ll curse your bloodline and make sure your tamales never come out right again.”

So . . . no pressure.

Her house is small, painted in pale yellow with white trim, the porch railing slightly chipped but draped in a garland of faux ivy and string lights that definitely weren’t installed by a professional. It’s warm, and lived-in.

I knock. Twice.

The door swings open a beat later, and there she is—Delilah Mora, wearing fuzzy socks with cartoon croissants on them.

Her pajama pants are cotton and wildly floral, and her oversized T-shirt reads I Like My Coffee With a Side of Silence.

Her hair is pulled into a haphazard bun with one pencil jabbed through like a weapon.

I’m not sure whether to laugh or fall to my knees in awe. She’s fucking beautiful.

“Well hello,” she greets me, squinting against the sun like she wasn’t expecting to see it today. “Huh, my mother wasn’t kidding when she said she was sending bachelor number two my way.”

“What?” I laugh because that’s funny.

“She’s decided you and Malerick are now the contenders to earn my hand in marriage.” She looks at her hands. “Even asked me to go get a manicure. I think she’s expecting me to choose by Saturday at the latest.”

“Is that so?” I clear my throat when my gaze dips lower than it should.

Her shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the thin strap of a tank top—soft, worn, and hanging just loose enough to make my thoughts detour into dangerous territory. There’s probably no bra. Just fabric and flesh.

It shouldn’t be sexy. It shouldn’t. But, fuck, there’s something about her like this—sleep-rumpled, half-dressed, socks with smiling croissants and that damn shirt threatening to slide lower.

My brain short-circuits like a teenage boy’s. Because she’s standing there, bare underneath cotton, and I’m trying not to imagine what I could do with her in that exact outfit—except failing spectacularly.

She blinks, then leans against the doorframe. “So what is suitor number two doing here?”

“I figured we could talk. About . . . things.” I’m doing great. Really. Top marks in espionage, failing in flirting.

She raises a brow. “Wow. Vague and suspicious. You must suck at the spy shit. No wonder they sent you to sleepy Birchwood Springs.”

I try not to take offense at the whole shitty spy accusation, because I’m not a fucking spy. Instead, I say, “You gonna invite me or do I have to wait for a rose?”

She sighs, mock-dramatic. “Ugh, fine. Come in before Mrs. Featherstone across the street starts her afternoon surveillance.”

I step inside. The air wraps around me—warm, sweet, and thick with the scent of honey, cinnamon and something freshly baked.

Like cinnamon rolls just pulled from the oven, like sugar and comfort, had a baby and called it home.

Her house is a vibrant mesh of color and lived-in charm.

Books stacked on every flat surface, mismatched mugs crowding the kitchen counter, a pink throw blanket on the couch that says Trying My Best in embroidered cursive.

It’s soft, quirky, impossible to look at without smiling.

I’m wondering if this is her.

But I have to remind myself that I didn’t come here for this.

Not for the croissants or the cracked mug or the girl in socks who somehow rattles me more than any threat I’ve ever faced.

But here I am, thrown off-kilter by a woman who wasn’t in the mission briefing.

I came here to observe, but I walked into her space and forgot how to lie to myself.

Everything in this space screams ‘mine.’ Her personality is stamped into the walls, the furniture, the uneven stacks of fiction novels, and half-finished craft projects.

There’s a pair of puppy slippers on the floor by the heater, a half-eaten croissant on a plate next to her couch, and a mug with Professional Overthinker written on it.

“Are you just gonna hover there like a weirdo all day, or . . .?”

“I’m studying the habitat,” I say, smirking. “Trying to determine if it’s safe.”

She narrows her eyes. “You think I’m not safe?”

“No,” I murmur, finally stepping inside. “I think you’re dangerous in a deceptively cozy package.”

She blushes. Or maybe it’s the heat. Or perhaps I’m projecting because I can’t stop staring at her collarbone or the way she’s trying to hide behind sarcasm like it’s bulletproof glass.

