Page 154 of Playing With Fire

“I know what month it is, Delaney.”

I laugh. “I’m almost home.”

There’s a tiny pause.

Home.

It rolls off the tongue easily. Neither of us acknowledges it.

I slow at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Chicago moves around me in every direction—headlights reflecting on wet pavement, the rumble of a bus pulling away from the curb, music spilling out each time the door of the bar across the street opens.

The air has that sharp October bite now, cold enough that I tuck my free hand deeper into my coat pocket. Somewhere nearby, something smells like garlic, and my stomach reminds me I skipped lunch. Again.

Less than a month ago I was standing on the sidewalk, with the city moving around me while I stood overwhelmed and trying not to puke. Then I went from homeless to a “haunted” hotel, and now I’m in Bishop’s penthouse.

Tonight, I know which corner to turn without checking my phone. I know Henry will probably ask how Darcy is doing. I know there’s hazelnut creamer in the refrigerator upstairs and a stack of my books taking up space on a shelf that wasn’t mine a week ago.

And apparently, somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of Bishop’s penthouse as the place I’m staying and started calling it home.

The light changes and I step off the curb with everyone else.

“Laney?”

Mom’s voice pulls me back. “Sorry. I’m here.”

“You got quiet.”

“Just focusing on crossing the street.” It isn’t exactly a lie.

“How’s work?”

“Good. Great actually. I’m working on a new book from an up-and-coming author that was discovered on TikTok.” Then I launch into explaining the contemporary romance I’ve been editing.

“You’re really doing it. I can hear in your voice how happy and passionate you are about your work. It’s all we ever wanted for you, Delaney.”

I also hear what she’s not saying… and you didn't even have to move to New York to pursue your dream. Because New York was the dream, but it just wasn’t my reality.

Ironic really, because Chicago was my brother’s dream, yet I’m the one that ended up here.

I blink back the tears forming and take a deep breath. “Thanks, Mom.”

“And the apartment search?”

“Still searching.”

“You know your father and I can⁠—”

“No.”

“I didn’t even finish.”

“You were going to offer money.” Money that would no doubt dip into my father’s retirement.

“I was going to offer help. But Declan has–”

“No, Mom. I’m not taking money from him. I can do this. I need to do this.”

Her sigh crackles through the speaker. “You get that stubborn streak from your father.”