This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, organizations,

places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Kristen Callihan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks
of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542016773
ISBN-10: 1542016770
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
 CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not
mortified mine.
―Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
 PROLOGUE
Ten Years Ago
Shermont High School, Shermont, North Carolina
Senior Class Yearbook Exit Interview
Question 1: If you had to do high school all over again,
would you?
Macon Saint: You’re kidding me, right? No.
Delilah Baker: Is this a trick question? No.
Question 2: Who is most likely to succeed from our
class?
Delilah Baker: Oh, come on. Everyone knows it will be
Macon. Not that he’ll deserve it.
Macon Saint: Me. And Delilah Baker. She’s like a
barnacle; she’ll cling until she gets where she wants to go.
Question 3: Who do you want with you if there’s a
hostile alien invasion?
Macon Saint: Delilah Baker. She’d yap so much and so
loudly the aliens would turn around and flee.
Delilah Baker: Macon Saint. I’d toss him in their path and
gain valuable seconds running for my life.
Question 4: Most memorable moment in high school,
and did you enjoy it?
Delilah Baker: Graduating. Yes.
Macon Saint: Prom. Not one f*cking bit.

Macon Saint was the devil. Anyone with a lick of sense

knew it. Unfortunately, when it came to Macon, none of my
fellow classmates at Shermont High School seemed to possess
the sense that God gave them. No, they’d all fawn over him as
though he were a god. I suspected that was the true mark of
the devil: turning people into starry-eyed fools when they
ought to know better.
Not that I could blame them. Beauty made fools of us all.
Macon had the face of an angel—so beautiful you wondered if
it truly had been sculpted by the hand of God, black hair so
thick and glossy it might well have had a halo floating over it.
Yes, he was that pretty. The only one who could rival him for
sheer physical perfection was my sister, Samantha.
While the rest of us were entering adolescence with all the
awkward grace of molting swans, struggling with our too-big
puppy feet, crooked teeth, and certain features that grew faster
than others, only Macon and Sam remained immune.
What a pair they were, pimple-free and perfectly
proportioned. Luminous against the normal tarnish of puberty.
It wasn’t any surprise that they became an on-again, off-again
couple throughout middle school and high school. The
beautiful ones.
The ones destined to make my life hell.
Cold and often silent, Macon would usually stare at me as
if he couldn’t quite understand why we were sharing the same
air. It was one thing we agreed on. Otherwise, we got along
like snow and salt.
The first time I saw Macon, he was standing on the great
expanse of lawn that stretched toward the manor house that
had been in his mama’s family for generations. Clutching a
baseball, he watched me as I rode my bike up and down the
road. He was skinny as a rail and two inches shorter than me.
I’d felt oddly protective of him, believing the look in his eyes
was one of vulnerability. I found out quickly how wrong I was.
“Hey,” I said to him, after stopping in front of his house on
my bike. “I moved into the house down the way. Maybe you’d
like a friend?”
He turned his eyes on me then. Those dark, dark eyes, so
brown they were almost black, surrounded by thick, long
lashes. Eyes that girls would call pretty and sigh over
throughout all our days of school. Cold and calculating eyes, if
you asked me. Those eyes narrowed on my face. “You stupid
or something?”
His words hit me like a slap. “What?”
He shrugged. “Guess so.”
I didn’t understand this boy. I’d been polite, just as my
mother had taught me. “Why would you call me stupid?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life. You think I wouldn’t notice
if someone new moved in on my street? You think I need more
friends?”
“I was just being sociable. My mistake.”
“Sociable? You talk like an old lady.”
Politeness was clearly for chumps. “You’re a jerk.”
He lifted his chin then, revealing a bruising scratch along
the edge of his jaw. “And you’re annoying.”
Whatever I might have said was lost to time, because Sam
decided to show up then. Younger than me by a mere ten
months, Sam and I were what people sometimes snidely
referred to as Irish twins. That had a darker component when
they were referring to us, since it was clear to anyone with
eyes that I bore little resemblance to the rest of my family.
Blonde hair french braided and gleaming, she smiled. Her
missing front teeth made her look like an impish pixie. “Don’t
pay any mind to Delilah. Our grandma Belle calls her ornery.”
Which is why I liked Grandma Maeve better.
Sam’s cute nose wrinkled then. “I think that just means
grumpy.”
The nasty boy looked at me from under the inky fringe of
his bangs when he answered her. “It does.”
I blew a raspberry. “Stating an opinion contrary to others
isn’t being ornery; it’s called having a working brain. Sorry
you two don’t know anything about that.”
At that Sam laughed loud and exaggerated, slapping her
hand on my shoulder, hard. “She’s such a kidder.” A warning
squeeze came while she gave the boy her wide, sunny smile.
“I’m Samantha Baker. What’s your name?”
“Macon Saint.”
“Macon? Rhymes with bacon. I love bacon. Oh, but Saint
is so cool. You look kind of like an angel. Not a pretty girl
one, of course. A boy angel. Can I call you Saint? You live in
that big ol’ house? It’s so pretty. Do you like peanut butter
cookies? My mama just made some.”
Macon blinked under her verbal barrage, and I waited for
him to lay into Sam the way he had to me, because even I was
tempted after all of that spew. But he simply smiled in that
lopsided way I’d soon come to know and hate. “Guess you’re
never ornery, huh?”
The way he said it, with that smarmy drawl, I knew he was
implying Sam was basically brainless and that he approved.
But she didn’t notice.
“Nope.” She beamed. “I’m a happy girl.”
I rolled my eyes, but neither of them cared, and that had
been that. Macon had gone off with Sam to eat cookies, and
I’d officially become the third, unwanted wheel. I’d lost my
sometime ally of a sister and gained a pain-in-the-butt,
sneering boy.
Two years later, Macon shot up several inches and became
the most sighed-over boy in school. And Sam became his
girlfriend. That pretty much sealed it. Macon Saint was at my
house more than he wasn’t. Hanging out on my couch, stealing
the remote to watch sports, sitting at the dinner table, and
pinging bits of food my way when my parents weren’t
looking. The worst was it hurt being around him. Around
them. Because I always felt lesser.
I never dated or had a boyfriend. No one asked me out, and
I didn’t know how to ask anyone. I was simply Delilah, party
of one. The friends I made were intimidated by Sam and
Macon and did not want to hang out at my house for fear of
running into them. Which meant I either went to other people’s
houses or braved facing the beautiful pair on my own.
 By high school, Macon and I actively bickered whenever
we got within sight of each other. But it wasn’t until the end of
our senior year that my dislike turned to acute loathing.
“Saint and I are going to the prom.” Sam smiled
triumphantly as she opened her locker door next to mine.
I barely glanced up from shoving my violin case into my
locker. “Sammy, that is a ‘well, duh’ statement if I ever heard
one. Prom is over a month away; why are you even telling me
this now?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Can you at least be happy for me?”
“For what? Dating the devil? Setting the bar so low the rest
of your romantic life will seem like a victory?” I shrugged. “I
suppose that is good planning.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a date.”
“Date,” I scoffed. “Your date is a life-size Ken doll, with
less personality. I’d rather go to prom alone than have to deal
with that.”
“Liar. I bet if Matty Hayes asked, you’d go with him.”
Damn Sam for seeing what I didn’t want her to. I had a slight
crush on Matty. Sam grinned, reading me like a cheap tabloid.
“He probably would if you put a little effort into your
appearance.”
“Like hell he would.” The declaration was deep and
confident and not mine.
My shoulders stiffened, and a cold wave of dread went
over me at the sound of his distinctive voice rumbling from
somewhere over my head.
Macon leaned a shoulder against the edge of my locker, his
eyes mocking me from under the mop of his stupid Zac Efron–
style hair. Every time I set eyes on Macon Saint, the reaction
was visceral, a punch to the solar plexus. He was gorgeous,
sure, but it was his eyes that did it. They burned as if he could
strip the skin from my bones and rip right into the heart of me.
Mama always said I was fanciful with my words, but that
was the truth of it: locking gazes with Macon was like forging
into an angry storm. You’d come out of it weak, breathless,
and a little bruised.
“I don’t recall asking you to join the conversation,” I said.
He snorted. “I don’t need an invitation. And you don’t
stand a chance with Hayes. He likes his women stupid and
thin. You know, like a Barbie.”
The thin comment cut into me. Clearly, he’d heard my
Ken-doll comment as well. I didn’t give a shit and was about
to say as much. But Macon wasn’t done. Standing toe to toe
with me in the hall before lunch, he let that dark, wild gaze of
his slide over me as his nostrils flared in disapproval. “You
look like a tater tot in that dress, Baker.”
I hated that I suddenly regretted wearing my camel-colored
sweaterdress with matching knee-high suede boots and the fact
that I instantly felt like a potato under his assessing eye.
But I didn’t let Macon Saint see that. “Some of us know
that looks aren’t everything, Con Man.” Because that’s what
he was—a perfect con, tricking others into believing he should
be adored. “Beauty fades, and the ugliness inside you will
eventually show.”
He straightened then, looming over me with a sneer. “I
suppose you’re one of those people who sees past beauty and
only loves someone for their personality?”
I felt the setup. I just didn’t know where it was going or
how to avoid it. I thrust my chin high and played it cool. “I
am.”
He nodded as if confirming something only he knew
before leaning in close. When most boys back then smelled of
an overabundance of supermarket body spray, Macon smelled
of cedar soap and do-me pheromones. “Tell me, Tater Tot, is it
a beautiful soul you’re looking at when you moon over the
half-naked-firefighters calendar you have pinned in your
room?”
All the blood rushed from my face, leaving painful
prickles in its wake.
 Macon’s smile was cutting. “I don’t believe for a second
that you like Hayes for his riveting personality. You act all
high and mighty while you’re as susceptible to good looks as
the rest of us. At least I have the guts to admit it.”
The worst thing? He was right. I slammed my locker shut
and fled.
“It’s been fun, Tater Tot,” he called after me in a laughing
voice. A loud-ass voice. And when Macon Saint spoke, people
listened.
By lunchtime, snickers of “Tater Tot” could be heard all
over the cafeteria. The horror only grew when grilled cheese
and taters were on the lunch menu the next day. Dozens of
those tiny brown pellets of potato sailed my way. I’d been
labeled by the king of Shermont High, and everyone acted
accordingly.
Misery followed to the point I almost refused to go to
prom. It was Sam who finally stepped in, hunting me down in
my bedroom to have a talk.
“Don’t let Saint get to you. He’s only having fun.” Her
blue-gray eyes were guileless as she grabbed my hand. “And,
really, it’s cool that he gave you a nickname. No one else has
one from him. Not even me.” She frowned at that as if the
thought had just occurred to her, and she didn’t much like it.
“Tater Tot is not a nickname,” I snapped. “It’s an insult,
and you’re welcome to have it.”
“No.” She shook her head, sending her straight hair over
her shoulders in a glinting wave. “I’d need something else.
Something to signify our deep connection.”
I held in my gag admirably, but I found myself speaking
without forethought. “How about ‘Mirror’? Since you both
love gazing into them.”
As soon as I said it, I knew it was unkind. Sam’s pretty
face flushed bright pink, and she launched herself from the
foot of my bed.
“Sam, I didn’t mean—”
 “No,” she cut in sharply. “You said what you said. You
know, Saint is right; you can’t help but pick people apart.”
“Excuse me while I choke on the irony,” I shot back.
“Always with a joke,” Sam said, even though I hadn’t been
joking. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your problem is
that you don’t know how to play the game.”
“The game? Life isn’t a game.”
“Bullshit. It always has been and always will be. Smile
whether you want to or not; compliment the people in position
to help you or have your back.” She counted her points off on
her fingers. “When everyone assumes you’re the sweetest,
most helpful, or honest person in their world, they’ll let you
get away with anything.”
“This is what you think I should be?” I cut in. “A fake
schemer?”
Sam shrugged then. “Fake or not, it’s how the most
successful people get ahead. They plot, forge alliances, and
they execute their plans.”
“If that’s success, then I want no part of it. I’d rather fail
and have a conscience.”
Sam huffed out a breath. “Be a bitch if you want, but I
know you’re just scared to go to prom. Alone.” She flounced
out then.
That decided it; I went with Mama to buy a dress. Because
I wasn’t going to be called a coward. I chose a classic floor-
length sheath dress with little cap sleeves in kelly-green satin.
I felt ridiculous and overexposed, but Mama swore I was
beautiful.
I went alone. Logically, I knew I wasn’t the only person
without a date; that didn’t stop the flutter of nerves when I
walked down the main corridor to the hotel ballroom where
our prom was being held.
Then I saw him.
Macon stood just beyond his group of friends, his
expression bored as Sam held center court. I didn’t know what
alerted him to my presence, but he turned his head just as I
walked into view. Our eyes locked, and I found my steps
slowing.
Dressed in a tux that fit him to perfection, he looked . . .
frankly, like he didn’t belong there. He belonged with the
beautiful people, partying on a yacht or walking down a
Parisian runway, perhaps. I didn’t know why I hadn’t realized
it before: he didn’t fit in our town any more than I did. The
difference was, when it came to Macon, no one cared that he
was an outsider—they were simply happy to have him around.
I didn’t remember moving, but we ended up face to face,
his dark eyes sliding over me, a frown pulling at his mouth.
“You came.”
Okay . . . “Was I not supposed to?”
His frown turned into an outright scowl, his gaze roving as
if he was unnerved by my appearance. “I didn’t think you
would.”
I shrugged, all too aware of my fancy dress, the makeup I
wore, my hair styled in loose curls; I didn’t feel like me, but I
felt pretty. “Sorry to disappoint.”
When he finally answered, his voice was low, almost a
mutter. “I’m not disappointed.”
We both paused, equally shocked and confused. He might
not have been disappointed, but he didn’t seem pleased. And
neither was I; I didn’t trust Macon Saint. As if by silent
agreement, we both turned and walked in the opposite
direction.
Insides jittery and my heart beating too fast, I went to the
ballroom. Most of the senior class was either dancing or
milling around in small groups. A long buffet had been set up
along the side of the room, and the line for food had already
started.
I didn’t pay it much mind since I was too unsettled to eat,
but a ripple started running through the room, an undercurrent
of startled laughter. As if feeding on itself, the noise grew,
turning less shocked and more malicious.
 The source was the buffet table, and when I looked that
way, I found dozens of eyes staring back at me. Heat bloomed
on my cheeks, and I glanced around. Everyone was looking at
me.
Panic clawed at my throat as I found myself slowly
walking toward the table. The laughter bubbled up, whispers
of “Tater” flowing over the air. And then I knew: the food.
Tater tots in every damn tray. All of it, tater tots.
I couldn’t breathe. Hurt locked my muscles. Someone
whistled; a few tater tots were lobbed, one of them hitting my
skirt, leaving a streak of grease along the satin. I flinched, my
skin burning. Across the way, my sister gaped at me, her eyes
wide and panicked, but she didn’t move to stand by me. She
seemed frozen.
Somehow I knew Macon had entered the room. He stood a
few feet away, staring at the table. His friend Emmet called out
to him, “Excellent prank, Saint!”
Everyone laughed. I sucked in a pained breath.
Macon didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to mine. Something
unsettling blazed in his eyes, a weird mix of emotions I
couldn’t decipher. For one tight second, I thought maybe it
was regret, but then he set his shoulders back as if expecting a
showdown.
Rage roared in my ears and gave me strength.
The room fell silent as I stalked over to an immobile
Macon.
“You . . . asshole,” I hissed. “You might have them all
fooled, but I know the truth. You are ugly on the inside. A
worthless soul who will never find redemption.”
An answering rage flared over his perfect face, but he
didn’t say a word, just bared his teeth as if he was working to
keep from lashing back. But it didn’t matter; I was done.
“I truly hate you,” I whispered before I fled the room.
That night, I clung to my mother, unable to cry but
shivering with humiliation and anger. An hour later, Sam came
home, crying, her makeup running in dark rivers over her
cheeks. Macon had dumped her.
“He said he was finished with the Baker sisters,” she
sobbed, huddled by my side. “That I wasn’t worth this hassle.”
I wanted to show sympathy, but I couldn’t. I gave her a
half-hearted hug. “You’re better off without him.” Truer words
I’d never spoken.
Sam had turned to me then, her hug fierce. “I’m so sorry,
Delilah. I’m so sorry I chose him over you. I’m sorry for
everything.”
Macon Saint might have hurt me, but he’d brought the
Baker sisters together once more. Our family moved away
shortly after that, and I never saw Macon again. But the scars
he left on my psyche lingered for far too long.
 CHAPTER ONE
Delilah
Grandma Maeve used to say hate will toughen your dough;
a good bake is made with love. I don’t know about hate, but
my stress seems to be leaking out all over my brioche. The
dough has become tacky and warm when it should be smooth
and cool. I’ve overkneaded it in my distraction.
Mama’s birthday brunch is tomorrow, and I haven’t heard
from Sam in days. Sam, who was supposed to get Mama’s
present while I do the cooking. Sam, who promised that she
would find Mama something “ah-mazing!” and not to worry
about paying her back. Well, I do. Especially since Sam is
almost always short on cash. When she’s flush with money, it
usually means trouble.
The surface of the dough clings to my palm, and I utter a
sound of disgust. Scooping the mass up, I dump it in the
garbage and start arranging my mise en place all over again.
I’m a professional chef, not a baker, and it shows. But I’m
determined to up my game.
My phone dings with a text just as I’m opening a packet of
yeast.
Unknown number: Sam, if you don’t get your
ass back here in 30 min, I’m calling the police.
It’s such an odd text I can only stare at the phone and
frown. I don’t recognize the number, but “Sam” has me
hesitating. Weird how I was just thinking of my sister, Sam.
Then again, Sam is a common name. This “Sam” might be a
dude, for all I know.
Another text lights up my phone.
I mean it. I’m not falling for your “I’m just a
sweet little ol’ southern belle” shit anymore. I
know you took the watch. You WILL return it.
 Now this gives me pause. Many times has Sam accused me
of complaining about her sweet little ol’ southern belle act. A
glance at the phone also reminds me that it’s April 1.
Rolling my eyes, I dust off my hands and pick up the
phone.
This has got to be the lamest April Fools’ joke
yet, Sam. At least pretend to be someone other
than yourself.
Immediately, I get a response.
Are you shitting me? Mistaken identity?
That’s what you’re going with? Cut the crap. Get.
Over. Here. Now.
Annoyed, I type back harder than usual.
This isn’t even “Sam’s” number so I’m the one
calling bullshit on YOU. Stop with the funny
business. I’m busy making Mama’s surprise
brunch.
Please. I’ve tasted your cooking. I’d be safer
eating canned food.
Oh, that’s just low and uncalled for. I fire back a response.
You know, Sam, you’re kind of acting like . . .
an asshole.