“Did you seriously come all this way just to stare at my socks?” she says, curling one foot behind the other, suddenly self-conscious.

I’ve been trained to resist distractions. To separate want from weakness.

But with her, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like waking up after years of pretending I don’t want anything real.

“No. But they are excellent socks.” My gaze dips. Lingers. “And the rest of the view doesn’t suck either.”

She stares at me, stunned, as if she didn’t expect that level of honesty. Or maybe she did—and wasn’t ready for it to land.

Silence stretches between us. Not awkward. Not quite comfortable. Just . . . full. Charged. Like the room’s holding its breath right along with us.

Her lips part just slightly. Not to speak. To breathe.

And for a heartbeat, the world narrows to this—her in front of me, soft cotton clinging to her frame, suspicious amusement flickering behind her eyes. If I reach for her now, she might let me.

Or she might tell me exactly where to shove it.

Either way, I’d deserve it. And still want more.

But I don’t move.

Because this isn’t about what I want.

It’s about what we could make happen—if I figure her out before I make my next move.

This has to be done with finesse. Tactics, even.

The strategy is simple: get to know the girl, lay my cards on the table, and wait for her next move.

Even if the wait fucking kills me.

“So, why are we here?” she presses, arms crossed, mouth tilted in suspicion and something dangerously close to amusement.

“Rosalinda mentioned you went home sick.” I shrug, trying for casual. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“I don’t have your number.” I give her a look, one I know hits a nerve, then take a step closer and reach for her phone sitting beside the coffee. “But you could fix that. Just unlock it for me.”

She narrows her eyes, a full-body eye roll coming for me like it’s clocking overtime. “Nope. I’m not sharing my number with you. What are you going to do, send me cryptic texts from an encrypted line?”

“Does Mal have your number?” I ask, knowing the answer will tell me more than she’s ready to admit.

Her snort is so dismissive it almost has a gravitational pull. “What is this, some pissing contest? ‘If he has it, I should, too?’”

She doesn’t give me time to answer. She leans forward slightly, her arms still crossed, her shirt sliding a little down one shoulder, exposing that damn strap again—the tank top one, thin and clinging. And I’m too distracted for a second too long.

“See, that’s what I don’t get about you two,” she goes on. “It seems like you’re into me, and then suddenly, you’re very into him.”

“Would that be a problem?”

She lifts her chin, lips parting in a tight, sarcastic smile.

“As I said earlier, you tell me who you are to each other—because I know there’s something.

And I want to know what role I’m playing in whatever this is.

The mystery woman? The distraction? The screw-to-ignite-some-kind-of-jealousy pawn? ”

I watch her closely. Too closely.

Because there’s a lot I could tell her, but I’m not sure if Malerick is willing to say anything.

I’m an open book. I’ve had relationships, none of them serious, but they knew who I am and what my expectations were.

Mal . . . it was always complicated since the first time.

Maybe that’s where I made a mistake or we both did.

We should’ve talked about it, but we were too young, too horny, and too preoccupied with saving each other’s asses to talk about what was happening when we weren’t working.

“It’s not just my story to tell,” I say, voice low. “It’s his, too.”

Her expression shifts. There’s a long pause that feels almost asphyxiating and then . . . “Are you two together?”

“We were . . . partners. In the Bureau.”

The word tastes old in my mouth—like something I buried under secrets and bullets and nights where we pretended we didn’t want more than backup.

“Were,” she repeats. The word comes out slow and skeptical, like she’s turning it over in her mouth to see how it tastes. “You’re not FBI?”

“No. I left a long time ago.”

Her eyes narrow. She wasn’t expecting that.

“You’re still working undercover for a private company? Like Atlas used to?”

I blink. “How do you know about Atlas?”

“It’s not important.”

“Somehow I think it is.”

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, and it does terrible things to my ability to think rationally. “I have a friend,” she says finally. “She may or may not have ties to the company he used to work for. We exchanged a few notes.”

