Page 99 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

On those terrifying words, Delilah got up to leave. Under her breath, she said, “Go fuck yourself, lady!”

Before the door slammed behind her, she was pretty sure Ms. Gardner heard her, if the quick intake of air behind her was any indication.

When she got back to Bell Cove, she would consult with her lawyer, Matt Holter. Well, first thing in the morning. It was too late now.

To say she was terrified was to minimize her mood as she finally exited the boat and drove back to Bell Cove. She was half-dead with weariness when she drove onto her property and turned off the engine of the tank passing for a car that her grandmother had purchased. It continued sputtering even when the ignition was off, until it came to a dead silence.

But that wasn’t the end of her day from hell.

When she stepped out of the car, Merrill was standing there.

“Oh, babe, you look like hell,” he said.

With a choked laugh, she reciprocated with, “Well, I’m not so happy to see you, either.”

“I didn’t say that I was unhappy to see you. I just said that you look like you could use a friend.” He opened his arms to her then.

She should have walked away.

She should have told him to shove it.

She should have said she didn’t need his aggravation.

Instead, she stepped into his embrace and murmured, “Thank you, friend.”

Sometimes, all a girl needed was a hug.

Trust me, baby, I have plans . . .

Merrill led Delilah into his motel unit and then directly into the bathroom where he started to fill the tub with warm water, pouring in a dollop of some Avon bubble crap she’d left there. Immediately the small room filled with the sweet scent of flowers.

Meanwhile, Delilah stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom. By the looks of her, she must have had a hell of a day. No time for questions now. Later. But, man, he’d like to slay some dragons for her at the moment. To knock some sense into the person, or persons, who’d put that defeated expression on her face.

Please, God, don’t let me be one of them.

He was still pissed at her over the felony conviction, and, oh, my God, five years’ hard time in a women’s pokey that he’d learned by a quick Google search was no country club designer prison. What kind of hell had she experienced?

First, he undressed her. It was a sign of her miserable state that she didn’t even protest. When she was naked, he tested the water, which was covered by about a foot of bubbles. He might have overdone the dollop.

He helped her in, then rolled up a towel to place under her neck so that she could lie back.

“Aaaaah!” she sighed with appreciation.

He pulled over a hamper and sat down on it, next to the tub.

“Tell me,” he urged.

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. I’m going to help you.”

“But I’m an ex-con.”

“I know.”

“You were mad about that.”

“Confused more than mad. Do you want to talk about it?”