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel Sam wondering if
she should drop the charade. When she finally answers, it isn’t
what I expect.
Did you just quote Sixteen Candles to me?
Well, duh. It’s my favorite lm, despite the
fact “you” get to star in it.
I have to smile a little. It always stuck in my craw that the
main character has the same name as my sister and not me.
Something Sam used to needle me with all the time.
Another text makes my phone ping.
 That was Delilah’s favorite. You, OTOH, can’t
sit still long enough to nish a movie. Stop
diverting. Bring me my watch.
I frown. Her response is just weird. Sam never insults
herself. Especially with something that’s true; Sam never can
sit still for a movie. Something only a few people know. Sam
is great at hiding what she perceives as flaws. A short attention
span isn’t a flaw in my book, but it certainly is in Sam’s.
Tension snakes down my neck and over my shoulders. I don’t
like these texts. They aren’t funny, and there’s something off
about them.
Enough already. I’m baking. Come up with a
better joke.
There’s no response, and I assume that’s the end of that. I
grab some flour and begin to measure it out when Sam replies.
Delilah cooks and bakes. Not you.
I don’t want to believe anything other than this is Sam
trying to annoy me. She’s an excellent liar—a professional
where I am but an amateur. But there’s something about the
text, the tone that conveys genuine trepidation, and it has my
hackles rising.
My hands are not as steady when I type my response.
That’s because I AM Delilah. (The “der” is
implied here.)
There’s another protracted pause. One that I feel in my
bones. My stomach clenches as I wait. It doesn’t feel like a
prank anymore. But it has to be. Sam is just that evil.
A ding from my phone fills the silent kitchen.
Tater Tot?
I suck in a sharp, pained breath, my fingers tingling. All
the oxygen in the room disappears. For a long moment, all I
can do is stand in my kitchen, my ears ringing, my body
clenched.
 Other than Sam, only one person knows Sixteen Candles is
my favorite teen film. The only person who would boldly call
me that name.
No, I will not think about Macon Saint. Lord knows I’ve
tried my best to eradicate him from my brain entirely. But he is
like a cold sore, popping up now and then, a painful irritation
whether I want him there or not.
It grew worse when he won a starring role on Dark Castle,
the series everyone on the planet but me seems to be obsessed
with. I didn’t know he was into acting until then. And damn it,
I wanted to watch that show. Now, it is all I can do to keep
clear of it, what with every person I know talking about it on
social media each Sunday night.
Sam was beside herself about the news. “Just think, we
both know someone famous, Dee.”
“Hold my hand while I try not to faint from excitement.”
“Sarcasm makes your face pinch in unattractive ways.”
“How about when I stick my tongue out? Don’t give me
that look. I’m a caterer in LA, Sam. I’ve met loads of famous
people. Most of them haven’t been very impressive.”
“But you don’t know them know them. We knew Saint
before he was famous. People are more likely to show you
their true selves when they’re not worried about fame.”
“Yeah, well, Macon’s true self is an arrogant asshat.”
“Pish. You hold grudges for too long.”
“Too long? He was a monumental dickhead to me for
years!”
“Water under the bridge. You should let it go too.”
Too. As if she’d been called Tater Tot by a mob of
sycophantic Macon worshipers. As if she’d had those little
potato bits pelted at her when she was the most vulnerable. To
this day, I can’t stand tater tots.
“They show his ass in two episodes,” she went on blithely.
“And I’m here to tell you, it is hot. I mean, we’re talking grade
A bubble-butt perfection. He’s definitely built that thing up
since high school.”
Not wanting to talk about Macon’s butt or the fact that my
sister may or may not have seen said butt long ago, I had
changed the subject. She knows how much I hate Macon. The
fact that she’s using him as a practical joke now is too much.
Anger flows through me in a rush of heat. I’m all thumbs as I
reply.
How dare you bring that ass canal into this?
Ass canal? Only one person I know uses that
term. Jesus, this really is Delilah, isn’t it?
I want to scream. I want to chuck the phone to the devil
and run out of the kitchen. But mainly, I want to punch my
sister.
Fuck you, Sam. Consider yourself uninvited
to brunch.
It’s Macon. And you really hate me that much,
Tot? After all this time?
No, no, no. It is not Macon Saint texting. Sam hasn’t
talked to him since he dumped her the night of the prom. It’s a
matter of pride with her. Never mind the fact that he’s famous;
he probably has people to text for him, for Pete’s sake.
It has to be a bad dream. A nightmare.
Stupefied, I stare at the phone in my hand while it lights
up.
Tater?
Tot?
Delilah? You there?
Pick up the phone, Delilah.
Wait. What?
I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone starts
ringing.
Oh. My. God. No. Just no. It cannot be Macon.
 The call goes to voice mail, but the phone simply rings
again.
He won’t stop; Macon is like a tick that way. He’ll keep at
this until I lose my mind. I’ve got to nip this in the bud now.
Taking a deep breath, I answer. “What!”
“Still all the grace, Delilah.” His voice is deeper now, a
rumble of smoke and ashes.
I ignore his sarcasm. “How did you get my number, and
why are you bothering me?”
Laughter comes through the phone. “What, no ‘It’s been so
long. How have you been?’ At least confess how much you
missed me.”
Oh, how I remember that irritating smugness. The fact that
I’m actually talking to Macon after all this time unsettles me
so much my legs tremble, and I have to lean against the
counter.
It’s a surprise my voice is anywhere near normal. “Answer
the question, or I’m hanging up.”
“I’ll just call you again.”
“Macon . . .”
He makes a noise, almost a laugh but something drier. “No
one calls me Macon like that. As if it’s a curse or a bad taste in
your mouth. Only you.”
Back when we were kids, his mama called him Little
Saint, which was just weird in my book. His daddy called him
“boy.” Everyone else simply called him Saint. A less deserved
title, I cannot recall. But it isn’t a surprise people still refer to
him as Saint; he spent enough time cultivating that image.
“Why are you harassing me, Macon?”
He huffs out a breath. “Firstly, I called Samantha’s
number.” He rattles off her number, and I’m left frowning—
not that he can see that. He continues on in an officious tone.
“Secondly, I addressed my messages to Sam, not you. Why
you seemed to think I was pretending to be Sam makes
absolutely no sense.”
 “It’s April Fools’ Day,” I mutter. “I thought it was a poorly
executed joke on Sam’s part.”
He laughs without humor. “I wish.”
Yeah, me too.
If I am to believe he was texting Sam—and why would he
bother texting me?—then I have to believe the rest.
Unfortunately, I’m remembering the time Sam forwarded her
messages to me when she dumped a particularly clingy guy
named Dave. I had to deal with an alternately crying and
raging Dave for a week before he finally stopped calling me.
Which means Macon isn’t lying.
Shit on a platter.
“Well,” I say, desperately reaching for calm. “Clearly, I am
not Sam. Nor is this her number. I suspect she forwarded her
messages to me, for which she and I will have words.
However—”
“You’re talking like your grandma again, Tot.”
“Do not call me that.”
A slow chuckle rumbles in my ear. “But you don’t object
to sounding like your grandma?”
I shift my feet and scowl. I was talking like Grandma
Maeve, damn it. I tend to get wordy and overly formal when
nervous. The fact that he knows I do chafes. “You’re veering
off course. The fact remains that I am not Sam.”
“Do you know where she is?” He’s harder now, the anger
back.
“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
I can almost hear him grinding his teeth. Which is
satisfying.
“Then I guess I’ll have to call the police,” he says.
All at once, I remember his first texts. He demanded she
bring back a watch. Gripping the phone, I pace the length of
my kitchen. “What did she do?”
 I could have phrased it differently, but having dealt with
Sam’s shenanigans over the years, I’m not going to waste time
making excuses until I hear Macon’s side of the story. I’ll talk
to Sam afterward.
“She took my mother’s watch.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Holy shit.
Though I didn’t know much about Mrs. Saint as a person,
everyone knew about her watch. It was the envy of the entire
town. It wasn’t so much a watch but a piece of jewelry, rose
gold and covered in glittering diamonds. It was beautiful,
though not one I’d wear every day as Mrs. Saint did.
I remember it well on her slender wrist, the elegant piece
glinting in the light. A knot of dread rises up within. Sam
coveted that watch. Oh, how she loved it. The worst of it is,
Macon’s mother passed away years ago, which means the
watch would be both an heirloom and a treasured memento.
Weakly, I press a cold hand to my hot cheek. “She . . . ah
. . . when could she have possibly done this?”
Macon makes a noise of annoyance. “She really doesn’t
tell you anything, does she?”
The truth stings.
“Why would she tell me about a watch that she may or
may not have stolen?”
“I thought Sam had been renting a room from you.”
I blink in surprise.
Three years ago, I was given the opportunity to partner in a
high-end catering business. Angela, my partner, eventually
sold the other half to me, and it became so successful I was
finally able to buy a small bungalow in Los Feliz. A few
months later, Sam moved into the loft over my garage because
money was tight for her.
Truth is, I never know how she gets her money since she
never mentions any jobs. It’s hit or miss if I receive the small
amount of rent she insisted on paying, and since I don’t
actually need money from her, I’ve learned not to rely on it.
 But I thought we were close enough that Sam would tell
me she’d been seeing Macon. I hadn’t a clue they were even in
contact.
“That doesn’t mean I know everything that goes on in her
life,” I finally say.
Macon makes a noise that sounds far too pitying before
answering with an overly patient tone. “Sam has been my
assistant for the past month. Though it soon became clear that
she greatly oversold her qualifications.”
I don’t know what to feel. I’m glad they aren’t dating; if
Sam and Macon took up again, inevitably, he’d be back in my
life as well. But he is in her life, isn’t he? They’ve been
working together for a month. And Sam never told me a thing.
Hurt is a numb throb in my temples.
“I’ve been away for a week,” he goes on. “I returned home
yesterday, found Sam gone and a couple things missing,
including the watch.”
“What was she doing in your house?” I wince at the
question. I don’t want to know. I don’t.
But I do.
“Being my assistant is a twenty-four-seven job,” he says as
if this is obvious. “I have a guesthouse. Sam was staying
there.”
I don’t miss the way his tone implies that he thinks it’s odd
I hadn’t noticed Sam was living elsewhere for weeks. I had.
But I’m used to her coming and going. My place is more of a
base camp for her than anything.
“You might have had a break-in,” I offer weakly.
“Bullshit. The damn woman asked to see the watch for
‘old times’ sake,’ and I was fool enough to show her.”
Closing my eyes, I run my hand over my face. “Well . . .”
Shit. I have nothing.
His voice turns weary and resigned. “Just tell me where
she is, and I’ll leave you to your baking.”
 “I don’t know where she is. But I’ll find her. Talk to her.”
“Not good enough. I could almost let the rest go, but that
watch means something to me. She’s gone too far this time.
I’m asking the police for help.”
“Please.” The word rips out of me and burns on my
tongue. I hate that I’ve said it. But I can’t take it back. “I’ll get
your watch.”
I can’t let Sam go to jail. For better or worse, she’s my
sister. And it would kill Mama. Figuratively, but I have a
horrible fear that it might be literal as well. We lost our father
last year, and our mother’s health is fragile at best. One day, I
turned around to look at her and was stunned by how much
she’d aged, as if my father had taken her spark of life with
him. Sam and I are all she has left. Sadly, she’s always been
overly protective of Sam.
“You have twenty-four hours; then I’m calling the police,”
Macon says with a rough voice that speaks of impatience.
“Twenty-four? Are you funning me?”
“Do I sound like I’m having fun?” he shoots back.
“Well, I had to ask, what with the ridiculous time frame
you’re proposing.”
I can’t possibly hear him grinding his molars, but I
imagine he is. “That wasn’t a proposition,” he grinds out. “It’s
a deadline.”
“This is LA, Macon. It takes at least twenty minutes to
travel five miles in any direction. On a good day.” I let out a
noise of pure annoyance. “Not to mention that if Sam is hiding
out, she might not even be in the city. She could have hopped
on over to Vegas, gone up to San Francisco, or even down to
Cabo.”
All of them are favorite escapes for Sam. Not that I’ve
been able to figure out how she can afford it. Hell, maybe
she’s been a professional thief all this time.
“Point being,” I say tightly. “If you truly want to find her,
you’ve got to give me more time than twenty-four hours. I’m
not some female Jack Bauer, damn it.”
A strangled noise, like a protracted laugh, comes through
the phone. “It almost would be worth the hassle to imagine
you scurrying around the city with a countdown clock dinging
over your head.”
A haze of red fills my vision. I swear, if he were in front of
me, he’d be wearing a bowlful of flour. “Still an asshat, I see.”
“Still insulting me, I see.”
“You always were quick, Macon.” Shit, I need to stop
taunting him. “Give me a week.”
“Two days.”
I snort. “Five.”
“Three,” he counters. “That’s the best I can do for you,
Tot.”
My back teeth meet at the name. It isn’t much time, given
the task. But hell, I don’t blame him for his anger or wanting
this done. “Sold.”
“Three days,” he repeats. I relax a little until he finishes
with, “I expect you and Sam at my house with the watch in
hand.”
“What?” I practically hiss. “Why me? I don’t need to be
there. I’m not—”
“Yes, you do. I don’t trust Sam to show up without you.”
“She’ll show.” If I have to threaten death and
dismemberment. “I want no part of this reunion.” No way am I
coming face to face with Macon. I can’t do it.
“Then you shouldn’t have stuck your nose into it.”
Ass. Hole.
Macon’s tone is hard and cold. “Those are the terms. Take
it or leave it.”
I have to believe he’s serious; the Macon I knew never said
what he didn’t mean. I would have admired that if he hadn’t
been such a prick to me every time we got in each other’s
orbit. The thought of facing him, meeting that cool, smug gaze
once more, makes my insides flip sickly.
Just once, I’d like to bring that man to his knees, see him
desperate and panting for me the way so many women are for
him. There is little chance of that looking like I do at the
moment, covered in flour, sticky with sweat, and my hair in
desperate need of a cut.
“Delilah? We have a deal?”
I hate the way he says my name, all clipped and imperious,
as if he’s my superior. I grip my phone hard enough to hurt my
hand. I picture throwing the thing at his big head. Lord, grant
me the strength not to do just that. “I’ll see you in three days.”
He sounds entirely too pleased. “I’ll text you my address.
I’m looking forward to it, Tot.”
I’m looking forward to strangling my sister.
First, I’ll have to find her.
 CHAPTER TWO
Macon
My hand shakes when I set down the phone. I’ve been in
constant pain for the past two weeks, so I could blame it on
that, but it would be a lie. Delilah Ann Baker is the source of
my current weakness.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” North says from the
doorway of my office.
“I think I just conjured one.” I turn to face the window and
the sea beyond, but I don’t see the view. I see Delilah. Big
eyes the color of gingersnaps, surrounded by thick dark lashes,
a round face with a blunt nose, and plush pink lips. That
mouth was always moving, always spewing out verbal acid
aimed in my direction.
No one on earth has ever annoyed me as much as Delilah
Baker.
No one put me on the defensive faster than Delilah Baker.
Christ, she sounded exactly the same. No, that isn’t right;
she gave me the same amount of shit as always, but her voice
has changed. It is a little different now, holding an undertone
of a soft, sweet rasp as if she just finished a bout of hot,
sweaty . . .
Where the hell did that thought come from?
I run a hand over my face and snort.
North moves farther into the room. “I take it this ghost
isn’t Samantha?”
The way his voice catches on Sam’s name has my hackles
rising. At some point, she clearly sank her claws into North,
and he’s feeling the effects. It pisses me off. Everywhere Sam
goes, destruction follows. I learned that lesson long ago, but
like a fool, I ignored it when she came begging for a job.
 Everybody grows up, I reasoned. Sam included. Only she
hadn’t. Not one day into the job, she tried to get into my bed.
Awkward as all hell considering I can barely stand being in the
same room with her. I knew I had to fire her. But there wasn’t
time. When I finally got the opportunity, she was gone.
I think of my mother’s watch, and pure, scorching rage
sears through my belly. The watch is gaudy and not to my
taste, but when I see it, hold it, I am instantly with her.
My mother was a fairly distant figure in my life; she had
her own problems. But there were good memories as well—
her holding me as a child, stroking my hair, reading to me.
Every memory I have of her features that watch on her slim
wrist. Now it’s gone, and I feel the loss of my mother all over
again, and a deep, wide pain spreads through my chest.
Fucking Samantha. She has burned me in many ways, but
the worst of it is that I let her. She is the last of a long line of
people I’ve allowed into my trust only to be betrayed.
“No,” I grit out, remembering North is waiting for an
answer. “I can’t find her.”
He flinches, his jaw bunching tight. “It’s my fault.”
“Yours? How do you figure?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he faces me with grim
determination. “I’m your bodyguard. Something happens to
you on my watch, it’s my fault.”
Tired and far too jittery for my liking, I rest my hands on
my lower abs. Just about every inch of me hurts in some
fashion, but it’s as comfortable as I can get for now. “Not if I
don’t let you do your job properly. Besides, I’m the one who
was foolish enough to trust Sam to be alone here.”
A moment of pure nostalgia weakened my judgment. I saw
Sam and remembered . . . everything.
North tenses as if he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t say
a word. Instead, he glares out the window much like I’d done.
“So if you didn’t find Samantha, who is this ghost?”
 My lips curl, but it isn’t a smile. I’m too . . . unsettled for
that. “Delilah.”
Just saying her name out loud has power, as if by uttering
it, I risk conjuring her in the flesh. I give myself a mental slap;
the pain meds I’m on are clearly messing with my moods.
Even so, I can’t shake the feeling that part of her is right next
to me, looking over my shoulder with her disapproving frown.
For one choking second, I see her clear as day, just as she
was on the night of our prom, standing in front of me in a
green satin dress clinging to curves I had no business noticing,
golden-brown eyes snapping with hate fire, her skin dusky
with anger.
Even at seventeen, I appreciated that she was stunning in
her rage. I was struck dumb, not able to say a word as she tore
me to shreds with hers.
The last thing she said to me was that I was worthless, and
she hated me. She clearly meant it with every fiber of her
being.
I lick my dry lips. “She’s Sam’s sister.”
North’s brows kick up. “Samantha has a sister?” He
sounds vaguely horrified.
“Don’t worry. They are nothing alike.” I roll my tight
shoulders, and the pain feels almost good. “Delilah is . . .”
Hell, even now my teenage self collides with my current self,
both of us struggling to find a way to explain her. “Forthright.”
North looks at me as if I’m nuts. I feel nuts.
Shrugging, I try again. “What you see is what you get with
Delilah. She gives it to you straight.” No matter how deep it
cuts. “She doesn’t care if you’re impressed with her or not.”
“Sounds like you know her well.”
Do I know Delilah? Yeah, I do, though she’d hate that.