“Friend?” My pulse tightens. I don’t like this. What if she’s unknowingly feeding intel to someone that could fuck with active covers?

“She knows Atlas through family reunions. Her family kind of adopted him. They have a habit of picking up strays,” she adds, watching me. Testing me.

And it clicks. “Oh, so you’re friends with a Decker.”

Her mouth tilts, just enough to confirm it. “Yeah, but I won’t tell you which one. That’s classified.”

I huff a laugh. “Fair enough.” After taking a deep breath, I continue my story, “I was recruited after leaving the Bureau. It made sense. The suits hated the way I worked, and things with my partner were . . . less than ideal.”

That should give her a picture without having to tell her the entire story of what was happening between Mal and me, right?

“Malerick?”

“What about him?”

“You left the FBI and Malerick, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, I haven’t seen him since.”

“Or fucked him,” she adds flatly.

I snort. “Fair.”

“So what now? You want to use me to get him back?”

That hits harder than she probably means it to. I didn’t even realize until now how badly I want something that isn’t tactical.

Something messy and alive and terrifying.

I wanted to save Mal. I still do. But when I look at her . . . I wonder if maybe someone could save me, too.

“No. I wouldn’t mind having sex with him again—sure. Or with you.” I meet her gaze, voice lowering. “Wouldn’t mind having a taste of that sweet pussy you keep teasing me with. But that’s not what I’m doing here.”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into the charge in the room, like she’s testing how far I’ll go.

I go a little further.

“I think I know how to help him,” I say. “Help him open up to you. That guy’s starving for love and somehow still believes he doesn’t deserve it. He’ll crawl for crumbs. And I think you . . . you could be the person he lets in.”

“And it can’t be you?”

Oh, I think I once wanted that, but lost my chance. Things with him and Rachel were . . . I thought they would be perfect until I realized they weren’t. She didn’t understand and I don’t believe there are many people who would.

It’s better to say, “He likes you. A lot. Probably more than he wants to admit. And with me? It’s too complicated. There’s too much history behind us.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re sacrificing. Trying to be the bigger person.”

“I’m not a good person, Delilah,” I murmur. “But I know when someone else would be better for him.”

She lets out a breath, all wry disbelief and bitter amusement.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but messy relationships aren’t really my thing.

Or relationships at all. My mother’s out there expecting a dozen grandkids and a big-ass wedding with a mariachi band, and I’m over here just trying to survive the week without losing my mind. ”

“No love?”

She shrugs. “It’s nice in theory. But it doesn’t last. It lifts you up for a second, makes you believe in things that don’t hold. Then it shatters you. Leaves you with all the sharp edges.”

I study her face. She’s not just talking about love.

She’s talking about survival.

“Okay,” I say, half to her and half to the universe, “so I need to convince not one, but two incredibly stubborn people that love isn’t just worth having . . . it’s worth falling for, fucking up for, and fighting like hell to keep. Even when it terrifies you. Especially when it does.”

“That’s—”

“No, don’t deny it.” I cut her, letting out a loud breath. “This might be impossible, but I can do it. I can make you two fall in love.”

“With who?” she asks.

“Him, me, both . . . probably no one.” I pause, meet her eyes, and soften my voice just enough to let the promise slip through. “But I’ll restore your faith.”

Even if it means breaking every rule I came here with.

Even if I lose them both.

But why lose when maybe we can all win? This time I’m not fucking this up.

I wink—not cocky, just enough to distract from everything I’m not saying—and step back. Because I need to leave before I stay longer than I should.

There’s another mission pulling at my attention. Another thread unraveling somewhere else.

And until I figure out what the fuck I’m doing with Mal—and Lilah—I need space.

Time.

And maybe the courage to admit I already know exactly what I want.

But can I convince Malerick that this could work? Today, the way he looked at me like he wanted to be cruel and kind in the same breath—I can’t forget that either.

I’m probably fucked.