As they entered the Airbnb, they found Delancie still sitting comfortably in the living room, as if she owned the place.
"You're still here?" Laziel sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Frida rolled her eyes dramatically, tossing her coat onto the couch before plopping down, crossing her legs with impatience. "Five seconds," she reminded him.
"One," she began to count.
Delancie chuckled, her laugh as sharp as her designer heels. "I see why you like her. Must be nice having a feisty version of Brooke Shields," she quipped, pouring herself a glass of wine and making herself at home.
Laziel exhaled sharply. "Delancie is a wannabe fiancée," he explained, his tone dripping with disdain. "My mom paired me up with her—best friends with Delancie's mom back in the day. They decided, like it was still the 18th century, to 'betroth' us while we were babies. Total nonsense."
Frida cringed, turning a shocked gaze toward Laz. "She's that man's daughter?"
