Page 52 of The Stranger

“Delilah,” I call out, knocking twice.

When there’s no answer, I grasp the doorknob and turn it. Thankfully, unlike this morning, it’s not locked.

I pop my head in but see no sign of her.

I’m crossing a line by entering her bedroom without an invitation, but under the circumstances, I feel it’swarranted. My concern for her well-being outweighs her privacy.

Her bed is neatly made, but I find her suitcase sitting open on top of the covers. Is she leaving? I was desperate to find her alternate accommodation a few days ago, but the thought of her going elsewhere now sets off a flurry of panic inside me.

The bathroom door is closed, so I move towards it and place my ear to the wood. The water is running, so I’m gathering she’s in the shower, but that’s not all I hear … she’s crying.Fuck.It’s not like I can walk in there. She could be naked, and that’s an image Ido notneed in my head. My imagination is already wreaking havoc with that one.

I turn and make my way towards her bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. It feels wrong being in here … even if it’s my house, but I want to stay close just in case.

My eyes move around the space. Is it weird I’ve never really seen this room up close? I remember coming in here when the interior designer gave me a tour, but I paid little attention. The main room, my office, and the master bedroom were my only priority.

Many minutes pass before Delilah finally exits the bathroom.

She jumps back in fright when she notices me sitting on her bed. “Shit, Spencer,” she squeals. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing in here?”

My gaze skims down the length of her body. Thankfully, she’s clothed. I didn’t consider the alternative when I waltzed in here and decided to wait. Her pink flannelette pyjamas have tiny white bunnies on them. She looks as cute as hell, but so much younger than her twenty-two years—like a damn teenager—and that makesall these impure thoughts I’ve been having of her seem wrong.

“I was concerned about you.”

Her hand flies to her neck like she’s clutching her non-existent pearls. “Me? Why?”

“I saw the empty bottle of wine on the kitchen island, Delilah.”

“Considering the things I’ve learnt over the past two days, you can’t exactly hold that against me.”

“I don’t,” I reply honestly. “It’s the amount of alcohol, and the short time frame that you consumed it that concerns me.”

“I’m a big girl, Spencer. I can handle it.”

“But you are not ‘a big girl’,” I grumble, air quoting the last three words with my fingers.

Her eyes slightly narrow. “I’m almost twenty-two. I’ve been at the legal drinking age for four years.”

“Again, it’s not your age, Delilah. A person’s size, if determined by height and body mass, can influence his or her blood alcohol concentration.” In saying that, she seems to be handling this better than I expected.

“As you can see, I’m fine,” she gripes, dramatically extending her arms wide to prove her point, but it does the complete opposite. The sudden jerky movement puts her off balance and has her drunk arse stumbling.

I leap to my feet and scramble forward to grasp hold of her arm before she falls. “Yes, you seem fine,” I utter sarcastically.

“If you’re done playing, Dad, you can leave my room now.”

My grip remains firmly wrapped around her bicep as my free hand rises to pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not trying to be your parent. I’m worried about you.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” I mumble as I let go of her and reach for her hand. As I start moving, I lightly tug on her arm to follow. “Come.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“To order you some food.”

“I’m not hungry,” she says, halting her steps and trying to tug her hand from mine.

I pause, not wanting her to lose her footing again. “This isn’t up for negotiation, Delilah.”