And she knows me. A weird twist goes through my chest—
part excitement, part revulsion—as if I’m being unwillingly
stripped bare and am not sure whether I like it or not.
“We grew up together. Sam, Delilah, and me.”
 The three fucked-up musketeers. Because even though
Sam and I were shits and tried to exclude Delilah, she was
always part of the equation. Always.
“Does Delilah know where Sam is?”
“She says she doesn’t.” Shit, my neck is tight. I lift my arm
to squeeze it, and my ribs scream in protest.
North’s eyes narrow. He knows I’m in pain but thankfully
doesn’t point it out. “You just said Delilah was a straight
shooter. So you believe her?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.” I stare out at the sea once more.
Everything is on its head now. “And if Delilah can’t find her,
no one can.” Which means my mother’s watch is truly gone. I
wouldn’t be surprised if Sam has already pawned it.
The rage grows so thick it chokes me. Sam has taken one
too many things from me—my memories, my freaking safety
—and I’m past forgiveness. I need to call the police. I need to
hunt down the watch, not think about a certain sassy woman
with a honey-and-arsenic voice.
Delilah.
Her name swirls in my mind without warning, pushing its
way in and settling there. She’s coming here—with or without
Sam. My money is on her showing up alone. Whether she
wants to admit it or not, Delilah knows as well as I do that
when Sam makes an escape, nothing is going to bring her back
until she is good and ready.
Either way, I’ll be dealing with Delilah. My old enemy.
The one person I have never been able to ignore. Somehow,
she’s always been able to slip past any defense I’ve tried.
And now she’s going to be on my home turf. Which
sounds juvenile as hell, but I find myself fixating on it—on
her: Will she look the same? Hate me as much as before?
Without meaning to, I pull my wallet from my pocket and
take out the battered card I have tucked into it.
Dear Delilah Catering Co. is printed in bold, bright orange
across a deep-pink background. The colors are too flashy for
the brooding girl I knew, but the old-fashioned business card is
pure Delilah, who tended to slip into talking all formal and
stodgy when she got flustered.
I feel a smile tugging at my lips, and it pisses me off. I
have no business getting nostalgic again. I’ve been robbed and
taken advantage of by one sister. And now the other sister, the
one who told me I was a worthless, hateful soul, is coming to
see me. Doubtless she’ll be pleading Sam’s case, willing to
take the fall for her little scam-artist sister yet again.
That pisses me off too. But the clench of anticipation in
my gut cannot be denied. I text Delilah my address and tell her
to be here by five on the day of the deadline. I can’t help
adding “or else,” knowing it will piss her off. When she replies
with an eye-roll emoji and tells me to piss off so she can bake,
my smile is wide.
Like it or not, I still enjoy pushing her buttons, and I can’t
wait for her to show.
 CHAPTER THREE
Delilah
DeeLight to SammyBaker: Since you’re not checking
texts, I’m hunting you via Instagram and FB messages.
Don’t make me start publicly Snapchatting you. I know
what you did to Macon. If you had any honor you’d get
your butt home.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: You’ll have to do it
eventually. And I have knives, Sam. Sharp as shit
knives.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: Did I mention I can
debone a chicken in under a minute with those
knives?
DeeLight to SammyBaker: CHICKEN!

Honestly, I thought I knew what desperation felt like. But

it is abundantly clear that I’ve been woefully ignorant on that
matter. Desperation, I have come to learn, causes a humiliating
amount of roiling insides and shaking hands. I am sick—sick
—with it. I want to do as Sam has done and disappear. Good
Lord, disappearing sounds like the answer to all my prayers
right about now.
When I gave my promise to hunt down Sam, it hadn’t
occurred to me that since she’d forwarded her calls to my
phone, I wouldn’t be able to call her either. I blame this
oversight on being flustered by having to talk to Macon Saint
for the first time in ten years. So I’ve been left to search for
her by driving to all her regular haunts and calling her friends.
I searched all night. Sam is still MIA, gone as if she never
existed. It’s a talent, truly, her ability to simply drop out of life.
I’d like to say this is something new or surprising. But it isn’t.
My sister lives in a world in which she is the sun, and
everyone around her is simply orbiting. She often leaves me to
either clean up her messes or take the blame.
 I’ve been covering for her for as long as I can remember.
Even when we were kids, my parents simply accepted it as
fact that I’d be the prevailing head and keep her out of
mischief. It’s a hard habit to shake.
Now, I’m pacing my sunny kitchen, my fingers cold and
clammy, my stomach so sour even the bright, fluffy lemon
scones I made an hour ago in a sad attempt to ease my
agitation don’t tempt me. And I know they’ll be delicious.
But no, instead of eating, I clutch my phone, willing
myself not to dial but doing it anyway. I have always had this
need to make my parents—especially my mama—happy,
make them proud to have me as their daughter. It isn’t logical
as much as a bone-deep compulsion. I hate disappointing her.
A cold sweat breaks out along my back as the call rings
through.
Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick—
“Hello, dear.” My mother is far too cheery this early in the
morning. “I was just thinking about you.”
“That is not the comfort you believe it to be, Mama.”
Slightly offended amusement lilts through her voice. “My
thinking about you isn’t comforting?”
“No. Because I immediately wonder if it’s about
something bad.”
“You are a horrible pessimist, darling. I assure you it is
always good things.”
Snorting, I pace the length of my kitchen. “I’m pragmatic,
not pessimistic.”
“Really,” Mama drawls. “And what makes you believe
that? In your professional opinion?”
She is the only person who can manage to tease me yet
make me feel a little bit lighter in my soul while doing so. I
smile despite my disquiet. “Because my dire predictions
almost always come true. I’m merely planning ahead of time.”
At that, all my happy fades.
 Clearing my throat, I lean against the counter and dive in.
“Mama, have you heard from Sam today?”
“No, baby. I haven’t heard from Samantha for over a
week.” She laughs lightly. “Which is just about regular for her.
Why?”
Because I want to strangle her with my bare hands, but I
need her here to get a good grip on her neck. “No reason. Just
. . . sister stuff.” I clear my throat again. “Mama, I’m really
sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel lunch today. I . . . ah . . .
one of my work colleagues is in a tight spot and has no one
else to help her out.”
It is the worst of excuses, and even saying the words
makes me cringe deep within myself.
“It’s all right, baby,” Mama rushes to assure. “We can plan
for the weekend. Easier all around. Don’t you worry over it
another second. JoJo is in town for my birthday. She can keep
me company.”
JoJo is my mother’s best friend and partner in crime. I’m
almost afraid when those two go off alone together. Mayhem
usually ensues.
“We’ll drive up to Santa Barbara,” Mama goes on. “She’s
been asking to go.”
And this is why I love her. I suppose most people love
their mothers on some level. But not everyone likes their
parents. I like my mother. I like talking to her, sitting in her
kitchen, and letting the soothing sound of her voice slide over
me with all the warm comfort of a beloved childhood blanket.
My phone’s case creaks under my grip. “Thank you,
Mama. I’ll make it wonderful, I swear. But if Sam happens to
show up today, please let me know. And . . . well, please don’t
let her leave before I get there.”
There’s a protracted pause before my mother answers.
“You’re canceling because of her, aren’t you?”
I suppose my request to keep Sam on lockdown was a bit
much. Still, I play stupid. “What? No . . . of course not. Don’t
be ridiculous.”
 “Delilah . . . do not lie to me.”
“I swear, Mama.” I cross my fingers behind my back in a
reflexive move I’ve never been able to quell. “I really do have
to help out a friend.” The term friend is a joke when it comes
to Macon, but I can equivocate with the best of them.
“Though, as it happens, it is true that I cannot find Sam to let
her know, and she . . . well, she forwarded her calls to me, so I
can’t exactly hunt her down.”
She makes a sound of exasperation. “That girl will be the
death of me.”
Not the words I want to hear. “Does it truly bother you
when Sam gets in trouble?” Because I have to know how far to
go. If only for my own peace of mind.
Mama sighs. “Of course it does. She’s my baby girl. Just
as you are.”
“True. But, Mama, there might be a time when she can’t
wiggle her way out of a fix.”
Say, like when Macon Saint throws her little ass in jail. If I
didn’t hate Macon so much, I might find it in me to applaud
him on that one.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I continue cautiously, “if you
resign yourself to that inevitability.”
I close my eyes against the surge of anger and
disappointment I feel for my sister.
“I am a mother, Delilah,” Mama says in a tired voice. “I
will never give up on my children. And it will always cut to
the bone when either of you are hurting. You two girls are all I
have left. After your daddy . . . when I lost him . . .” Her voice
breaks on a weak breath.
“I know,” I rush to tell her.
We fall silent. Then my mother speaks in a halting voice.
“I miss him. When you give your heart to someone, they
become a part of you. And when they’re gone, you feel the
hole they left behind.”
“Mama . . .” She’s killing me.
 “I’m all right,” she says softly. “I’m only trying to explain
that I am comprised of parts. Your father was a big piece of
me. But there is also you and Sam. I could never give up on
either of you; it would be like giving up on myself, losing
another piece of myself. You understand?”
The last of my strength leaves me, and I sink to the floor to
lean against the cabinets. The sick twist in my insides hurts so
badly that I press a hand to my middle. “Yes, Mama, I
understand you perfectly.”

This is going to suck.

My hands are downright clammy as I drive along the
Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu. Normally, I love this
road with the endless glittering ocean on one side and sloping
wild mountains on the other. Now, it’s simply the route taking
me to misery.
For three days I’ve searched. I’ve made calls to all the best
resorts within reasonable driving distance—Sam hates to fly,
but she also loves her comfort. I’ve even tried to look under
her aliases. It hit me like a brick to realize that for years, I’ve
known my sister uses aliases, and I never thought twice about
it. Talk about willful ignorance.
Fuming over that uncomfortable nugget of truth, I even
went as far as to break into my sister’s old laptop she left
behind in the guesthouse in the hopes there’d be some clue to
what she’d been doing with her life. All that I came away with
is that she has a thing for lumberjack porn and has amassed an
impressive collection of hot bearded man gifs.
By one o’clock, I conceded defeat, and—God help me for
this—I called my hairstylist to book an emergency cut and
color. Okay, maybe it’s vain, but if I have to drive all the way
out to Macon’s place by myself and somehow convince him
not to press charges, I need to look as good as possible.
So here I am, hair beautifully styled and angled just so
around my face with pretty caramel and golden highlights
designed to make my nut-brown hair look sun kissed. I went
full out at the salon and had my brows shaped and a mani-pedi
as well.
Yes, I am guilty of primping, but it’s not vanity; it’s war
paint. One does not go into battle without armor. To that end, I
put on my favorite short-sleeve cream knit top that clings in all
the good places but flows around my less desirable spots and
an ink-blue skirt that hugs my hips and gently flares around
my knees.
Maybe it’s overkill, but at least I look put together yet no
nonsense. Unflappable. Professional.
“Who the hell am I kidding?” I yell at the road before me.
“It won’t make a lick of difference. I’m so screwed.”
Perspiration tickles my spine as I drive onto a smaller road,
heading closer to the shore. Despite all my years living in LA,
I haven’t visited this part of Malibu. The narrow coastal road
is utterly unfamiliar, but the car navigation informs me that the
address Macon texted me is six hundred feet to my left. Of
course Macon would live right on the beach.
With a lot of work and a dash of luck, one day I might
become a famous chef and be able to afford to live out here.
Right now, I couldn’t even rent a guesthouse in this
neighborhood.
My lips pinch as I finally turn into a driveway blocked by
a big wooden gate. The thing about the Malibu coast is that
curb appeal means little more than having a nice garage or a
big gate. The true beauty of the houses is saved for the owners.
And while most of Malibu is an ever-shrinking strip of space
squeezed between the mountains and the ocean, Macon’s
property is on a rare bluff of flat land that juts out and curves
back toward Los Angeles.
Taking a shaky breath, I edge up to the intercom, noting
the cameras placed all around, and press the call button.
Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck.
“Yes?” a man answers. He doesn’t sound like Macon.
Even so, I find myself stuck, lips parted, mouth dry, and
not a sound escaping me.
 Answer him, dimwit.
No, turn the car around, and run away while you still can.
“Hello?” he asks again. I swear I catch a hint of humor in
the question as if the man on the other end is holding in a
laugh.
Buoyed by sheer annoyance, I find my voice. “Delilah
Baker to see Macon Saint.”
My hands are so sweaty one slips off the steering wheel. I
surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirt and stare into the
dark little eye of the camera. It feels like forever but is
probably only a few seconds before the gate slides open.
A long driveway lined with lacy old olive trees beckons
me inside. Slowly, I drive along, my heart pounding a steady
tattoo against my ribs. A small one-story white house comes
into view. I begin to brake but then quickly realize it’s a
guesthouse. In the distance looms a far bigger white house that
faces the ocean.
“Jesus wept, what a setup.” A laugh escapes me even
though I’m not finding anything particularly funny at the
moment. But I can’t help myself. If I had to point to my
perfect dream house, this would be it.
There are four main styles of houses favored by the
wealthy in Southern California. The classic twenties Spanish
style, the ornate wannabe French or English manor, the
ultramodern, and the craftsman on steroids. Macon’s house is a
mix of craftsman and modern, which shouldn’t make sense.
But it does.
I roll up before the warm, inviting doors of weathered
wood, and my breakfast threatens to make itself known once
more.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, pressing a hand
against my roiling belly.
Outside, the air is fragrant with wild chamomile, sweet
lemons, and the salty sea air. The gentle lull of the ocean just
beyond seems mocking in the face of my wildly pounding
heart. I take a long, easy breath and let it out slowly.
 Running a hand through my hair, I prepare to meet my
childhood nemesis. God help me.
Macon Saint does not answer the door.
I shouldn’t be surprised. However, I can’t help but stare at
the guy who stands before me.
He looks like James Bond, to be honest. Roughly
handsome with dark-blond hair, a pouty sneer, and a body that
borders on brutish, he’s fairly intimidating. His sky-blue eyes
rake me over, but I sense he’s curious, not antagonistic.
“I’m North,” he says by way of greeting.
I put on my visiting smile and hold out a hand. “Delilah.”
He shakes my hand briefly. “I know.”
Of course; he was the one who answered at the gate. And
I’m expected. Neither of us mentions that Sam isn’t with me.
Maybe he expected that too.
For the thousandth time this morning, I swallow down my
irritation with Sam. It won’t help me now.
“Come on in.” North inclines his head in invitation.
I don’t want to. I want to run. The corners of his eyes
crinkle as if he knows this well and empathizes. I’m led into a
sun-filled front hall, and I’m hard pressed not to gape and sigh.
The interior of Macon’s house is even nicer than the
exterior. Perfection. It is space and light and peace. It
somehow manages to be grand without feeling empty.
“You find the place okay?” North asks me as we walk past
a great room.
“Navigation aids are a lifesaver.”
“True.”
I catch glimpses of a living area with wide weathered
plank floorboards, coffered ceilings, creamy-white paneled
walls, and beyond, the blue, blue ocean. It’s perfect. A dream.
A nightmare.
 I hate that Macon Saint, a.k.a. the devil, gets to live here,
that he gets to look out these floor-to-ceiling windows every
day. I hate that I’m jealous.
The house is extremely quiet and smells faintly of timber
and citrus. Every few feet, an ocean breeze drifts through the
open windows and teases the ends of my hair. We pass a
dining room and a glass-walled wine room filled with bottles.
I imagine a drunk Macon sprawled on the floor,
deliberating which wine to try next, and suppress the urge to
snicker.
“Are you a friend of Macon’s?” I ask, partly to fill the
silence that’s getting to me and partly because I’m genuinely
curious.
“Friend?” North seems to ponder the question, then
glances my way. “Yes. But I’m also his temporary bodyguard
and personal trainer.” His expression turns devious. “So he’s
not allowed to play the friend card when I’m busting his butt.”
“Tough love, eh?”
“Something like that.” He moves with crisp strides, and it’s
not difficult to imagine him taking out bad guys.
I hadn’t thought of Macon needing security. I can’t seem to
get my head around the fact that he is famous. As it is, I can
barely think about how I’m about to see him for the first time
in ten years. I’ll vomit if I do.
“You’re nothing like your sister,” North says suddenly, his
eyes on me.
My steps falter. Of course I’m not; anyone with
functioning eyes would be able to tell that in one glance. Still,
I’m surprised he mentioned it. My estimation of North sinks a
bit, and I find myself disappointed.
He grimaces, obviously reading my expression well. “That
wasn’t meant as an insult. It just struck me that you’re very
different in temperament.”
It becomes clear that Sam has had her hooks in North at
some point. Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize the signs
—the slight strain in a man’s voice when he speaks of her, the
unfortunate mix of disappointment and wistfulness in his eyes.
“And in looks,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I’m
the one grimacing. I sound bitter. I’m not, really. I’m simply
used to that comparison too.
North’s expression turns solemn. “Yes.” His gaze flicks to
my breasts so quickly I might have missed it if I wasn’t
looking at his face. Then his eyes meet mine, and he smiles
faintly. “Again, that’s not an insult.”
Warmth washes over my cheeks. North is capable of
turning on the charm when he wants to. I almost pity any
woman who gets a full dose of it.
He appears to remember why I’m here and starts walking
again, his back straight and tight, his pace quicker now.
Unfortunately. I’d rather dally here. God, Macon’s going to
be pissed. And he isn’t going to go easy on me.
Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here.
I think about Mama’s voice this morning. “I could never
give up on either of you; it would be like giving up on myself,
losing another piece of myself.”
Yeah. That.
The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards
bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman
wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can
accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When
Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of
Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that
reduced men to obedient puppies.
While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma
Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close
to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful
in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.
At least that’s what I tell myself as North stops by a closed
door and knocks.
 I’m so worked up at this point that I’m sure my pulse is
visibly beating at the base of my neck.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a deep masculine voice
bids, “Come in.”
North opens the door and then steps back to give me room
to enter. For a brief and shining second I envision myself
turning tail and running for the nearest window like the
Cowardly Lion. But I step into the wizard’s lair instead.
 CHAPTER FOUR
Delilah
There are times in life when everything sort of slows
down, all your senses go on high alert, and you see everything
from a distance.
This is one of them. I’m taking in the whole of the room at
a glance—the retractable glass wall that’s open to the ocean
view; the built-ins with a gold Emmy sitting among various
books and decorative items; the massive desk cluttered with
books, papers, and dishes; and him.
His presence rubs over me like a pervasive itch that won’t
go away.
Sitting behind his desk, he’s turned my way, staring at me
as I stare at him. I take him in as a whole: his big muscled
body—the sheer physicality of him. And I see the details. The
details are what throw me.
“You look like hell,” I blurt out.
His eyes lock onto me, and I’m momentarily hurtled back
to being seventeen again. Those eyes, deep set and carob
brown under black brows that are straight, angry slashes.
