Delilah Green Doesn’t Care (BRIGHT FALLS #1) by Ashley Herring Blake EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Ashley Herring Blake
- Language: English
- Genre: LGBTQ
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.3 MB
- Price: Free
DELILAH’S EYES FLIPPED open at the buzz on the nightstand. She blinked the
unfamiliar room into focus, once . . . twice. It had to be at least two in the
morning, maybe later. She fumbled for her phone, silky white sheets
tangling around her naked thighs as she twisted to silence the vibrating,
which seemed loud enough to wake up—
Oh shit.
She’d done it again. The name of the woman lying next to her slipped
and slid in her memories from the previous night, the letters nearly
impossible to grasp through the art show at the tiny Fitz gallery in the
Village—a few of her photographs on the walls, a handful of patrons
nodding and praising but never actually intrigued enough to buy anything,
the champagne that never seemed to stop flowing— followed by that florid
bar up on MacDougal Street and a whole hell of a lot of bourbon.
Delilah glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping white woman next to
her. Dark blond pixie cut, creamy skin. Nice mouth, full thighs, phenomenal
hands.
Lorna?
Lauren.
No. Lola. Her name was definitely Lola.
Maybe.
Delilah bit her lip and grabbed the still gyrating phone, squinting at the
name flashing on the bright display in the dark.
Ass-trid
She barely had time to smirk at the way she’d spelled her stepsister’s
name in her contacts before she hit Ignore. An instinct. In Delilah’s
experience, a phone call at two in the morning was rarely a good thing,
particularly when Astrid Parker was on the other end of the line. And who
the hell even called anymore? Why couldn’t Astrid text like a normal
human?
Okay, fine, there might have been several unanswered texts in Delilah’s
messages, but in her defense, she was a useless sack of skin lately, with
another month’s rent looming and preparing for the Fitz show, at which her
work only appeared because she knew the owner, Rhea Fitz, a former
fellow waitress whose dead grandmother left her enough money to open her
own gallery. The past few weeks had been a scramble of waiting tables parttime at the River Café in Brooklyn and working freelance portrait jobs and
weddings, all of which barely paid enough to cover her apartment and food.
She was one catastrophe away from having to move to New Jersey, and if
she ever wanted to break into the ruthless New York City art world, New
Jersey wasn’t going to cut it. She’d sold a piece or two, sure, but her
photography was niche, as one agent had told her while declining to
represent her, and niche wasn’t an easy sell.
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