Delilah Green Doesn't Care(Bright Falls #1)(22)

“I thought you were going to keep that hidden,” Astrid said, nodding toward Delilah’s ribcage.

Delilah smirked, wrapping both hands around her camera to hide the fact that they were shaking. “Oh, come on, you knew I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to ruffle Mommy Dearest’s couture feathers, now was I?” Then she shimmied her shoulder back and forth, just once, causing her admittedly small breasts to undulate under her blouse.

Astrid’s mouth twitched, and for a split second, Delilah could’ve sworn her stepsister nearly smiled, but then the front door opened and the smile was gone, replaced by her usual worry-brow, that tight set to her lips that made her look exactly like Isabel. She rolled her eyes at Delilah and then headed toward the women now spilling into the room in a flurry of tea dresses and lace.

Delilah grabbed her moment of freedom and sped toward a table with a champagne fountain where a tower of glass flutes rose tall and proud, already filled with sparkling golden liquid and a splash of orange juice. She stowed her camera bag underneath, the ivory satin cloth hiding everything away, before taking a flute off the top. Normally, she’d never drink on a job or while working on a piece.

But this was anything but normal.

From across the room, she caught Isabel watching her with that quintessential judgy expression—mouth puckered, eyes narrowed. Or maybe that was just the Botox. Either way, Delilah tipped her glass to her and then downed the drink in two gulps. The bubbles burned her throat, but her limbs warmed pretty quickly. She took a few deep breaths, readying herself to do her job. She could blend into the walls, like any event photographer should, go through the motions until this day was over. She’d done it a thousand times before. Two hours, tops. Surely, this bland crew wouldn’t brunch for longer than that.

After she felt sufficiently steeled, she turned around. A couple more people had arrived—an older woman with a coif of dyed blond hair she assumed was the mother of the groom, a woman around Delilah’s age who looked about as happy to be there as she felt, and an elderly lady who seemed to be ripping Isabel a new one for not already having a drink in her hand. Delilah liked her immediately.

She lifted her camera and snapped a picture of the interaction, capturing Isabel’s fake smile and tight jaw. How lovely. How very mother of the bride.

Delilah grinned to herself, thinking of all the less-than-flattering moments she could immortalize over the next two weeks if she so chose. She’d worked a lot of weddings over the past ten years, and if there was one thing she’d learned, it was that they brought out the worst in people.

She started a slow circle around the room, snapping the food display—there were petits fours, of course, all gold and white and ivory icing and embellishments—and the table settings. Figuring she should get some shots of the bride herself, she made her way toward Astrid. Iris and Claire were both there, the three of them huddled together and talking in low voices. As Delilah got closer, their tones sounded tense, stretched, and she readied her camera to freeze the moment in time.

But then Claire shifted, and Delilah caught a glimpse of her face around Astrid’s blond head. Her eyes were red and damp, and she dabbed furiously at them with a tissue, trying to keep her tears from forming a mascara trail down her cheeks.

God, she was gorgeous even when she cried. Delilah angled her head to get a better look at her—hair up in a twist, soft tendrils around her face, a hunter-green lace dress that looked like something right out of The Great Gatsby, tea length with lace sleeves that stopped at her elbows, a fitted lace bodice that showed just the right amount of cleavage, and a little satin bow at her curvy waist. She had a garment bag tossed over one arm.

“I knew this would happen,” Claire was saying. “Goddammit, I knew it. I knew he’d do this. I’m so sorry, Astrid.”

“Hey, come on,” Astrid said, her hand on Claire’s arm. “It’s fine. I don’t care if Ruby’s late.”

Iris snorted next to her, and Astrid elbowed her.

“I don’t,” Astrid said again, her eyes on Claire. “I just want her to be part of this.”

Claire nodded. “He’s on his way. He said he was, anyway.”

Astrid smoothed her hand down Claire’s arm while Iris said something about liquid courage and made a beeline for the champagne table. Through the space her absence created, Claire lifted her eyes and met Delilah’s. Maybe Delilah was imagining it, wishing it into being, but she swore Claire’s pupils widened a little behind her glasses and her mouth parted, just a little.

Just enough.

Oh, Astrid was so, so wrong. Delilah was totally going to win.





Chapter Six




CLAIRE WAS GOING to kill Josh. Eviscerate him. Flay him alive. Cook him in a cauldron with his own juices.

This morning, she’d woken up before seven and texted him.


Good morning! Are you two up?



A simple, easygoing message. Nothing too demanding. She’d even prefaced the question with a jolly greeting, for god’s sake. He hadn’t responded for another hour, but that was okay. Eight o’clock was still plenty of time to get Ruby up and moving and home by nine so she could change into the dress Astrid had bought for her to wear at the brunch. It was lavender, all lace and satin, and Ruby positively hated it. Claire didn’t have the heart to tell Astrid. Two years ago, Ruby would’ve loved the dress, but now it seemed her daughter balked at anything other than jeans, dark colors, and Claire’s old nineties band T-shirts Ruby had found in a box in their attic six months ago. Claire had managed to convince Ruby to suck it up and be polite—the dress cost more than Claire’s own vintage outfit, after all, and Ruby truly loved Astrid—but Claire also knew that Ruby’s mood swung like a pendulum these days, and it would be better to get dressed at home rather than at Vivian’s.