Delilah's Tears

Chapter Seven

Delilah

I'm a nervous wreck. Babbling at James, fawning over him. Christ. I threw myself at him in the airport. What the hell's wrong with me? After the whole cheese and crackers incident, my anxiety level was off the charts. Thank God he decided to go take a shower and unpack. I'm beginning to think asking him to stay here was a bad idea.

Don't get me wrong, I miss John like crazy. Seeing James—even though the two of them are day and night in appearance—is like driving a stake through my heart over and over. Where John was leanly muscular, James is like a Mack truck. He's huge. John was classically handsome with sandy hair and serious blue eyes, while James has darker hair. More of a light brown, to go with smiling amber eyes. Where John was always smoothly clean-shaven, James prefers to let a little scruff build up. He's a few inches taller than John, too, though his muscular build makes him appear more so. At first glance, you'd never guess they were brothers.

Until you study their facial features and gestures. The same chiseled cheekbones and jaws. Full lips which turn into a quirky smile that hitches in one corner. When they smile, little lines crinkle on the edges of their eyes in a similar pattern. It's weird, but when James leans against the counter, his stance is a near copy of John's. He even holds his damned bottle of beer the same way. Index and middle finger on top, thumb underneath and the ring finger propped alongside the bottle, partway between the two. When James took a sip, the way he stared at me over the top of the bottle was exactly the same as John. A little heated, a lot intense. If it wasn't such a stupid notion, I'd say James had more on his mind than dinner and a beer.

Tossing back the last sip of wine, I pour another and pray it calms my jitters. I want James to be comfortable here, not on pins and needles because I'm being a Dizzy Debbie. I splash cool water on my face and dry it with a paper towel, then get busy making a salad and prepping potatoes for baking. I've turned on some music. Between getting lost in my favorite tunes, working in the kitchen and sipping my wine—which needs another refill—I'm in my own zone.

"This is quite a sight. A guy could get used to it."

"Yipe!" I drop a potato and spin around to James' amused grin. He's doing that counter-leaning thing, too, with his tree-trunk arms folded across his chest. "You startled me. Don't do that." I'm certain my cheeks are a spectacular shade of pink. He chuckles.

"Ya think? I didn't think you could jump that high, D-doll."

Snatching my wine glass, I gulp down more than a decent sip. "I didn't hear you come in."

"That's because you're jamming to Pearl Jam and not paying attention. Good thing I'm not an intruder." His grin tells me he's teasing. Another thing he's got in common with his brother. I grab the remote and lower the volume.

"Were you trying to nap? I'm sorry if I woke you."

He shakes his head and dips into the fridge, emerging with another beer. "Nah. Took a shower. You have no idea how good a real shower is after those crappy pipes that drool lukewarm water over you. I never felt clean. Then I sprawled out on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. If the shower was good, the bed is better. Can I help?" He points the bottle toward the salad veggies.

"Nope. I'm finished making the salad. Haven't put those away yet." Without asking again, he starts stuffing veggies into the crisper drawer, then roots around in the cabinets until he finds plates and utensils.

"We eating in or out?"

"In. It cooled down too much to sit outside." I poke the potatoes with a fork and pop them on the bake setting in the microwave, then pull the steaks out of the fridge.