Page 31 of The Last Call Home
Cassian
It’spast 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 readsI 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 saysTrying My Bestin 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 withProfessional Overthinkerwritten 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?”