When he was a kid, those eyes somehow managed to appear
angelic and sweet with their long curling lashes and shining
depths. Now he resembles an Old Testament archangel, all
fierce judgment and wrath—the type who smites wrongdoers
with one look.
“Well, hello, Ms. Delilah Baker,” he drawls. “So nice to
see you too.”
“Sorry.” I force a smile, though it feels strained on my
face. “That was rude of me.”
He waves an idle hand. “No, no, do go on. It’s been years
since anyone has insulted me to my face. I’d say about ten
years.”
 “Surely I haven’t been the only one to insult you in all this
time.”
Macon’s lush wide mouth, surrounded now by stubble so
thick it’s nearly a beard, pulls in a half smile. “Perhaps.
Perhaps not.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And I do look like shit,
so . . .”
He doesn’t really. He’s still Macon, brutally handsome and
possessing far too much charisma for one man. He’s just beat
up as all hell and in a wheelchair. A cast encases his left leg
from the knee to his foot. Another soft cast is on his right
wrist. He wears his hair cropped so short it borders on
militaristic, but it also highlights the clean bone structure of
his face and the fact that his right eye is black and blue and
slightly swollen. Various scrapes mar his tan skin, and a line of
surgeon’s tape bisects his right brow.
“What happened to you?” I step farther into the room.
“Car accident. Broken fibula, sprained wrist, two bruised
ribs, and a gash over my eye, if we’re being exact.” He
appears to find his list of injuries amusing, but I don’t.
“I’m sorry.” And I am. Whatever animosity has passed
between myself and Macon, the idea of him bloody and
broken sends a chill through me.
He simply looks me over, his gaze leisurely and irritating.
His attention stalls on my lips, and that slanted smile of his
reappears. “A lady friend once told me that when a woman
wears red lipstick to meet a man, it’s for two possible reasons.
Either she wants him to fuck her, or she wants to tell him to
fuck off.”
My body seizes on the word fuck and the way it sounds
coming out of Macon’s mouth—all carnal and hard. Normally,
if a man I was meeting for business used that word in front of
me, I’d have turned and left. But this is Macon. We’ve cursed
each other out on multiple occasions—although never quite
with this undertone.
Heat flushes over my cheeks, and I find myself glaring.
“We both know when it comes to you it’s the latter.”
 “Considering you’ve arrived alone, I’d rethink that tone,
Tot.”
I’m so tempted to snap back that my lips twitch. But he’s
pointed out the dreaded truth of the situation. Sam isn’t here.
And I’m screwed. But I can’t show weakness.
“The day I offer to have sex with someone to get out of a
sticky situation is the day I swim out to sea.”
“I wasn’t asking. Perhaps you should start explaining why
you’re here without Sam.” He gestures to the chair in front of
the desk. “Have a seat.”
Part of me is still stuck on the fact that I thought he had
teased me with the idea of prostituting myself. Unfortunately,
to my horror, I picture it anyway—rounding the desk, hiking
my skirt up to straddle his thickly muscled thighs. What would
he do? Push me off, or pull me close? Would he grip me tight?
His hands are wide, his fingers long. My sex clenches with the
thought of being penetrated by those fingers, being used by
him.
Jesus, Dee. Get a grip. You hate this man.
But I’ve never had hate sex. Hot, sweaty, angry sex. Hate
sex with Macon. Hmm . . . I could leave him weak and panting
for more, then stride out of the room.
Beneath my top, my breasts grow tender, and I grit my
teeth. Thinking about Macon in conjunction with sex is just
asking for a drop into the deep end of the swamp. As is falling
for his mind games. He always used crude innuendos to get
under my skin. He’d laugh his ass off if I made a pass at him.
And I’d have to throw myself off a cliff somewhere.
Setting my shoulders back, I cross the room, aware of my
clicking heels and swaying hips, aware of Macon watching
me. I’m being overtly sexual, but there is power in that. A
woman can choose to embrace it when it suits. And it
definitely suits me now. If my lipstick is stating, “Fuck off,”
my body is saying, “This is what you missed out on, and you
haven’t cowed me one bit.”
Petty? Maybe.
 Enjoyable? Definitely.
But not advisable. I give myself another mental slap to
stop messing around.
His expression gives nothing away as I sit down and cross
my legs. “I couldn’t find her,” I say without preamble.
“Clearly.”
“I know it looks bad—”
“Because it is bad.”
“But she’s never . . .” Hell. Never what? Stolen something
before? I can’t say that for certain. Never skipped town? I
know for a fact she’s done that before. Many times. I feel sick.
“It’ll kill my mother if Sam gets arrested.”
Macon’s lips flatten, going white at the edges. “My mother
is dead. All I had left of her was that watch.”
Empathy softens my tone. “I know.”
It happened the summer my family moved to California.
By the time we received word that Mrs. Saint had died of an
aneurism, she’d already been buried. It was the one time I felt
truly sorry for Macon, and I willingly signed the card my
parents sent.
Faced with Macon’s tight expression, I feel the urge to
offer some words of comfort. But he talks before I can open
my mouth. “Sam knew that too. It didn’t stop her from stealing
it.”
The hole just keeps getting deeper. And here I am without
a shovel. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am. But if you could give
me more time to—”
“No.” The word is as flat as his stare.
“I’m certain I can eventually—”
“No, Tot. Not even for you.”
I blink. Even for me? When has he ever given me any sort
of concession?
 Macon gives me a knowing look. “We may have hated
each other, but our interactions were always interesting. That
has to count for something, considering how boring our town
was.”
If he says so. I’d rather kick his good shin every time he
calls me “Tot.”
Don’t kick the guy holding your sister’s freedom in his
hands, Dee.
“Look, Sam was a total shit for what she did. And I know I
can’t replace a sentimental heirloom.”
His brow lifts as if to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but he stays
silent.
“All I can do is attempt to cover the loss.” My hand shakes
as I fumble with the catch on my purse. “I have a check for
fifty thousand dollars that I’m—”
“Hold up.” He lifts a hand to forestall me. “I can’t take that
check.”
“But you can,” I insist. “I know it isn’t the same thing, but
I can try to make amends by reimbursing you.”
His lips twitch with clear irritation. “Delilah.”
God, it’s almost worse when he says my real name. At
least with “Tot” my immediate reaction is rage and annoyance.
When he says Delilah, his voice works over my skin like hot
prickles. It can’t be helped. The man has a whiskey voice,
deep, raspy, and slumberous. It makes a woman think of
rumpled sheets and sweat-slicked skin. And I really don’t
know what is the matter with me; I must be ovulating or
something. Because I cannot be sexually attracted to Macon
Asshole Saint.
“I can’t take the check,” he repeats firmly. “Because the
watch is worth two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“Fuck. Me.”
His eyes crinkle, an unholy gleam lighting them. “I
thought we weren’t doing that.”
 I’m going to be sick. Legitimately ill. I’m going to throw
up all over Macon’s pristine desk. I swallow against the greasy
feeling crawling up my throat. “Don’t joke.”
All vestiges of humor leave him. “You’re right. It’s not a
joking matter.”
“Two hundred and eighty—” I wipe my damp brow. “How
the hell can a watch be that expensive?”
Macon gives me a pitying look. “It’s a rose-gold Patek
Philippe with a diamond-pavé face.”
I slump back in my chair. “I know Patek Philippe watches
are expensive. I’ve seen enough people around LA wearing
one. But I never thought the damn thing was the price of a
condo.” Macon raises a brow because real estate prices here
are no joke, and I wrinkle my nose. “Okay, the down payment
on a condo. Good Lord . . .” I make a weak gesture. “Your
mother wore it every day. Like it was a Seiko.”
He gazes out toward the sea, giving me the clean lines of
his profile. “I think she liked to taunt my father with it.”
“Didn’t he buy her the watch?”
His mouth twists. “Despite the airs my father put on, my
mother’s family was the one with money. The house, the cars,
the watch—they were all hers. And she made him feel it.”
Oddly, it sounds like Macon approves. Then again, he
never did get along with his father. Not many people did.
George Saint was a beast, and I learned early on to avoid him.
“Well . . .” I drift off, unable to think of a thing to say.
“Well,” Macon repeats as if agreeing.
“Macon . . .”
“Delilah.” My name is a singsong taunt.
I bite my lip to keep from shouting.
“You really didn’t know a thing about Sam working for
me, did you?” he asks quietly.
 Yep, still hurts that Sam kept me in the dark. “The only
time we’ve spoken of you since high school was when Sam
said you were on Dark Castle. I had no clue you two had been
in contact.”
Macon’s expression remains blank, but something stirs in
his eyes. It looks a lot like rage. “I was surprised as hell when
Sam applied to be my assistant. Didn’t really want to hire her,
if I’m honest, but she said she was in desperate straits.”
“Feeling sorry for Sam is always a recipe for disaster,” I
mutter.
“Yet here you are.”
A fire lights in my belly, and I lean forward with clenched
fists. “I’m not here for Sam. I’m here for my mother. Daddy
died last year, and we’re all she has. Personally, I could kill
Sam for this. It would give me great satisfaction to punch her
in the tit right now . . .”
Macon huffs a laugh. A perverse part of me wants to
laugh, too, but the situation is too horrible.
“But she isn’t here, and I’m doing what I can. I just . . . I
already lost my dad; I can’t lose Mama, Macon. I can’t.”
“She knows what Sam is like,” he says almost gently. But
it isn’t for me; I know it’s out of respect for my mother. Just as
I know that respect still won’t soften his stance.
“There’s a difference between knowing and experiencing.
Twice already, Mama has been taken to the hospital for panic
attacks. She’s on meds for hypertension, with orders from her
doctor to take it easy. She puts up a brave front, but her nerves
are shot.”
Macon’s jaw bunches, the tendons along his thick neck
standing out in sharp relief. He swallows hard, then visibly
releases his tension. “I don’t want to hurt your mom. But Sam
is a thief. She stole documents from me, personal
information.” His dark eyes flash with rage. “People got hurt.”
“Who?” I choke out.
 “Does it matter?” he snaps, then blows out a breath. “Point
is, she causes destruction everywhere she goes. And I’ll be
damned if she weasels out of it this time.”
Sam’s deeds aren’t mine, but I’m so ashamed of her right
now I feel covered in dirt. “Perhaps a payment plan?”
“Hmm . . .” His index finger rasps along his jaw. The
stubble on his face only serves to draw attention to his lips and
the soft curve of them. I can’t tell if the near beard is
intentional or if he hasn’t been able to shave since his accident.
“You owned a popular catering business.”
It’s not a question but a statement. One that skitters along
my spine. “How do you know that?”
There’s a hint of censure in his expression as if I ought to
know the answer already. “I looked you up. Stanford
University, majoring in art history, until you dropped out
junior year and transferred to the Culinary Institute of
America. Internships in Paris for a year, then in Catalonia the
next. Worked at Verve and Roses in New York City before
moving back to Los Angeles three years ago to open up your
own business.”
“Jesus.” My skin feels too tight for my face. “It’s just
creepy you dug up that much. You realize this?”
Macon shakes his head in reproach. “It’s on your website,
Tot.”
And now I’m cringing. “Right. Forgot about that. Still
invasive, though.”
He simply hums in that irritating, supercilious way of his.
“You think I wouldn’t look into your life when I was trusting
you to bring back my mother’s watch?”
“Technically, I was supposed to bring back Sam, not the
watch.”
“Bang-up job on that.”
“Ass.”
He allows a ghost of a smile before it fades. “Why did you
close your business last week?”
 “It’s really none of your business.”
Unfazed, he continues to assess my whole life. “By all
accounts, it was extremely successful. Hell, over the past year,
I had at least three people suggest you for events.”
God. He knew about me being here for that long? And
obviously didn’t want to employ my services. That stings.
Though it shouldn’t. We parted as enemies, after all.
“Yes, it was successful,” I snap. Until I closed shop, I had
a dozen employees and a full client list. I made good money,
though with the crazy high-priced cost of living in LA, making
payments on my house and on the little industrial kitchen I
leased for business, I still lived on a budget. That’s all right.
Everything is forward movement, inching up bit by bit. I’ll get
to the top eventually. “My decision to close wasn’t financial.”
Macon doesn’t appear to believe me. “Were you short on
overhead to keep it open?”
His tone implies all sorts of things that have my gut
prickling.
“If you’re suggesting that I somehow worked with Sam to
rip you off for the price of a watch—”
“Funny how your mind goes right to that.”
“Oh, don’t play coy. Of course it does when you’re sitting
there giving me that raised brow and playing Mr. Detective.”
He simply stares. With that damn raised brow.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t need money. I offered you fifty
thousand dollars, didn’t I?”
“Why did you close it, Delilah?”
“Because I’m moving on,” I blurt out.
Both his brows go sky high with that one.
Damn it, I sound like I’m skipping town. I stifle the urge to
squirm. “I’m going on a tour of Asia to learn new techniques
and recipes.” Unless he takes the money. Then I’m shit out of
luck and going back to catering.
 Macon sits back in his chair and continues to run the tip of
his finger along his jaw. There are too many things going on
behind those dark eyes. “How are you going to fund your
trip?”
No way am I explaining that. Not a chance.
But he knows. It’s there in his expression, the way it
softens just a bit before twisting as though he’s disappointed in
me.
With a sigh, he rests his hands over his flat belly. “You
don’t have a job, so you can’t pay me back.” Right. Damn it. I
open my mouth to say . . . something, anything, but he
continues. “Save your money, and take the trip.”
Despite knowing his refusal was coming, my insides
plummet with dread. “Sam will return eventually. She always
does. Just give her a little more time.”
A long-suffering sigh escapes him. “No.”
“Why this urgency?”
“Because I don’t believe she’ll return,” he snaps.
“There has to be a way.”
“There is—you just don’t like it.”
At an impasse, we both fall silent. The chair beneath him
creaks as he shifts his considerable weight. Not that he’s hefty;
the man is pure muscle and decidedly bigger than he was in
high school. At seventeen, Macon had the physique of a
model, lean and lithe. He’s still lean, but now he looks like he
could play tight end in the NFL. I wonder idly if he built his
body up to fit his character, Arasmus, the sword-wielding
Warrior King.
The silence stretches out between us until the only sound
in the room is the distant crash of the waves and the pounding
of my heart. I’ve exposed my underbelly, and the knowledge
twists me up. But the truth is I’m all out of ideas.
When he does speak, the sound is so abrupt I almost flinch.
“Look, Delilah, I understand your situation. But that doesn’t
change what Sam did. I’m going to have to sort it out with the
police now.”
The room tilts beneath me, and panic sets in. I can’t
breathe. It can’t end like this. Macon Saint cannot tear apart
my family any further. I cannot let him win.
“Take me.”

Take me.
I said that. Hadn’t I? I can’t think. My face feels numb. My
mind is blank.
There’s an awkward pause. Macon’s brows pinch together.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Okay, that came out wrong. But I will steel into my spine.
The Macon I knew never backed down from a chance to prove
me wrong. I have to take a chance and believe he’s still the
same. “I am betting that Sam will return in less than three
months and make up for her theft. As a show of faith, I offer
myself as collateral. You need an assistant. I’ll work off Sam’s
debt.”
He’s outright gaping now. “Let me get this straight. You
want to be my assistant?”
“I don’t want to be,” I say, calmly pretending sweat isn’t
running down my back. “But I will, if you—”
“That isn’t enough.” His body might as well be carved out
of granite for all he moves now. But his eyes, they are alive
with irritation. “We are talking about a three-hundred-
thousand-dollar loss. Of something highly sentimental.”
I get it. He wants blood. I would, too, if I’m honest.
I lick my dry lips. “I’ll be your personal chef as well.”
When he tries to speak, I hurry on. “Top assistants make
around one hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand a year.
Personal executive chefs can earn up to a hundred and fifty
thousand as well.”
“One year of work would equate to three hundred thousand
dollars. You’re saying she’ll return in under three months.”
 Damn, he is correct.
“If she doesn’t return, I’ll stay on for one year.”
It sure as hell will spill my proverbial blood to work for
Macon. But if it keeps my fragile family safe, I can do it. I can
survive a year with Macon. Besides, I know Sam will come
back before then. Whether she’ll have the watch is another
matter. I push that fear aside and hold his gaze.
For a moment he says nothing. But then a snarl rumbles in
his chest. And he flops back in his seat as if trying to put as
much physical distance between us as possible.
Macon rubs a hand roughly over his stubble, and for once,
I see some true emotion color his cheeks. “What the hell,
Delilah? We have a history of tearing into each other given the
slightest provocation, and yet you jump right into indentured
servitude. Have you lost your mind? Or do you simply enjoy
playing the martyr when it comes to Sam?”
“Playing the martyr?” I sound screechy. I know I do. I just
can’t seem to stop it.
He winces like I’m hurting his ears. “You seem hell bent to
take on Sam’s sins yet again.”
My hands curl into fists. “I’ve never defended Sam.”
“Don’t give me that offended-innocence act. You were
always stepping in and covering for Sam. Or turning a blind
eye to her antics.”
Despite my best effort, my nostrils flare with a huff of
breath. “I never turned a blind eye—”
“Oh, yes you did.” His lip curls in a sneer. “She’s much
worse than you give her credit for.”
“Then aren’t you the fool to have hired her?”
“Touché, Tot.” He smiles thinly. “It was foolish. And it’s
the last time I feel sorry for Sam. You, however, I trusted to
know better than this.”
“Well, lucky me.”
He glares. “You’re still annoying, though.”
 “And you’re still an ass canal.”
With a blink, he bursts out laughing. The sound of his
laughter is so jovial my lips quirk in response. I bite down on
them hard.
Macon’s laugh dies as quickly as it was born. “This is a
shit deal for you, Tot. I don’t understand why you’d offer.”
Because I have lost my mind. Because I can’t think of
anything else to offer. But I can’t tell him any of that. “Sam is
my sister. Family takes care of family.”
“Try telling Sam that.”
Keep it together, Dee. “Look, I can either pay you back
slowly, or you accept my offer.”
“Neither option is really appealing.”
“But you’re considering it.” I can tell that much. It’s in the
way his expression has shifted from irritated to thoughtful. Oh,
butter still won’t melt in his mouth, but he isn’t throwing me
out.
Macon turns his head to stare out the window. “I am.” He
snorts under his breath. “I must be insane.”
“Join the club,” I mutter.
His head snaps back around. Dark eyes pin me to my seat.
“I could make your life hell.”
“You don’t even sound ashamed of the prospect.”
“I’m not. You’re the one who is here pleading I take you
on instead of holding Sam accountable.”
My back teeth meet with a click. I haven’t spoken to this
man in ten years, and already I’m arguing with him more than
I have with anyone else since. Even my fights with Sam don’t
have this back-and-forth. She doesn’t call me out as much as
attack. Macon makes me own every word.
