Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(105)

She closed her eyes, just for a second, and imagined what it would be like.

Life with someone’s fingers entwined with hers for nights like this.

Life with her person.

But as Delilah imagined someone walking beside her in this huge moment, that someone took on a face, a familiar feel, soft skin and brown eyes shining behind her glasses.

Claire hadn’t been like Jax.

She hadn’t been like anyone in Delilah’s life.

She’d been . . . She was . . .

Delilah shook her head, rolled her shoulders back. She had a job to do tonight, and she couldn’t afford distraction.

She couldn’t afford whatever Claire Sutherland was.



* * *





THE SHOW BEGAN at eight o’clock. By nine, Delilah had already spoken to four agents who had handed her their card and told her to email them her portfolio, connected with two other artists whose work had similar themes about some collaborative projects, and sold three pieces for more money than she could currently comprehend.

She’d also come dangerously close to breaking down into tears five different times.

There was no reason for the crying.

The night was perfect, the show a success. The exhibition room was brightly lit and soft all at once, artists and patrons sipping champagne and spilling out on the museum’s veranda, which overlooked the city. There were incredible queer photographs hanging in the space, images that showcased resilience, pain, sex, determination, hope, despair, celebration, and love. It was the pinnacle of not only Delilah’s professional life so far, but her queer life as well. Here, in this room, was everything she’d ever wanted or run from or feared.

So why this constant welling sensation, like something inside her was about to overflow? She couldn’t tell if she was overwhelmed or happy or scared or sad. She’d finally gotten a moment to breathe and grabbed a glass of bubbly alcohol, which she very much hoped would chill her the fuck out, when she heard her name.

She turned toward the sound to see a woman with a blond pixie cut in a fabulous white bandage dress sashaying toward her.

“Lorelei,” Delilah said when the woman got closer.

“You remembered,” Lorelei said, clinking her glass against Delilah’s, a knowing smile on her lips.

Delilah winced. “I’m sorry I never texted.”

Lorelei waved a hand. “Oh please. I know how to have a casual hookup.”

Delilah nodded, but something about the words—the implication of just sex—twinged something in her gut.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she said, shaking off the feeling. “For showing my work to Alex.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ve known Alex for years. We went to Vassar together. And although I’m just one of the Whitney’s many bloodsucking lawyers”—here Delilah laughed—“I know a beautiful photograph when I see it.”

“Well, it was appreciated, nonetheless.”

Lorelei nodded, her eyes on Delilah over her champagne flute. “Maybe we could get a real drink afterward? Perhaps even learn each other’s middle names?”

Delilah opened her mouth to say yes. She always said yes when a gorgeous woman asked her out after an event or before an event or, hell, for any time during an event. But her response got stuck in her throat, wouldn’t even roll onto her tongue.

Lorelei’s expression fell. “I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said, rubbing her forehead. “I . . . I want to say yes.”

Lorelei tilted her head. “But . . . ?”

Delilah shook her head. “I don’t know. I just . . .”

“There’s someone else?”

Again, Delilah’s mouth dropped open, this time a definitive no ready and waiting.

But she couldn’t seem to get that word out either. Delilah blinked, swallowed, and tried again. Still nothing.

Lorelei smiled, oblivious to Delilah’s inner turmoil, sighing and waving a hand at the crowd of nameless beauty all around them. “You’re lucky, then.”

And with that, she kissed Delilah on the cheek and sauntered off. Delilah watched her, suddenly battling a feral urge to call the woman back and drag her to some unused coat closet, then fuck her silly just to feel normal again.

She turned away, back toward her pieces on the wall. There were still at least two hours left, and she needed to focus. She couldn’t blow this chance. She couldn’t—

Delilah froze as she saw a familiar figure standing in front of Found. The woman’s head was tilted as she took in the image, her hip popped out in her black pencil skirt, holding a glass of champagne with two fingers like it was the cheapest bilge she’d ever tasted.

Blinking didn’t clear the vision, which Delilah had half hoped, half dreaded was just some stress-induced hallucination.

But no. Astrid Parker was here. In New York City. At Delilah Green’s show.

Delilah stared for a few seconds, wondering if she could get away with simply turning around and walking straight out of the Whitney, but she knew she couldn’t. Strangely, she didn’t even want to. Curiosity trumped her horror, and she made her way over to her stepsister, approaching her slowly like one might a wounded animal.

When she got close enough, she decided silence was probably best, sliding up next to Astrid and looking up at her own face in black and white. She still loved this photograph, probably more than any other self-portrait she’d ever taken. Self-portraits were tricky; they took forever, as you had to set up the shot without its subject, then do it again and again until you got it right. Double the complications if water was usually a centerpiece of one’s work. This one was no different, and it had paid off.