Page 85 of Courting Trouble
Delilah straightened, teeth grinding. She could take humiliation in front of the crowd, the director’s disappointment, the certainty of being replaced, the end of her career, even. But she would not, under any circumstances, be dismissed byLena bloody Dalton. Who was she? An overpaid, overestimated posho. Delilah had been around that type her whole life on sets and stages. She despised them. The entitlement, the self-righteousness. She was suddenly filled with a burning hatred.
She wanted to make Lena swallow it.
The next serve came. Delilah lunged, wild and awkward, but she caught it, smacking the ball back so hard Lena actually flinched, and the ball got past her, just in. A murmur rippled through the stands.
Lena’s smile tightened.
Good, Delilah thought.Let her squirm.
She stalked the baseline, bouncing on her toes the way Cassie had drilled her, her breath sawing in and out. Every shot Lena fired over, Delilah chased down. She was sloppy, her swings too wide, her feet clumsy, but she kept getting there, pushing back, starting to take points.
And Lena hated it.
With each rally, Lena grew more rattled. Her sighs became muttered curses, her shoulders jerking tighter, her control slipping altogether. She sent balls long, clipped the net, and absolutelyshankedher forehand.
And Delilah? She was everywhere. Grunting, sweating, flailing, but relentless. The crowd, watching casually before as they necked cocktails, began to really watch, making noises of enthusiasm.
By the last game, Lena looked near tears, her cheeks red, her lips tight as she smacked another return into the net. Delilah’s chest burned, her arm ached, but she dug deep for one last shot, slamming the ball past Lena’s outstretched racket.
Game. Set. Match.
Lena’s head bowed, her racket dangling limp. She wouldn’t meet Delilah’s eye.
The arena erupted.
James was suddenly there, beaming, clapping, showering her in effusive praise. ‘Delilah! Brilliant! Absolutely bloody brilliant!’ His grin was greasy with flattery, as if this had never been an audition at all.
Delilah barely heard him. The victory didn’t feel like a victory. She knew she’d done enough; the role was secure, but her heart was empty.
Because Cassie wasn’t there to see it.
She slipped past James, ignoring his hand on her shoulder, ignoring Lena’s muttered swearing behind her. She dropped her racket and strode down the tunnel.
There was only one thing she wanted. One person.
Cassie. Why had she left? What had Delilah done? Had Cassie just had enough of Delilah?
That was a seductive thought, but the way Cassie’s whole demeanour had changed didn’t really back that up. Something had happened. Was it because she’d watched that pro exhibition match? Had it upset her? She’d seemed OK—good, even. Delilah had thought… She felt silly now, but she’d thought today might have begun some healing for her.
Was that it? Was Delilah a thoughtless, insensitive clod who had brought Cassie to the last place on earth she should have been and acted like it was going to make Cassie get over what had happened?
God.
She called Cassie. It went to voicemail. She called her again. Voicemail again. Shit, she’d blocked her.
Delilah didn’t blame her. But she had to apologise. She had to do that at least. Even if she’d blown it. Cassie deserved to know that Delilah cared about her, that she hadn’t meant to make things harder for her. Even if she had done exactly that.
Eighty-Two
The Riverside Tennis Club was quiet. Night had fallen, leaving the courts empty under the harsh white floodlights.
Cassie had driven around for hours, the streets blurring past, not wanting to go home, not wanting to face the silence waiting there. Somehow, without realising it, her route had led her here, to the place where she’d first met Delilah, somewhere to examine the whole mess. Like she could spool back the days, and watch it happen again, and warn herself,Don’t, you tit. She’ll break your heart.
She sat cross-legged on her favourite court, bouncing a ball absently, the soft thwack echoing like a metronome. Her thoughts kept returning to her—every look, every touch, all of it replayed in her mind, but now in a cruelly different light.
She thought of the day she had cried in Delilah’s arms, how she’d held her so carefully. She thought of the Petra incident, how Delilah had backed her completely when she had no reason to.
She thought of the way Delilah had made love to her, in a way that made Cassie understand exactly what that expression was supposed to mean.