Arguing with him is like trying on the skinny jeans you’ve
pulled out of the closet after a number of years and finding
they still fit, albeit tightly. It might not be exactly comfortable,
but there is definitely an empowering kick to the experience.
 “Three years ago,” I say. “Sam disappeared for a week.
The police found her car abandoned on the highway. Mama
had to be admitted to the hospital when they came to tell her. It
turned out to be high blood pressure, exacerbated by a panic
attack. And that was when Daddy was alive to soothe her. So
when I say her heart cannot take it, it isn’t hyperbole.”
Macon’s expression turns grim. “And Sam? Where was
she that time?”
I force myself to hold his knowing gaze. “Off with some
guy. She claims her car broke down, and she was going to deal
with it later.”
Macon’s lips twist on a half-repressed smirk. “When I first
moved to LA, Sam came to see me.” Shock ripples through
my body; Sam had never let on she knew where Macon was
all these years or that she even cared to know.
He keeps talking. “Somehow she found out I had acquired
an agent. Sam wanted to get into acting as well. She begged
me to set up a meeting, for old time’s sake.” His smile is tight
and unamused. “Little brat showed up drunk and insulted my
agent within the first two minutes. Because that is what Sam
does. She takes advantage over and over, and the rest of us are
left to fix the damage.”
“Then why did you bother to hire her again?” I ask, truly
stunned.
The smirk turns bitter. “Clearly I have a weak spot when it
comes to the Baker sisters.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that crap, do you?”
Macon shrugs one massive shoulder. “All right, don’t.
Maybe it was simple arrogance to assume I could control the
outcome if Sam was working for me. I don’t know.” He sits
forward, pinning me with a look. “What I do know is that I’m
done letting it slide.”
“I understand, Macon. I truly do.” When he simply lifts a
brow in disbelief, I forge on. “But you’ll be getting something
out of this arrangement too.”
 “So you keep saying,” he murmurs. But a calculating glint
enters his dark eyes. Control. Macon loves control.
“Come on,” I taunt—whether I’m taunting him or myself
is another matter. “Think of it; I’ll be your servant for a year.
It’s the ultimate one-up between us. Isn’t that what you always
wanted? Me under your thumb?”
There’s a weird sort of beat between us, a heavy pause in
which he freezes, his muscles bunching. A current runs
between us, humming over my skin. Then Macon barks out a
short, hard laugh. “Holy shit, you’re good.”
A frown pulls at my brows. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Oh, yes, you damn well do.” He shakes his head. His
smile is not amused. “This offer of yours, it’s a mind trip. You
want me to feel guilty, feel so dirty about the situation that I
drop the whole thing.”
I shift in my seat, the urge to look away so strong that my
neck aches. Shit.
Macon’s lips press together in a hard line. “Typical Delilah
Baker move—manipulate everyone into place with your
earnest self-sacrifice while turning me into the villain.”
“You’re being melodramatic.” But I can’t stop the hot
itchy feeling that crawls over my skin. That is exactly what
I’ve been doing. Part of me had hoped he’d be so appalled
he’d drop it.
“I’ve a mind to agree, just to see you eat your words.” He
leans back and links his hands together over his abs. “I bet
you’d run out of this room so damn fast you’d make the
curtains sway.”
That itchy heat turns into a rush of annoyance. “I’m not
running. Whatever my motives may be, my offer is real. Sam
might be a lost cause, but I owe my mother more than you can
understand. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her peace of mind
intact.”
I don’t know what he sees in my expression—I’m not even
sure what I’m feeling right now: fear, anger, determination,
even a weird sense of anticipation.
 When he finally answers, his tone is all-business. “If I
accept the bet, you’ll live here. Your room and board will be
included.”
It is surprisingly generous of him to offer room and board.
“And if Sam returns with the watch before the year is up, I
keep whatever salary I’ve earned for the duration.”
His eyes narrow. “Fair enough. But when you work for me,
you do as I say—no questions asked, no holding this little
agreement over my head. You own it.”
This is real. A cold sweat breaks over me, my lips going
numb. I concentrate on breathing through my nose and trying
not to be sick.
“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” he says, way too pleased. “The
thought of being subservient to me.”
“What was your first clue, Detective?”
His grin is all teeth and anticipation. “I’ll own you,
Delilah. For one year, your ass will be mine.”
Good Lord, he says it like he relishes the idea. Like he has
plans for me. The little hairs along the back of my neck stand
up and quiver. My fingers curl into a fist. “I’ll work for you.
You won’t own shit.”
“Good as,” he counters.
“If you’re trying to run me off, it won’t work.”
“Better you do it now than three weeks into it.”
Like Sam.
I wish I knew how to read Macon better. He barely gives
anything away that he clearly doesn’t want me to see. But
there are things I have to know. “Anything happen between
you and Sam?”
Right now, he might as well be a wall of granite. “You
think I was fucking her? I don’t know why you’d care either
way.”
 “I don’t. But if this is some sick game of revenge between
the two of you, I want to know about it now.”
Leaning forward, he rests his good arm on the desk. The
movement isn’t exactly slow, but it lacks his usual grace, and I
wonder how much his injuries pain him. “I wouldn’t touch
your sister while wearing a hazmat suit. She’s her own level of
toxic. I learned that long ago.”
He isn’t wrong, but I’m surprised that he is aware of Sam’s
faults and that he has actually voiced them to me. “That’s an
unkind thing to say about your childhood sweetheart.”
He blinks at that as though I’ve surprised him too. But the
stoic expression remains. “I never considered her my
sweetheart.” The ice in Macon’s eyes thaws just a bit as he
studies me. “Last chance, Delilah. Call it off, and we’ll both
pretend it never happened.”
“I can’t.” It comes out a sad little husk of sound.
He blinks, and his expression goes oddly blank. “I can’t
either.”
God. I can’t believe I’m doing this. That I’m pushing it.
“Then what else is there to talk about?”
He shakes his head with a tired sound. “I’ll give you a
couple of hours to come to your senses. Say, until midnight?”
It’s a kindness I don’t expect. It’s also fairly cruel, as it
would be easier to jump without thinking.
“Fine.” I push to my feet. I need to get out of this beautiful
house and away from this man. I need my bed and a good
sleep before I can pull myself back together.
 CHAPTER FIVE
Delilah
I’m searching for a silver lining. On my ceiling. Not the
best plan, of course, but it’s all I got. I can’t do this. I can’t.
Yes, you can.
I try to think about laying down my pride and being under
Macon’s thumb. And . . . can’t.
MamaBear: Delilah, this is your mother.
DeeLight: I know. I have your number
programmed.
I have no idea what she wants, but since I’m not getting
any sleep and have been staring at my ceiling for the past few
hours, any distraction is welcome.
Yes, well. I tried to call Samantha. She isn’t
answering her phone.
Under the cocoon of my covers, I flinch. This wasn’t the
distraction I had in mind. With a sinking gut, I try to think of
what to say that won’t cause my mother to panic.
Mama, it’s the middle of the night. Maybe
she’s asleep. Why aren’t you?
I’m in my sixties and live alone. I never sleep. I
watch HGTV and plot my girls’ weddings.
Maybe that’s why she isn’t answering.
Delilah Ann, stop trying to distract me. That’s
why you called before, wasn’t it? You were
looking for her because Sam has run off again,
hasn’t she?
Well, hell. It’s one thing to gently query my mother about
Sam. It’s another when my mother actually starts to worry. I
had hoped she wouldn’t put two and two together.
 It would seem so.
The phone rings in my hand. I’d been expecting it but still
dread answering. “Hey, Mama.”
“Oh, that girl,” she says with exasperation. “Why is she
always doing this?”
“I don’t know. I only know that she’ll eventually slink
back.” And if she doesn’t, I’ll be completely screwed.
She sighs. “There are nights when I wake up terrified I’ll
get a call telling me Sam has been arrested or has met a bad
end.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know.”
“Do you know what she’s gotten herself into this time?”
Nothing much. Just a little grand larceny. “No.”
I hate lying to my mother. Hate it.
My mother makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a
sniffle; I hate her tears worse. “My heart can’t take it, Delilah.
If something happened . . . I couldn’t . . . I just lost your
daddy.”
Shit sticks. “I know.”
Licking my lips, I glance at the bedside clock. I’ve blown
the deadline Macon gave me. Panic floods my system and
makes my words brusque. “She’ll come back, Mama.
Everything will be okay. I promise.”
My mother expels a shaky laugh. “What would we ever do
without you, Dee? My sensible, steady child. I’m fairly certain
what’s left of our little family would fall right apart.”
And like that, my course is set in stone.

Macon
SweetTot: Do we still have a deal?
It’s the middle of the night, way past the deadline I have
given Delilah. And yet I’d practically lunged at the phone
when it buzzed. Now I’m staring at the words as if they don’t
make sense. But they do. She wants this. Damn it all, she was
supposed to back out.
The deadline was midnight, Tot.
She doesn’t respond, and a pang of something I don’t want
to call regret hits me straight through the chest. But then small
dots appear.
It’s midnight somewhere. I’m in. Are you?
Such cheek. Fuck. Why does it have to be her? Why is she
the only one who’s made me feel truly awake in months, hell,
years? Why am I so damn relieved she’s pushing for this?
My heart is doing its best to pound its way right out of my
chest. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what the hell to
do. Rubbing my hand over my tired face, I reply the only way
I can, then toss the phone down as though it were a snake.
My house, 9am. Instructions to follow.
I’ve done it.
What the hell have I done?
Lying in my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and ask myself
the same question I’ve been asking since Delilah went all
Godfather, making me an offer she knew I couldn’t refuse.
Somehow she knew I’d jump at the chance to have her under
my thumb.
When I first became famous, I felt like a king. Everyone
wanted to please me, and I let them try. Having people fawn
over me was a familiar comfort, as arrogant as that sounds.
But after growing up in the house I had, positive attention was
like stepping out into the warm sun after years of ice-cold
darkness.
I’d underestimated Hollywood and the way everyone uses
everyone else. I shouldn’t have; I know far too much about
manipulation. But I was so starved for something good,
something mine, that I let my guard slide. I soon lost count of
the amount of times my trust had been betrayed. I thought I
could at least see Samantha’s lies and manipulations a mile
away. Look where that got me. Now, I’m actually letting
Delilah into my life? Delilah, who openly hates me?
But her blatant disdain and attitude is such a relief. It is
fresh air. I need to breathe it in deep or suffocate. Or maybe
it’s just the devil you know.
Whatever the case, apparently I do not possess a lick of
sense when it comes to this girl—this woman. She is all
woman now. Her baby softness has melted away, leaving lush
curves and elegant lines. Delilah Baker is a ripe peach, with
pouty red “fuck me” lips.
“Don’t go there, man,” I groan in the dark. But I am there
and can’t escape.
Seeing her walk into my office was a kick to the chest and
a hard tug to the balls. She was all jiggle and sway in the best
of ways—curvy hips, bouncing breasts, glossy hair floating
around her shoulders.
And those red lips, like an exclamation point on the “go to
hell, Macon” statement she made with each look my way. I
have zero doubt Delilah wanted to nut me the entire time we
talked. She never could hide her irritation. But what irritated
me, what irritates me still, is her willingness to pay for
Samantha’s sins.
I’ve always hated that about Delilah. She would fight me
tooth and nail, but with Sam, she would roll over and play
doormat.
I can’t exactly blame her in this case. Delilah believes
she’s protecting her mother from pain. It’s noble as hell. I’m
the asshole taking advantage of it, because I don’t believe for
one second that Sam will come back and make amends.
I shocked myself accepting Delilah’s crazy offer, part of
my mind screaming to shut the hell up and let the poor woman
leave. Let the whole thing with Sam go. But I didn’t. I can’t. I
don’t want to examine too closely why I can’t because I’m no
longer certain if this is about the watch, Sam, or Delilah.
Delilah. We react to each other like the vinegar-and-
baking-soda experiments we used to do in science class as
kids. Even now she brings out the immature ass in me. But the
second she walked back into my life, I became aware of two
uncomfortable but undeniable facts: I am lonely as hell, and
Delilah Baker feels like home.
And now she will be living in mine. It’s both a victory and
a calamity waiting to happen.
“Damn.” This is a terrible idea. The woman hates my guts,
and rightly so; I was an asshole to her in my youth. I hurt her
in ways that make me cringe. She has hurt me in ways she
doesn’t even know. We could end up tearing each other apart.
Sharp pain shoots down my leg as I reach over and grab
my phone, determined to halt this madness. Her last text looms
bright in the darkness: It’s midnight somewhere. I’m in. Are
you?
She might as well have said, “I double-dog dare you, Con
Man.”
I find myself smiling, my thumb rubbing over the edge of
the phone. I should text her back, call it off. I know this. But
my fingers don’t move.
I have been on my own for the last ten years. Since
becoming Arasmus and inheriting all the bullshit that comes
with fame, I locked myself away from all but the most
essential contacts. I thought I liked my solitude. There is
safety in not having anyone around who really knows me. I
can be anyone, as glossy as a well-polished mirror.
And there’s the rub. People see what they want to see, like
what they want to like: my money, my fame, my looks. In the
end, they see nothing. Delilah won’t be fooled by the exterior
shine. She never has been. If that’s a good thing or bad, I’m
not certain.
A voice whispers in my head that I’ll regret it for the rest
of my life if I step away now. For all I know, it could be the
devil urging me on. But my gut has gotten me this far, and so I
set the phone down.
 CHAPTER SIX
Delilah
DeeLight to SammyBaker: I’m cleaning up your mess
as usual. If you have any love for me or Mama, you’ll
come home.

I should hate the sight of Macon’s house. But I can’t. It’s

just too damn beautiful. That I love the house makes me want
to kick something—preferably Macon’s tight butt.
Once again, North answers the door. “Good morning, Ms.
Baker.”
“Delilah, please.” I step inside and draw in a breath of that
lovely lavender-and-lemon scent. Damn it.
“Delilah.”
“Is North your first name or last?” I ask as he shuts the
door behind me.
His nose wrinkles, and he seems to hesitate. “First.” He
visibly winces before bracing himself. “My full name is North
West.”
There are many things I can say, but I’m figuring he’s
heard them all.
“North by Northwest is one of my favorite movies.”
North stares at me as if I’m off my rocker before breaking
into a wry smile. “Are you messing with me? Did Saint tell
you my name?”
“No. Why?”
North shakes his head. “That’s my mother’s favorite
movie.”
“Ah. Hence the name?”
“Yep. Unfortunately.”
 “Well, I’m named after my great-aunt Delilah, who
drowned in a pie.”
North chokes out a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She was packing up one of her blue-ribbon-winning
Strawberry Delights to take to a Monday-night social when
she fainted—the doctor thinks she had a problem with low
blood sugar—and ended facedown in the pie.”
North blinks. “I . . .”
“Don’t get sucked into one of Delilah’s yarns, North,”
Macon suddenly says from the entrance to the hall. “That’s
one rabbit hole you don’t want to go down.”
He’s in a wheelchair, which is an unnerving sight. I might
think of Macon in terms of ass and hat, but somehow, in my
mind, he was always invincible and immune to injury. He’s
still an asshat, though.
“It’s not a yarn,” I snap. “It’s the truth.”
He rolls his eyes. “The woman asphyxiated on rhubarb.
She didn’t drown in a pie.”
“Poh-tay-toe. Poh-tah-toe.”
“Let’s call the whole thing off,” North finishes with a
wink.
I smile.
Macon makes a sound of annoyance. “Don’t you have
work to do, North?”
North doesn’t bother looking his way. “No, boss.” His tone
isn’t exactly sarcastic, but it’s clear he’s not worried about his
job security.
“Then find some,” Macon says blandly. He isn’t even
looking at North, but at me. “I told you to bring your things.”
In his instructions, Macon said I needed to pack enough for
at least a week. After that, I’d be given an opportunity to
return home and gather what I thought I’d need for the year
and make arrangements to put my house up for rent if I so
chose. I’d wanted to fling my phone.
 “My bags are in the car.”
“North can bring them in for you.”
“Aren’t they going to the guesthouse?”
“Sorry, Tot. You’re not getting the guesthouse. North lives
there.”
Frustration blooms like a hot rash. “So? Didn’t Sam live
there as well?”
Macon’s dark eyes narrow to slits. “You’re not Sam.
You’re staying here.”
I can’t let it go. “Why?”
Red washes over his cheeks. “Because I said so.”
The words ring through the house, startling us both, I
think. He blinks as if coming out of a fog. I, on the other hand,
huff out a humorless laugh. “You sound like my mother.”
“Be careful I don’t spank you.”
Unwelcome heat touches my thighs, and I shift my weight
to keep from clenching them. “Try. It.”
We glare at each other from across the way. I’m fairly
certain we’re both playing a game of chicken with this
arrangement, seeing who will cave first.
North claps his hands together. “Okay, children. I’m going
to bring Delilah’s bags in. I want to see happy faces when I
return. Happy. Faces.”
Macon doesn’t take his eyes from me. “Piss off, North.”
North shakes his head. “Your funeral, man.”
He leaves us alone.
Macon’s gaze darts over my face. “You gonna be a pain in
the butt the whole time?”
“Only when you act like an ass.”
His lips quirk. “Kind of feeling the urge to pull one of your
pigtails right now.”
I won’t smile. Nope. No way. “I’m not wearing pigtails.”
 A husky note enters his voice. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He snorts lightly. “Come on. I’ll show you around.” He
touches a knob on his armrest, and the wheelchair turns
around.
I catch up and walk alongside him. Macon glances up at
me and frowns. “Don’t know if I like you looming over me.”
“Now you know how I felt all those years,” I say happily.
In high school, Macon was always at least five to six inches
taller than me. He looks larger now, and I’m guessing he
probably tops me by a foot when he’s standing.
He grunts and stops at a set of doors. “Hit the button, will
you?”
I do as asked. “An elevator? That’s convenient.”
“It’s ridiculous in a two-story house,” he admits with a
touch of self-deprecation. “But the previous owner was an
artist. She painted massive canvases and didn’t trust them to
be taken down the stairs. Her one request of the house was that
it had an extrawide elevator.”
Ah, the whims of the rich. Want an elevator in your seaside
mansion? No problem.
A small click and a light on the panel announces the car. I
open the doors and slide back an inner door. Macon rolls in,
and we’re soon riding upward.
“How long are you in the chair?” I ask.
“Another week; then we go to the doctor, and they’re
fitting me with a walking boot.”
“We?”
He glances my way as the car stops. “Yes, ‘we.’ You’re my
assistant now, Tot. You go where I go.”
He might as well have said, “Welcome to hell.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off a headache, I
peek at him from under the curve of my hand. “So what does
the assistant part of the job entail?”
“You’re asking that now, after you’ve offered yourself up
on a platter?”
