“I knew it,” Astrid said, cutting Delilah off. “I knew you’d still be in bed.” She set the coffees down on the dresser—the entire piece of furniture might as well have been one giant papier-maché flower—and fisted her hands on her hips. “It’s nine thirty.”
“How the hell did you get a key to my room?” Delilah motioned to the rose-gold key ring, which, unsurprisingly, was shaped like a rose.
“Nell is a client of mine.”
“Nell.”
“The owner?”
“Ah yes, good ole Nell.”
Astrid sighed. “Most people actually know one another in this town, Delilah, and I redesigned her living room–kitchen combination last winter.”
“So a few throw pillows and a leather couch equals a complete and utter invasion of privacy? Isn’t that illegal?”
Astrid pulled a face, making it very clear that what she was about to say next pained her greatly. “I’m your sister.”
Delilah rubbed her eyes—that word had always settled funny on her gut. “Well, you should have redesigned this god-awful hotel room.”
Astrid’s shoulders loosened, just a fraction, before looking around at the garden party. “Jesus, it’s truly heinous.”
“I think I dreamed I was getting strangled by a tulip all night long.”
“Oh, these are peonies,” Astrid said, running a hand over the pillow on a rattan rocking chair by the window.
Delilah flipped her off. “I guess it’s better than the Everwood. That place is like something out of a horror movie.”
The Everwood Inn—the only other inn within a fifty-mile radius of Bright Falls was just on the edge of town—was nationally famous for the Blue Lady, the purported ghost of a scorned early twentieth-century woman who haunted one of the Victorian house’s bedrooms, searching for her long-lost lover with a glowing blue lapis lazuli stone around her neck. It was also creepy as hell, with dark wood furnishings, ancient carpets that probably dated back to the Blue Lady herself, and cobwebs in every corner. Pru Everwood, the owner, still ran it as an inn, as far as Delilah knew, but it was little more than a tourist trap these days.
“I’d love to get my hands on that place,” Astrid said, swiping her hand over the dresser, then rubbing her fingers together, as though checking for dust. “It could be really beautiful if Pru would ever consider renovating.”
“Pru was a hundred years old when we were kids. I doubt she’s up for a big project,” Delilah said, pushing back the covers and swinging her legs off the bed.
“Whoa, hey, oh my god.” Astrid shielded her eyes like the sun was attacking her.
“What?”
“You’re naked.”
“I have on underwear.”
“And no top.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect company wielding a fucking key.”
“Okay, fine, just get dressed or we’re going to be late.”
“I thought I’d go like this.”
Astrid’s arm dropped and she glared.
“All right, all right,” Delilah said, grabbing her black bralette off the floor and slipping it on. Then she struck a pose. “How’s this?”
“I will sneak in here at two in the morning and staple all your underwear to the walls.”
“Sounds noisy. I’d probably wake up.”
Astrid’s nostrils flared. Delilah grinned, her plan unfolding perfectly. If she was going to photograph this wedding—particularly now that she had a ton of work to do for the Whitney show—then, dammit, she was going to have fun, and she could think of nothing more entertaining than getting under Astrid’s skin. And Isabel’s, if at all possible, though the woman was like a highly polished granite wall. Astrid, on the other hand, was easily ruffled.
“Is that for me?” she asked, motioning toward one of the coffee cups.
Astrid picked up a cup and held it to her chest. “You only get it if you put on pants.”
“It better be my favorite drink.”
“Pants. Or a dress. If you own one, that is.”
“God, I hope that’s my favorite drink. If it’s not, I might have to go back to New York.”
“Like I know your favorite drink.”
“Americano with two inches of steamed soy milk, obviously.”
“You’re such a coffee snob.”
Delilah shrugged. It was true. Her Brooklyn flat was full of sloppily-put-together IKEA furniture, but damn if she was going to drink shitty coffee. She’d rather go without.