“Just answer the question, Macon.”
The edges of his lips curl. It’s not a smile. It looks more
like victory. “Get shit done for me, no questions asked. And
obviously help me out while I heal.”
I’m surprised at this. Macon never likes conceding
weakness. The mere fact that he expects me to aid him is not
only surprising; it’s shocking.
“Okay,” I draw out, feeling not relief exactly but as if
there’s a tiny spot of light at the end of the tunnel. It doesn’t
sound so bad.
It’s going to feel like a yearlong dental visit, and you know
it.
“As for cooking,” he says as we move down the hall, “I
expect healthy meals. No heavy southern shit.”
I don’t bother telling him that not all southern cooking is
heavy. And it certainly isn’t shit. He knows all of this well.
He’s just being . . . Macon, trying to get my goat.
“We start shooting again in June,” he goes on, either
ignoring or not noticing my side-eye, “and they’ll have a fit if
I gain an ounce.”
“Have to keep your ass in tip-top shape for all those screen
flashes?”
He pauses, and the air becomes too close as his gaze glides
over me, a smile oozing out—smug and heated. “Why,
Delilah, have you been watching my ass on screen?”
“No. But Sam has. Can’t say it was enough to keep her
around, though, eh?”
His gaze narrows.
What. Are. You. Doing? You can’t antagonize him!
 But if I roll over for him completely, I’m as good as dead.
It’s a delicate balance, dealing with Macon Saint. So I merely
keep my bland smile in place and wait him out, pretend that
my chest isn’t tight and that uncomfortable heat isn’t burning
my skin.
Thankfully, I’m given a reprieve.
“My room is at the end,” he says. “Your room is here.”
We stop at a door one down from his. I’d been hoping for
the other end of the house.
Reading me well, Macon gives an amused look. “You need
to be near in case I need something in the night.”
“Seriously? Is this some form of extra punishment?”
Macon’s nose wrinkles in affront. “Jesus, Delilah. I’ve
been in a car accident. I need someone nearby. End of story.”
He looks so put out and offended that my shoulders slump.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little tense.”
“You think?” But his scowl eases as he reaches out for the
door. He rolls into the room and then moves back so I can
enter.
The room is incredible. It’s as big as my living room back
home, with a sitting area on one side and a bed with a cream-
colored linen headboard on the other end. But it’s the view that
grips me, all glittering ocean and sunlit skies. A set of french
doors that open up to a wide veranda beckons me closer.
“Still want to live in the guesthouse?” Macon says behind
me.
I take another look around, tempted to either fling myself
onto the soft white bedspread or race out onto the balcony,
where a set of cane chairs waits for me. “I suppose this will
do.”
“While we’re waiting for North, I’ll show you around, and
then you can make me breakfast.”
I’d almost forgotten why I was here.
 He leads me past other guest rooms, an upstairs gym, an
office, and then down we go to the main level, where there is a
home movie theater, a glass-walled wine room, a cozy den,
and an open great room. It’s all gorgeous, but I head for the
kitchen, itching to look around.
I try to contain myself, but it’s difficult. No expense has
been spared, from the marble countertops that will be perfect
for baking to the Sub-Zero catering fridge.
I let out a small gasp at the sight of the massive black-
enamel-and-brass stove. “A La Cornue.”
“A what?” Macon asks, frowning as if I’m off my rocker.
“Your stove.” I stroke the sleek edge of it just because I
can. “It’s exceptional for cooking.” And about forty thousand
dollars retail. I swear, my eyes water a little.
Macon moves farther into the kitchen. “I have fans who
look at me the way you’re looking at that stove.”
“Their priorities are out of whack.” I bend over to inspect
the oven. Flawless. “Have you ever even used this thing?”
“I believe I burned some eggs while attempting an omelet.
Mostly, I use the microwave.”
I place my hand on my chest. “You are killing me here.”
He gives me a rare genuine smile, and it transforms his
face from stern and bitter to something almost boyish. It
makes him breathtaking. I’m so stunned by the sight, I almost
miss his reply. “I have a kick-ass blender, if you’re interested.
I make a mean kelp smoothie.”
“Getting excited over a kelp smoothie? I almost pity you,
Saint.”
All at once, his affable expression dims. “Don’t call me
Saint. I don’t like the way it sounds coming from you.”
Stung, I turn away and inspect the fridge. I’d almost
forgotten that Macon and I don’t rub well together. It’s easy to
do, and that has always been part of my frustration when
dealing with him. Because when Macon wants to, he is utterly
charming, fun, and engaging. He draws people in like moths to
a bright flame. Only I’m the one who constantly gets burned.
Everyone else walks away happy and wanting to know him
better.
“You’ll need to tell me how you want to take your meals,”
I say, keeping my attention on looking over what I have to
work with. “Do you want them delivered on a tray? Set up in a
certain room?”
His presence is a weight against my back, and I know he’s
watching me. Tough shit.
“Also any food allergies you might have,” I go on when he
doesn’t answer. “I read over the dietary restrictions the
studio’s nutritionists have placed you on. I’m going to have to
get creative because there isn’t much to work with. I’ll go
shopping later.”
The kitchen clock ticks softly.
“You pouting now?” Macon finally asks in a flat voice.
Sharp pricks dance along my skin, and my jaw begins to
ache from clamping it shut. When I know I won’t shout, I
answer in measured tones. “I’m maintaining a professional
manner with my employer.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
Because I might grab one of the lovely heirloom tomatoes
you have displayed in this fruit basket and chuck it at your fat
head.
“I wasn’t aware that you needed constant attention,” I grit
out.
“Now you know better,” he says equably.
Of all the . . . a breath hisses out between my clenched
teeth. Slowly I turn to find him smirking as if he knows
perfectly well he’s working my last nerve.
“There is an old saying,” I tell him pleasantly. “Never bite
the hand that feeds you.”
Far from being cowed, he seems to be enjoying himself.
“I’m kind of partial to ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’”
 Those heirlooms are growing more tempting. He catches
the direction of my gaze, and he appears delighted.
“Try it,” he says, all silk and promise. “See what happens.”
Oh, but I want to. I can picture little squishy bits of red
sliding down his cheeks, tiny seeds clinging to his stubble. But
that’s what he wants. Macon loves fighting with me. I have to
remember that. I have to ignore that I love fighting him too.
Well, love isn’t the right word. “Derive some sort of weird
satisfaction from it” is closer to the truth.
Sucking in a breath, I turn and pull a carton of eggs from
the refrigerator, then grab one of the tomatoes. “I’m making
you eggs in a cloud with roasted tomatoes, smashed avocado,
and herbs.” I flick on the oven before searching for bowls and
a frying pan. Oh, Lord, all copper. All French. I’m in love.
Behind, Macon makes one of those expansive noises men
draw out when they think women are being unreasonable.
“Sounds . . . fluffy.”
“They are.” Everything in his kitchen is in the perfect
place, and I easily locate a few bowls and a whisk.
“Delilah.”
My back tightens. I crack an egg and separate the yolk
from the whites.
He sighs again. “Countless people call me Saint. Only you
call me Macon with that bitter honey voice.”
Bitter honey? The description does something to me that I
don’t like, that sets me off-center. Resting my hands on the
cool counter, I remain quiet, but I’m no longer actively
ignoring him. There is no softness in his tone, but it is thicker
now as if the confession wants to stick in his throat before he
forces it out. “I like it.”
The words take the starch out of my spine. But I don’t
know what to say.
He isn’t done, at any rate. “How about this? You promise
not to call me Saint, and I’ll knock three months off the deal.”
 I whirl around. “What? Are you crazy? You are. You
knocked a damn screw loose in that accident, didn’t you?”
Macon’s grin is wide and devious. “Got you.”
For a second I just stare. Got me? Got me! Blood rushes to
my face. “You . . . you . . .” I don’t think. I let the tomato fly.
He isn’t so quick in the chair, and despite me zinging it to
the left, the heirloom smashes apart on his shoulder. Doesn’t
stop him from laughing his ass off, though.
“Get out of my kitchen, you rat,” I yell, waving my whisk
at him.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, still laughing as he spins
around and starts wheeling away. He’s almost out of sight
when he calls over his shoulder. “Missed you too, Tater Tot.”
Lucky for him, he’s out of range. I grab another egg and
get on with my work. But I find myself fighting a smile as I
make breakfast.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
Delilah
Between creating a menu for the week, shopping,
unpacking, and getting my new kitchen in order, I barely hear
from Macon the next day. He sends a note to skip breakfast,
then has his lunch—a roast-chicken-and-avocado salad with a
lemon vinaigrette—in the upstairs den. North comes to collect
it, and I go about my business. So far, I’ve been told via text
that I’ll start all the administrative duties later. I take the
opportunity to drive out to my favorite seafood monger and
come home with succulent and glossy shrimps and scallops.
My catering kitchen was a sterile industrial space with
stainless counters, concrete floors covered with dull-gray
epoxy, harsh fluorescent lights, and rows of overhead steel
vent fans that left a constant hum. It was hot when cooking
and cool during early-morning prep. Nothing meant for
comfort, but everything I needed to feed mass numbers of
people.
Macon’s kitchen is warm and inviting. The wide-plank
hardwood floors are silky smooth underfoot. Sunlight streams
in through the windows and tracks a path across the honed
marble counters as the time passes.
There is a cozy wood booth tucked into a corner nook that
overlooks the ocean. I sit there, drinking a latte made with the
commercial-grade espresso maker, and flick through
magazines I’ve neglected for months—never finding the time
to relax while running my business.
Surrounded by the sun and the sea and the thoughtful
beauty of the house, the long-held tension that has settled deep
into my flesh over the past few years starts to lose its grip.
With a slower rhythm than I used in my catering kitchen, I
start dinner. There is a different kind of pleasure cooking here.
I’m not in a rush. Instead, I sink into the essence of the food,
the crisp sound of my knife slicing through red peppers, the
fresh clean scent the vegetable gives off as its flesh yields to
the blade.
My breathing becomes slow and deep, almost as if I’m
meditating.
I’d stopped cooking like this—for an individual, for
myself. Somehow cooking had become a race, a need to prove
my talent, but in doing so, I’d distanced myself from the very
thing I love.
“You thinking deep thoughts, Tot?”
Macon’s voice pulls me out of my zone with a jolt. He’s by
the kitchen booth, sitting in a patch of amber sunlight that
colors his skin deep bronze. It also emphasizes the bruising
around his eye and the lines of strain along his mouth. He’s
leaning back in the wheelchair with a casual air, but there is a
deliberate stillness about him that makes his pose a lie. He is
in pain.
“I was actually thinking about how much I love to cook,” I
tell him, moving to the fridge.
“Just as long as you’re not contemplating another tomato
launch,” he says lightly.
I cut him a glance, and he widens his eyes as if entirely
innocent. Snorting, I pull out some milk. “Alas, the tomatoes
are all used up. But I do have an extra head of cauliflower, so I
wouldn’t tempt me.”
“Ouch.” He holds a hand up in surrender. “I’ll be good
now. Cross my heart.” Biting back a smile, he draws an X over
his broad chest, then tracks my movements as I collect honey
and spices. “You always did flow around a kitchen like you
were dancing to music only you could hear.”
My brows lift, a beat skipping in my heart. “Did I?”
“You never noticed?” He runs the edge of his thumb along
the armrest of his chair, eyes on the movement. “I used to envy
that ease. How you found a place to fit in perfectly.”
“One place,” I correct thickly. “Whereas you fit in
everywhere else.”
 He takes that in with a short exhale, and his lips press
together, caught between a smile and a grimace. “Looks can be
deceiving.” He nods toward me. “What are you doing now?”
“Making some turmeric lattes.” I put the spiced milk under
the foaming nozzle on the espresso machine and let it froth
and heat. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and
turmeric fills the air.
“It smells like Thanksgiving,” he says as I pour the lattes
into two cups.
“Here.” I offer him one and then take a seat on the booth.
Macon moves up to the end of the table, then takes a sip.
“Delicious.”
“Mmm . . . turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, which can
help with pain.”
He pauses, eyes meeting mine over the rim of his porcelain
cup. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Why do men pretend that they’re not in pain when they
clearly are?”
“Because we don’t like being fussed over,” he answers
with a small smile.
“See, that’s the strange part about it,” I say, cupping my
latte. “Men love being fussed over. I’ve never heard so much
whining as when a man is sick.”
A gleam of challenge lights his eyes. “You’re missing the
key factor.” Macon sets his cup on the table. A bit of creamy
foam clings to the corner of his lip, and he licks it away with
the tip of his tongue. “We only do that when we expect our
women to kiss and cuddle us, then tuck us into bed.”
I blame the steam from my latte for the hot tightness over
my cheeks.
Macon’s gaze zeroes in on them, and his lip curls upward.
“So unless you’re offering?”
“Remember the cauliflower, Macon. My aim is stellar.”
 He huffs out a laugh. “Didn’t think so.” Then a speculative
look enters his eyes. “You got a boyfriend who might give you
a hard time over this arrangement?”
I smirk into the well of my cup. “A little late to be asking
that, don’t you think?”
“Wouldn’t be my problem,” he says with a shrug. “I’m
simply curious.”
“My last relationship ended a few months ago.” Ah,
Parker. He’d been perfect on paper: cute without being
intimidating, nice without being challenging, a successful
marketing exec with his own condo. He liked giving oral and
didn’t fall asleep directly after sex. Always a plus. It also had
been too easy to let him go, which means it had been the right
thing to do.
Macon sits back in his chair and rests his hands on his abs.
“What happened?”
“We didn’t suit.”
“Didn’t suit.” He sounds skeptical as if he assumes I’d
been dumped and was embarrassed to admit it.
I set my cup down with a sigh. “He snored.”
Macon barks out a laugh. “You dumped a guy because he
snored? Jesus, Delilah, everyone snores now and then.”
“I know. I’m not a total jerk.” I glare at him when he raises
a brow. “I’m not. You weren’t there. This was not normal. He
snored so badly his dog would run out of the freaking room
and cower. The neighbor would pound on the walls, for pity’s
sake.”
Macon chortles, grinning wide. “And he didn’t know?”
“The man slept like he was in a snore-induced coma.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t sleep a wink with him around.” A
shudder passes through me at the memory—like a chain saw
meeting a boulder. “Maybe if I’d been in love with him, it
would have been different. The sex was great, I’ll say that. He
was very good with his—”
“You really don’t have to elaborate,” Macon deadpans.
 I fail at hiding my smile. “Anyway, if I couldn’t even
spend an actual night with him, how could I maintain a
relationship that was doomed to never move forward? And
you?” I counter, wanting the spotlight off my romantic
failures.
“I can safely report that no woman has accused me of
snoring.”
“Har. Har. You know what I meant. You have some
girlfriend who’s going to look at me funny when she finds out
I’m living here?”
His tone becomes droll. “I’d hope any girlfriend I’d have
would trust me enough to hire a female live-in chef, but no, I
haven’t had a girlfriend since . . . well, your sister.” His mouth
twists as if tasting something off.
“Truly,” I squeak, not believing it. Ten years, and no other
close relationship with a woman? It’s both a crime and slightly
horrifying to learn that Sam has been his only girlfriend. Did
she break the mold for him? God, I don’t want to be here
knowing that.
Thoughts of Sam have my insides coiling tight. I wonder
where she is and if she can feel my ire like a chill on her back.
He pulls a face. “I’m not cut out for long term. It’s no fun
for me. I’d rather go for casual dating, frankly.”
Now that I can believe. But Sam fills the space between us
like a ghost. All right, more like a poltergeist; Sam would
never be the type to quietly haunt.
“I am truly sorry about Sam, you know,” I say to Macon.
“I’m so ashamed of what she did.”
His eyes dart between mine, a small frown forming. “She
doesn’t deserve you, Delilah. She never did.”
My answering smile is tight and bittersweet. “And yet I
still love her. Go figure.”
We finish our lattes in pensive silence, and then I wash out
the cups while he studies me.
“Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes,” I tell him.
 “Okay.” He doesn’t make a move to go.
“You want me to serve it here?”
Warm brown eyes move over me. “I want you to eat with
me.”
I go still. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
Macon tilts his head as if trying to view me from a new
angle. Whatever he sees has his features smoothing out, wry
humor filling his gaze. “You afraid to eat with me?”
“I’m not afraid.” But I am. Less than twenty-four hours
I’ve been in his orbit, and already I’m in over my head. As a
teen, I knew exactly how to handle Macon: aim for head-on
collision; sort out the collateral damage later. This Macon
keeps disarming me with moments of rare honesty and sly
humor. This Macon flirts. He cajoles. He can probably charm a
thief into turning themselves in.
I take too long to say anything else, and Macon’s
expression darkens. “You haven’t changed, have you? Still
looking at me as if I’m the devil.”
“Macon,” I say with a voice gone dry. “To me you were
the devil.”
Silence settles between us as we stare at each other. The
intensity in his gaze is a living thing that I try not to quail
under. Finally he blinks, and it’s as if a shade has been drawn
over him. “I’ll have dinner in the den. Text me when it’s
ready.”
He leaves me to my work, and I try not to feel guilty. And
fail miserably.

DeeLight to SammyBaker: Sometimes I really hate

you.
Most of us will pretend away the shit we’re dealing with in
life; if we don’t think about it, it isn’t happening. Just like I
can pretend that I am merely a cook for a famous actor. Little
details such as the actor is Macon Saint are best pushed to the
far corners of my mind.
 Macon makes it impossible to ignore him.
According to the detailed list of instructions he has
provided me, Macon likes to rise with the sun every day.
Which is just plain deranged in my book; if humans were
meant to get up with the sun, we wouldn’t have invented
blackout curtains.
Upon rising, Macon must have his smoothie.
Said drink is a superfoods green smoothie with a list of
ingredients as long as my arm, including spinach, kale, apples,
and algae. I add coconut water and a half a banana for a touch
of sweetness since the concoction tastes like funky socks
without it.
He sends a text for his drink just as I’m pouring the goop
into a large glass and cursing the early hour.
ConMan: Why am I waiting?
Rolling my eyes, I text back.
DeeLight: Is this like one of those “What’s the
sound of one hand clapping” riddles?
Riddle me this, what’s the sound of Macon
dialing 911 to report a robbery?
Asshat. Seriously, he could convey a little sense of
hesitation or meekness today.
You only get three chances to hold that threat
over my head. After that, I’m making a jerk-off
gesture.
I don’t know if Macon takes his drink with a straw or not,
but earlier I found a massive silly straw in a drawer. I plunk it
in the glass as his text comes in.
Am suddenly dying to see you make this
gesture. Get up here so I can use up my threat
quota.
“Here” being an upstairs den at the far corner of the house
with a killer view and a small corner cupola that boasts a wall
of windows. Within a nearly 360-degree viewing area, Macon
sits behind a desk. He waves me in and keeps talking to
someone.
“I’m fine, Karen. The bruising around my face is nearly
gone.” He takes his smoothie without a glance but then pauses
when the red silly straw bops him on the nose.
Attempting to be the picture of innocence, I bite the inside
of my lip when he glares up at me. He holds that glare as his
tongue snakes out and snares the end of the straw. It should
look ridiculous, Macon sucking hard on a twisty, loopy kid’s
straw, his lean cheeks hollowing out from the force he needs to
get to his smoothie. But it doesn’t.
I feel each tug along with the straw.
Craziness. Utter insanity.
I move to go, but he holds up a hand and points to a
leather-and-chrome armchair by the window. Apparently I am
to sit and stay. Bah. I cross my legs and lightly bounce my top
leg with impatience.
“I have a new assistant,” he says to Karen, giving me a
withering glance as he tosses the straw into a trash can. “Yes,
another new one.” His lips curve just slightly.
My leg swings with more vigor. Macon’s gaze zeroes in on
it, and his lids lower a fraction. I find myself rethinking my
decision to wear jean shorts that draw attention to my bare legs
and go still.
It doesn’t stop him from staring. His gaze turns
slumberous as he leans back in his chair. “Hmm?” he murmurs
into the phone.
The muscles along my inner thigh draw tight, and I
uncross my legs, switching to the other leg. It’s too hot in this
damn room without curtains to mute the morning sun beating
down on my shoulders and the tops of my breasts. I fight the
urge to fan myself.
A slow smile unfurls over Macon’s lips, and he raises his
head until our eyes meet. “Oh, I won’t be having any problems
with her.”
 On pain of death, his expression implies.
With deliberation, I lift my middle finger and pretend to
put lipstick on with it. His smile turns positively gleeful, his
teeth catching on his lower lip as if to rein it in. “Call it
instinct,” he says to Karen. And then he faces the ocean,
taking another long drink of his smoothie.
Karen says something that makes his nostrils flare in clear
irritation. “For fuck’s sake, no.” Another pause. “Because
she’s my employee and just . . . no.”
He sounds so offended that my insides pinch. Because it
doesn’t take a genius to know Karen is asking if we’re
screwing each other. Macon rubs his forehead. “She’s not an
actress.” He huffs out a truly entertained laugh. “Believe me,
she wants no part of this life. You’ll understand when you
meet her.”
The smug assurance in his tone rubs over my skin like grit.
“No more questions,” he says with an impatient wave of
his hand. “I’m going now.”
Cool quiet falls over the room, and I content myself with
listening to the waves crash into the beach. I’m not going to
give him the satisfaction of asking why he wanted me to listen
in on his conversation. We haven’t faced each other since the
awkward way we ended things last night. Which is fine—
employers aren’t supposed to hang out with the help.
But now Macon sits in his chair like the lord of the manor,
his gaze boring into me so hard it prods at my breastbone like
a pesky finger, daring me to look back at him. I don’t give in
to the urge.
He finishes his drink before speaking. “You put something
different in this.”
“It’s arsenic. I’d have gone the powdered-cookie route, but
you’re on a diet.”
Amusement gleams darkly in his eyes.
“That mouth.” From under the fringe of his lashes, he
assesses me, the tip of his long finger idly stroking his lower
lip. “I’d thought my memory exaggerated the sass that mouth
is capable of. Clearly not.”
Irritation catches at the back of my throat. “My memory is
crystal clear, Con Man. Don’t pretend as though you weren’t
every bit as bad.”
We glare at each other from opposite sides of his desk
while visions of me dumping the green smoothie on his lap
dance through my head. Those severe brows of his lower, and
I wonder if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
His voice is a soft thread cutting through the silence. “I
remember everything, Delilah.”
Maybe he intends that to be a threat—a promise, perhaps,
that one day there will be a reckoning—but it sounds like
something else, almost as if he’s kept those memories close all
this time, pulling them out every now and then to examine
them like some sort of kitsch bauble you keep for nostalgia.
Without waiting for a reply, he sets a new phone on the
desk. “Yours.” He pushes it toward me. “My calendar and list
of contacts are synced to it. All calls for me will go to you.”
“All calls?”
“On that list, yeah.” He nods to the phone, which I’ve left
lying on the desk. “Only calls from you, Karen, and North will
ring to my phone.”
I take the phone and scroll through the contacts. There are
about forty names on it, both men and women. “Who are these
people? Your friends?”
“Some of them. Mostly business contacts. Whenever a call
comes in, take a message. I’ll call them back if I want to.”
“Every time? That sounds kind of cold.”
“Why? Because I won’t answer?” His expression is
somewhere between you poor deluded thing and aren’t you
precious? “No one is going to be offended. They’re used to it.”
“All right, then.”
 “Don’t answer unknown calls. If a preprogrammed name
pops up, it’s okay. But no one else, Tot. Ever.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like life and death,” I say with a
little laugh.
He doesn’t blink. “I’m completely serious about this. The
world is full of unhinged people. If one of them happens to get
through, you’ll only encourage them by answering.” He rests
his hands on the flat of his stomach. “Which brings me to
another point. At the moment, no one knows who you are, but
if, at any time, someone approaches you and asks about me,
pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about, disengage,
and call either me or North immediately.”
My fingers curl around the hard edges of the phone. “Are
you trying to scare me?”
“I’m trying to keep you safe. Promise me you’ll listen,
Delilah.”
He’s so intently serious that I can’t find it in myself to
tease, even though I want to. Because the whole thing makes
me uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea of having to watch my
back. Some of this must show on my face because his tense
shoulders relax, and his expression eases. “It’s just safety
protocol, Tot.”
My back grows cold as if unseeing eyes are staring at me. I
shake off the fanciful image; it will do me no good to become
paranoid. “All right. I got it.”
Satisfied, Macon wheels away from the desk. “I’ve sent
you a list of tasks for the week. Things may be added at will.”
I find the email in question and read through it. Dry
cleaning to be fetched, dress shoes and a couple of suits to be
picked up from various shops on Rodeo Drive. He has a
mountain of emails he wants me to answer, a calendar to
reschedule, calls to return. I have a script I must follow when
talking to people, nice little ways to evade giving away any
solid details about Macon’s injuries. I’m also expected to
purchase a long list of birthday presents for various people and
see them personally delivered. None of these things can be
purchased online—they’re all from specialty stores around
LA. Make that from all ends of LA.
“Seriously,” I say when I’m finished.
The space between his brows wrinkles. “What’s the
problem, Tot?”
“I never knew you to be a shopper, Con Man. This reads
like a list made by a diva.”
He snorts. “You should be thankful I’m not a diva.”
“And when am I going to find time to cook your meals?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Tucking the phone away, I stand. “Is that all, sir? I’ve got a
few menus to plan.”
He grins wide. “Sir. I like that.”
My finger is itching to flip up and say hello again.
He knows it. His dark eyes gleam with anticipation. I
won’t give him the satisfaction, though. I turn to leave when
he speaks up again.
“Oh, and I expect a snack at ten. Stop glaring, and get to
work, slow coach.”
Yep. Definitely in hell.
 CHAPTER EIGHT
Macon
The steering wheel presses hard against my cheekbone,
airbag clumped up under my neck, hot metal on my leg. Rain
falls through the shattered window, blurring the lines, making
the blood run faster into my eyes. I hurt. I hurt all over.
The tiny voice of my car service drifts from somewhere
overhead. “Mr. Saint? Are you injured? Mr. Saint?”
My mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.
“Mr. Saint?”
I’m here. Don’t leave me.
“Macon?” A voice of hot, sticky honey. I want to taste it,
let it drizzle over my skin. “Macon?”
The camera flash pops in my eyes.
God, look at him. He’s really hurt. Shouldn’t we get help?
We will just take one more picture. Feel the muscle on his
arm. It’s so hard.
They’re taking pictures of me stuck in this car. They’re
fucking feeling me up. While I’m twisted up in this fucking
car. A hand grabs my arm. Shouting, I swing wide, connecting
with something hard. A tremendous crash rings out.
“Macon! What the great hell?”
It’s her voice—no longer honey sweet but sharp and irate,
a voice I can never fully get out of my mind—that pulls me
out of my fog. My surroundings come into focus with a breath.
Delilah kneels on the floor, gathering up the ruins of what
looks to be my dinner.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, honestly horrified I took a swing at
her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she huffs. “I called
your name several times, and you were just sitting there,
staring out the window.”
“I was asleep.” I run a hand over my face and find it damp
with sweat. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine. But the tray might take exception to being
whacked.” She shoots me a glare, and I brace for another
rebuke, but her stiff expression eases. “You were having a
nightmare, weren’t you?”
“Just got disoriented. The painkillers make me loopy.”
Delilah’s hard stance softens. “I shouldn’t have grabbed
you without checking to see if you were awake. Daddy always
said it was dangerous to jar people out of a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare.” The lie comes out snappish.
Probably because I’m lying. But damn if I want to see that pity
in her eyes. “Although I agree, you shouldn’t go around
grabbing people while they’re sleeping. Kind of rude,
regardless.” God, shut up, Macon. You’re the rude ass. But I
can’t seem to help myself around this girl.
Her nose wrinkles. “I guess that bug up your butt is a
permanent condition.”
“Bringing up my butt again.” I force a smile. “You think
about it a lot, do you?”
Her answering smile is all sharp edges and bite. “I think
about kicking it nearly every time we’re in the same room
together.”
A laugh breaks free, pushing at my aching ribs. “That I can
believe. Here, let me help you.” Without thinking, I bend
forward to help her and immediately regret the action when a
shard of pain punches into my side. She hears me hiss and sees
the way I shoot back into my seat.
“Macon, when are you going to admit you’re in pain?” She
rises to help.
A shudder runs down my back. The thought of her
touching me in pity turns my skin cold. “Don’t,” I snap. My
mind yells that I’m making things worse, but my mouth can’t
keep closed. “Don’t touch me.”
 She halts, her hand still stretched toward me. She has slim
fingers, short-trimmed nails with numerous scars and calluses
marring her skin. Chef’s hands. Her capable, abused fingers
curl into a fist. “Don’t touch you?” she repeats dully, but the
hurt and outrage is still there. “Seriously?”
Heat swarms around my neck. I don’t know how to explain
to her why I cannot have her touching me right now. “I don’t
need help.”
For a second, she stares. Shame washes over me. I haven’t
felt that particular emotion in so long I’m choking on it.
This is what she does; she exposes me—lays bare all the
parts I want to hide, need to hide.
Hot in the face, I try to back up. My wheels run over the
fallen tray with a crunch. “Shit.”
“Here, let me—” She reaches up, but I back away.
And hit the corner of the desk with my bad side. “Shit!”
Delilah stands and attempts to help. “You’re going the
wrong way.”
“I’m not . . .”
Suddenly we’re stuck in this farce of a dance, me smashing
at the controls of my chair and whacking into everything,
Delilah hopping around so she won’t get her toes crushed
while yelling at me to let her help.
“I’ve got it,” I snap. “If you’d just back off.”
Her cheeks flush dark red. “You’re zooming around like an
angry bee! Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to—” The lamp falls off the desk with a
crash. “God damn it,” I finally shout. “Leave it be, Delilah!”
The force behind my order lashes out with the efficiency of
a whip, and Delilah flinches. It’s enough to make us both
pause. Breath coming out in hard pants, I stare at her for one
awful second. Her eyes are round, lips parted with her agitated
breathing. Then a glint, a rage I’m familiar with but haven’t
seen in ten years, forms.
 “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” she cries, her
arms akimbo.
She stands over me like a teacher ready to give a lecture.
The band around my chest won’t abate. “Nothing a good dose
of privacy wouldn’t fix.”
Delilah snorts long and loud. “That’s not what you need a
dose of. For crying out loud, Macon. You hire me in part to
help you while you’re convalescing, but the second I try to
offer a hand, you have a temper tantrum.”
Temper tantrum? My back teeth click together.
“I didn’t hire you. You came to me.” My thumb hits my
chest for emphasis. “And part of that bargain was that you
obeyed my orders without question.”
I can see her struggling to keep her cool. She takes a deep
breath, her breasts lifting high. I don’t want to notice. I don’t
want her here.
“Look,” she starts. “I was simply trying to help you get out
from under the desk.”
Everything feels too tight now: my skin, my flesh, my
insides. I am exposed. “I said I didn’t need your help.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“Get out.”
She simply raises her brow, crossing her arms under those
ample tits.
Undirected rage, helplessness, and frustration rise up. The
ugly hot mix surges through my body, and without thought or
care, I set it free. “Get out! Get out!”
My shout rings in my ears, crashes over the room. It’s so
loud, so aggressive, Delilah actually jumps. Her pretty face
turns pale, and without another word, she flees.
I watch her go, horrified by my actions. I’ve never lost my
temper like this. And for something so petty and baseless. She
was trying to help. I tried to take her head off.
 Unbidden, the image of my father standing over a much
smaller version of myself with his fist raised flashes into my
head. He had loved using his size and strength to intimidate
those weaker and smaller than he was.
My stomach lurches, the room tilting sickly. “Fuck.”
Crunching over debris, I roll out of the room and into the
hall. “Delilah?”
But even as I call out, I catch sight of her car through the
upper windows as she drives away.

Delilah
I won’t cry. I will not cry. Nope. Not going to happen.
My lids prickle, and I snarl a ripe curse. My car bumps
over the driveway as I speed along, my hands gripping the
wheel hard enough to make my fingers throb. Macon’s shout
still rings in my ears.
That asshole. Bullying, mean . . . jerk.
We’ve always bickered, but he’s never screamed at me like
that. The force of his rage had been palpable. It shook me to
the core.
Nothing is worth this crap. I had a life. A good one. I
didn’t put it on hold to be verbally abused.
My vision blurs, and I take a breath, trying to steady
myself. I’m on the road, heading toward the highway. Away
from here. Away from him.
“Shit.” I left everything behind.
With him.
“Doesn’t matter.” I’m not going back. I’ll have it shipped.
Hell, he can throw it all out. I don’t care. I was insane for
offering myself up like this anyway. I’ll take Mama on a nice
long vacation. If she’s not here to learn about Sam, then she’ll
never know.
My phone rings, buzzing away on the seat beside me. A
quick glance, and my stomach bottoms out. It’s him. The
asshole.
I ignore it for three ring cycles. Part of me wants to throw
the phone out the window. But I’m not a coward. I might have
needed to . . . regroup. But I’m not scared of Macon Asshat
Saint.
I answer with the built-in car speaker. “What?”
His voice comes at me from all directions, very deep yet
very soft. “I’m sorry.”
I drive for a couple of shocked beats because an apology
without preamble is the last thing I’d been expecting.
“Delilah?”
I clear my throat. “What?” I ask with slightly less acerbity.
His sigh is a whisper of sound in the small confines of the
car. “I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
“True,” I concede, driving along. The Pacific glints with
orange sparkles as the sun races toward the horizon. Only then
do I realize it’s on my left side, which means I’m heading
north to God knows where. I pull into the parking lot of a
seaside taco stand, too distracted to drive safely, just as Macon
starts talking again.
“I don’t know what came over me. I wasn’t myself. I’ve
never . . . never shouted at someone like that.”
“Figures you’d choose to start with me.”
He makes a sound of self-derision. “It was inexcusable. I
don’t know what to say to make up for it.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him nothing can atone
for his behavior. But then I think about how he’d been in pain,
embarrassed, frustrated, unable to free himself. I’d seen it play
out, clear as day in his eyes, the tightness of his expression and
the way he’d thrashed around like a wild animal caught in a
trap. And I’d blustered in, ignoring his requests for privacy,
convinced I could fix it. That he should behave and listen to
me.
I absolutely loathe being managed or babied. Why should
Macon feel any differently?
Cringing, I glance out the window and notice a second
restaurant boarded up and overlooking the northwest side of
the lot. It’s basically a dilapidated beach shack, but it has great
outdoor space with premium sea views. There was a time
when I’d dreamed of owning a place like this. A place I could
run and be inspired by. I’d willingly put my dreams on hold
for Macon. For Sam. For Mama.
“Delilah?” Macon’s hesitant query draws me back to the
present and him.
“Yeah?” I whisper before clearing my throat again.
He takes an audible breath. “It won’t happen again. I
swear.”
I snort at that, looking down at my scarred-up chef’s
hands. “You won’t lose your temper? Macon, you might as
well say you’re going to stop breathing and still live.”
He laughs at that, but it sounds tired and weak. “Okay, I
deserve that. You’re right; I can’t promise I won’t argue with
you.”
I roll my eyes, but he can’t see it. Even so, I have the weird
feeling he knows perfectly well what I’m doing. Maybe it’s
because I can all but picture his face, not smiling, but the
corners of his eyes crinkled in wry humor, his expressive
mouth forced into a hard line. He’d have that expression
whenever we’d call a stalemate—because we’d never been
able to concede to a truce.
“I won’t lose my temper in that way again,” he says. “I
promise.”
Doesn’t every man start by saying that? I shouldn’t even
be talking to him. But somehow I am, because I know I, too,
would have screamed at him if the tables had been turned.
Somewhere inside me, I felt safe enough to take his call. My
fingers drum on the steering wheel. For once, he’s utterly
silent, letting me take my time replying. Macon can be as
patient as the day is long if he is after something he wants.
I glance at the old restaurant. Sometimes dreams shift and
change. Such is life. I can drive off, leave this place, chase a
new dream, leave him.
“Come back,” he says as if hearing my inward yearnings.
“I’ll let you wing another tomato at me.”
My lips twitch. “It isn’t as fun if you aren’t trying to get
away.”
Come back. Why do I want to? What is it about him that
has me feeling more present than I have in years? He makes
me perversely excited. Makes me want to forget about
daydreams and live in the right now. Damn it, I want to return.
I must be sick. Twisted. A masochist.
With a sigh, I turn away from the view and put my car into
drive. “You do it again, and I’m gone. Our deal is considered
fulfilled.”
“All right.”
“Fine.” I glance at the phone as though I’ll somehow find
him sitting there instead. “But I’m off for tonight. I don’t want
to see you. Or hear from you.”
Wry humor colors his voice. “Fair enough.” He pauses.
“You’ll see and hear from me tomorrow, then, Tot.”
He hangs up before I can reply. Bastard. Always getting in
the last word.
God, I truly am twisted. I should dread going back and
facing him. Instead, I find myself driving a little faster.
I never could resist a challenge.
 CHAPTER NINE
Macon
I hang up on Delilah before I do something ridiculous like
try to chat with her as she drives back home. She’s made it
clear I need to go away and leave her be. I’m more than
willing to do so; it’s not as though I want to face her right now.
I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye.
With a grunt, I maneuver my ass off the wheelchair and
attempt to lower myself to the floor. It all goes wrong, and I
land hard on my hip. Pain sparks and shoots like fireworks.
Something seeps into the back of my pants. Great. I’m on my
dinner.
North walks in as I’m reaching around me to pick up
shards of a plate.
“Well, this is a sight.”
I don’t bother glancing up. “You need something?”
“No. But it looks like you do.” He crouches next to me and
starts putting some of the mess on the dented tray. I bite back
the request for him to go. He’s almost as stubborn as Delilah,
and the fight has gone out of me.
“What the hell was all that?” he asks.
Wincing, I lift my thumb to my mouth and find a sliver of
glass stuck in my skin. “Guess you heard.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they heard it in Orange
County.” North pushes my chair back and slings an arm under
my shoulders. No asking with him. Just action. And though it
chafes to get help from anyone, I’m no longer in the position
to bitch about it.
He gets me in the chair. “Shower time.”
“Fucking hell.” Yeah, I’m not being mature about this. But
I’m not having a good time adjusting to the fact that I cannot
get my ass in the shower without assistance. My balance is off.
With busted ribs and wrist on one side and a busted leg on the
other, I can’t get into a steady position without massive pain
right now.
North has been helping. I should hire a professional nurse,
but my level of trust is near zero, and though I don’t like the
situation, North has a matter-of-fact, deadpan way of dealing
with me that makes it bearable.
Pride is a strange beast. We tend to think of it as doing
things for ourselves, not leaning on others. Was it my pride or
my ego that made me run Delilah off when she tried to help?
An itchy, tight twist in my gut makes me think that maybe true
pride is more about being able to accept a situation for what it
is with grace.
Whatever the case, my respect for those who have had to
readjust their way of life and work it out with dignity and
grace has increased tenfold.
I’m getting dressed again when Delilah slams her way
through the house and shuts herself in for the night. The
woman does not walk on light feet. Despite my low mood a
smile threatens. She moves through a space like a storm,
crashing about and leaving a mess in her wake. Always has.
When we were teens, the bold way she occupied the world
around her fascinated me. For all appearances, she was a shy
girl, not liking the spotlight turned on her. The clothes she
chose, the way she wore her hair, all of it was designed to
blend into a crowd. Logically, she should have crept through
life as well. But no. Some part of her might have wanted to
hide, but Delilah’s true nature was to shine bright.
For someone who drew the eye without effort yet secretly
hated the attention, I realized even then that she was my true
opposite. And that we were both somewhat twisted.
I killed the vital light in her pretty face tonight. Shouted
like a tyrant.
“I’m such an asshole.”
North, who had returned with his impeccable timing, raises
a brow. “You think? Seriously, Saint, what was that? You
practically took her head off.”
Grunting, I settle onto the couch set up in my bedroom’s
sitting area. “I don’t know. I’m off lately.” I pinch the tense
spot between my brows. “Even before Delilah showed.”
“You need to tell her about the accident.”
Accident. I suppose it was. A sick, oily sensation slides
down my throat. I swallow it away. “I will.”
North gives me a long look before tilting his head to the
side. A small crack rings out as he works through a neck kink.
I’m in a shit mood; he’s tense as fuck.
“What’s with you?”
He stops fidgeting. “Martin is here.”
“What, now?” I ask more out of irritation than anything.
Of course he shows at this hour.
“I told him you might not have time for him, but he
insisted on waiting.”
“Where’d you leave him?” I ask, not exactly liking the
idea of Martin having free rein in my house. I doubt he’d do
anything so crass as to snoop. But he’s too observant by far.
“He’s in the den.” Judging by North’s tone, it’s clear he
knows exactly why I asked.
The den is fairly cut off from the rest of the house. Which
also means if Delilah has an itch to leave her room and visit
the kitchen, she won’t encounter us. I’ve never hidden that
I’ve searched for Sam. But the topic of Delilah’s sister has a
bad effect on all of us. I have no desire to rub salt in tonight’s
open wounds.
I find Martin comfortably lounging in my favorite leather
chair by the dead fireplace, glass of Pappy Van Winkle in his
hand. Martin is a prime example of a life lived hard and fast.
Lines already fan out from the corners of his eyes and bracket
his thin mouth. His brown eyes are always hard, even when
he’s amused.
 It wasn’t until I moved to LA that I noticed the small
details of people’s looks. But it’s part of the culture here. You
quickly learn to assess a person’s wealth, health, and position
of status with a glance.
I offer North a drink, but he shakes his head, then leans a
shoulder against the closed door.
I pour myself a glass and sit opposite Martin. My fingers
curl around the cool, sharp edges of the cut-crystal glass. “You
find her?” No use mucking around with polite chitchat with
Martin. Besides, I already know the answer. If he had, she’d be
here.
“The girl is a ghost.” He frowns, and there’s a flash of
irritation in his eyes; then it’s gone. “I’d be impressed if it
wasn’t my job to find her.”
North looks off, barely holding in a grunt. Talk of Sam
puts him in a shit mood as well. Jesus, is there anyone who
isn’t adversely affected by my ex-partner in misery?
I should be disappointed Sam is still missing. I don’t want
to think about why I’m not. “Don’t take it too hard. She’s had
a lifetime to perfect her act.”
He makes a disgruntled sound and finishes up his drink in
one quick gulp. “So have I.”
“Leave it be for now.”
The request punches into the room with the force of a
bomb, and both men gape at me. Hell. I’m shocked as well. It
wasn’t what I’d planned to say. But now that I have, I lift my
chin and stare back. “We have more important things to focus
on now.”
I swear North mutters, “Like Delilah?” But he gives me a
blank look when my head whips around, and I glare. But I
can’t form the denial. Shaking off my disquiet, I set my glass,
still half-full, aside. “I’d rather hear about the other matter.”
I need to know my household is safe.
Martin sits forward, resting his wrists on his thighs.
“Michelle Fredericks. A real estate agent from Pasadena. I’m
thinking that’s how she found your address.”
The collar of my shirt hugs too tight around my neck. I
swear the damn thing shrunk in the wash. “And you’re sure
she’s the one who was with Brown?”
Lisa Brown, my stalker. I can’t say the woman’s name
without feeling slightly ill. I don’t care if she’s troubled. I just
want her far away from me. She was arrested for reckless
endangerment and stalking but is out on bail. They slapped her
with a restraining order, but it’s only a piece of paper, not a
guarantee. And Brown wasn’t alone the night my car went off
the road.
I can tell myself as much as I like that my shitty behavior
tonight was all about pride. In some ways it’s easier than
admitting the fear that lingers, the nightmares. Long ago, I told
myself I’d never be afraid of anything again. Too bad
emotions don’t listen to orders.
Martin hands me his phone. There’s a picture queued. It’s a
headshot, cheaply done and cheesy, the kind you see on real
estate signs. A fairly attractive woman in her mid- to late
thirties with dark-brown hair smiles back at me.
“Is it her?” North asks.
I stare at the picture, my fingers shaking before I can
control them. “I don’t know.” I remember the scent of strong,
cheap flowery perfume. One of the women had been brunette.
“It was a blur.” Blood and rain tend to do that.
“She’s friends with Brown,” Martin puts in. “They both
belong to a Facebook fan group. Saint’s Willing Sinners.”
North makes a gurgling noise at the back of his throat, and
I know he’s holding in a laugh. I flip him off with a glare, but
there’s no heat behind the action. I’d laugh, too, if it wasn’t for
the memory of being hunted, being treated like a thing while
trapped in that crumpled wreckage.
Martin pins me with a look. “And she was here the other
night.”
Ice runs through my chest. I shove the fear back. “What?”
It isn’t a question. More like the beginning of a threat.
 North shoves away from the door. “The cameras didn’t
pick up a thing.”
“Easy,” Martin says, bland as dry toast. “She didn’t come
close enough to the house. Just sat in her car two gates down
the road. My guys were watching her.”
It’s that knowledge that lets me sleep at night. And it’s that
knowledge that also makes my skin feel too tight. All my
hard-earned freedom has once again been whittled down to
tightly controlled monitoring. The restrictiveness of it yanks at
my neck like a choke collar, and for an airless second, I’m
back under my father’s watch.
No. This time I’m the one in control.
“We need to report this,” North says. “Have them arrest
her.”
Martin shakes his head. “She hasn’t done enough to
warrant any charges. None that we can prove at the moment,
anyway.”
“But if she was there . . .”
“He’s right.” Sighing, I reach for my drink. “We don’t
have any proof.”
“At the very least, we can report her as a person of
interest,” North pushes.
“Already did that.” Martin pockets his phone. “They’re
going to question her. In the meantime, we keep vigilant. I
haven’t seen Brown around, but that doesn’t mean she lost
interest.”
“Fucking great,” I mutter under my breath.
North lets Martin out, and I head back to my room. It’s
early. If this had been a month ago, I’d be at an exclusive bar,
surrounded by people I barely know, letting their chatter lull
me into a mindless calm. I’d feed off the energy of everyone
and everything, all the while remaining apart from it. Not a
perfect life, but adequate. Enough to stop me from thinking
about things best left in the past.
 Now, all I want to do is take a painkiller and crawl into
bed. I slow down as I near Delilah’s door. The house is so
quiet I can easily hear the television playing. She’s watching
About a Boy.
A memory hits me, as bright and painful as a spotlight.
We were on the big brown sectional couch in her family
room, watching this very movie. Delilah was fourteen, chubby
cheeked and wearing a thick braid that ran like a dark snake
over her hunched shoulders. She was curled up on one end of
the couch, while Sam and I were tucked into the other.
As usual, Sam leaned on me until I lost feeling in my
shoulder and tried to nudge her off. She found her way back,
digging her bony elbow into spots she knew annoyed the hell
out of me.
Hugh Grant tossed out a quip that made me laugh. Delilah
laughed too. It hit me that we kept laughing at the same times.
She must have realized the same because she turned my way,
and our gazes clashed. We always tried our utmost not to look
at each other, so it was a visceral punch whenever we failed.
The inevitable reaction of heat, tightness, frustration, and a
twisting sense of wrongness ran through my system. And
inevitably, I covered it up by opening my big mouth. “Got a
crush on old Hugh?”
Hugh Grant played Will in the movie. Cool rich guy who
cared for nothing but getting laid and having fun.
She pursed her lips, giving me that withering look of hers,
the one that I’d been found lacking. “Well, he’s witty.
Intelligence is definitely a plus.”
“And rich. Don’t forget that.”
“Being wealthy is part of what makes him a useless
asshole.”
Sam, who’d been picking at her nail polish, piped up.
“He’s old, but he’s still hot. I’d date him.”
Delilah’s snort spoke volumes.
 “Delilah is more of a Marcus lover,” I said, daring her to
look back my way. Marcus was the oddball of the story.
Awkward, alone, abused by his classmates, and terrified of
losing his mother, the one person who he felt truly loved him.
Surprisingly, she smiled, a sad, sort of secretive gesture,
and rested her chin on her knees, all but wrapping herself into
a tight ball on the couch. “You’re right. If there’s anyone to
love in this movie, it’s him.”
She cast me as the hapless Will type and her as a Marcus.
Part of me was dying to tell her that out of everyone in the
movie, I identified the most with Marcus too.
I don’t remember what I actually said. Probably something
obnoxious. The memory fades, leaving me alone in the hall,
listening to the muted sound of Delilah’s laughter drifting
through the silence.
I want to knock on her door, ask her to let me in so badly
my hands shake. But I move away instead. We both made
promises. Like them or not, I intend to keep mine.
 CHAPTER TEN
Delilah
“So this is where you find all those delicious fruits.”
Macon ambles along the stalls of the outdoor farmers’ market
I’ve taken him to, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a
faded-green baseball hat.
“Among other places.” This is one of my favorite markets,
as it’s tucked in a valley and shaded by towering eucalyptus
trees. “The sellers here always offer the best produce.”
Earlier, we went to the doctor’s office to have his
temporary cast removed and replaced with a soft cast and
walking boot. Macon made an offhand complaint about being
cooped up for too long, so I told him to come shopping with
me. For all his whining, he wasn’t keen on going out in public.
Which had me asking if he was a chicken or simply another
lazy, pampered star.
At those fighting words, his nostrils flared. “Fine. But
we’re taking North with us.”
“Right.” I cringed, feeling like a heel for teasing him.
“Security. I just assumed since we’re going somewhere
unplanned . . .”
“Things can get out of hand when you least expect it,” he
said tightly.
“I’m sorry I called you chicken.”
“But not that you called me lazy?”
“Asks the man who needs his smoothie brought up to
him.”
A brief gleam of acknowledgment lit his eyes before
fading. “I know it sucks, Delilah. But this is your life now.”
My life. Inexorably tied up with his.
All in all, our tentative truce is going as expected. Which is
to say, we still find ways to squabble like chickens going after
the last piece of grain.
Now, however, he’s like a puppy finally let out of his pen.
“It smells so fresh here. Where do you want to go first?”
He has a cane—mahogany with an amber top—that he loves
because it looks like the one from Jurassic Park. I told him
that if he wants to channel his inner John Hammond, he really
should be wearing a white suit as well. Unfortunately, he
didn’t go for it.
“It’s your first time here.” I put on sunglasses so I can see
without squinting. “Have at it.”
Smiling wide and joyfully, he takes another survey of the
place, then heads for a stall selling fruit and inspects a mango.
North keeps an unobtrusive distance away. They warned me
that when we went out on the fly like this, North wouldn’t be
our friend. He’d be working, constantly scanning for trouble.
“Can I have a sample?” Macon asks the guy manning the
stall, a young hipster with a full beard and a tattoo that says
“Grow It Green” along his inner forearm.
“Have one on the house, Arasmus.”
Upon hearing the name of his character, Macon does a
double take as if he’s gauging how intense this potential fan
might be. Then his easy good-ole-boy smile is in place. “Kind
of you.”
That smile used to grate on me like nails ambling down a
chalkboard. But there is no denying its efficacy. When Macon
smiles like that, people react.
“Thanks . . . ?” Macon trails off in question.
“Jed,” the seller replies as he takes a mango and begins to
prep it, slicing the fruit along each side of the pit and then
scoring a crosshatch along each half.
“Jed, I’ll share it with my girl here.” Macon grasps my
elbow and gently tugs me to his side.
His girl? I cut him a glance, but he’s not looking my way
—I can only assume it’s intentional.
 Jed gives me a quick smile of acknowledgment, but his
attention is purely on Macon. “Man, that scene where you
chopped off Thieron’s head with one swing of your sword,
then gave that war cry and tore his army apart . . . fucking
beautiful. You gonna finally marry Princess Nalla?”
“Could be,” Macon says as if he too is speculating. Then
he winks. “Or maybe not. You’ll have to watch.”
Jed beams like it’s his birthday. “Knew you wouldn’t give
up the goods.”
“Where would be the fun in that?” Macon says in good
cheer.
Jed asks for a picture with Macon, and I dutifully use his
phone to take a couple of shots of them holding up mangos.
Then we’re on our way, each of us armed with luscious ripe
sections of mango.
“Well, you charmed the hell out of that guy. I’m fairly
certain he’ll be singing your praises for the next year, at least.”
Macon huffs out a laugh. “Charm? More like bullshit. I’m
the king of bullshit.” He says this without a hint of pride or
self-pity, so detached he might as well be talking about
someone other than himself.
“You always were,” I murmur, but without any rancor.
Macon’s coffee-dark eyes are thoughtful. “You’re the only
one who ever figured that out.”
“I’m teasing, Macon.”
He shakes his head, faintly smiling. “No, you aren’t. I am
the bullshit artist, and you’re the one without verbal impulse
control.”
I stop short. “Verbal impulse control?”
“Don’t pretend it isn’t true. You blurt out what you’re
feeling all the time. It was one of the easiest ways I could get
to you.”
“Oh, really?”
 “Yep. All I had to do was push one of your buttons, and I
knew you’d give me so much more when you blew.”
“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders and gives me a
good-natured squeeze. “Aw, come on, Tot. You’re smart as a
tack. You knew what I was doing.”
Admittedly, I did. I just hadn’t known he knew how easily
he played me. I should have, though. Macon is likely one of
the smartest people I’ve met. Strange thing is, I don’t think
he’d say that of himself so easily.
“Well, shit,” I mutter.
Macon laughs, his head tilting back with the force of it. A
couple walking past glance at him, then do a double take.
Macon’s stubble has graduated to a beard, and the hat he wears
is low on his brow. But there are those who recognize him
anyway.
“Why weren’t we always like this?” he asks, studying my
face with genuine curiosity. “Why weren’t we trying to make
each other laugh?”
“Because we were too busy trying to kill each other.”
“Time wasted on your part. Clearly, I’m indestructible.”
He seems pleased with the idea.
The sun is shining, and the air holds a hint of the sea. He
still has his arm around my shoulders, his torso pressed against
mine. It feels good, this half embrace. Too good. It creates the
unwanted illusion that I could rest against him, and he’d hold
me up for as long as I needed it. I can’t understand this feeling.
By all accounts, a half hug from Macon should put me on full
alarm. In truth, I don’t think we’ve ever willingly touched.
I try to think back to a time when we had any prolonged
physical contact as kids and draw a blank. Rattled, I step away
from the warmth of his arm. He lets me go easily as if this
isn’t a momentous occasion, and instantly I feel foolish.
Of course it isn’t a big deal. People tease and hug each
other all the time without any weird ulterior motives. Inwardly,
I shake my head at myself and move on.
We stop under the shade of a eucalyptus tree. Macon takes
a bite of mango, licking his lip when juice threatens to roll
down to his chin. I’m momentarily distracted by the sight.
“Have you watched Dark Castle yet?” he asks, oblivious
to my rapt attention on his mouth.
“Ah . . . not as of yet.”
“Not as of yet?” Wry amusement laces his voice. “Is it the
sex scenes I’m in or just my nudity in general you’re avoiding,
Grandma?”
My eyes narrow in a warning that does nothing but make
the corners of his eyes crinkle with sly humor.
“Neither.” It’s both, actually. “I just haven’t had time to
trudge through two seasons’ worth of beheadings,
disembowelings, and brothel visits.”
I’m clearly not fooling him a bit. “How about I have the
studio send over a highlight reel instead?”
“It’s almost as though you want me to see your bare ass.”
“More like I want to see your reaction to my bare ass,” he
says with a quick wink.
I huff out a breath. “Juvenile.”
“With you? Guilty.”
We share a quick grin, but his fades.
“It’s why I went into acting, you know.”
I’m about to unwrap my mango half but stop at his words.
“You want to explain that non sequitur?”
“The bullshitting. I spent my entire life pretending to be
someone else; I thought, why not try it professionally?”
“Pretending?” I repeat stupidly.
Color floods the crests of his cheeks, and he clears his
throat. “I was never fully myself with anyone.”
 My voice comes out as a whisper of sound. “Why couldn’t
you be yourself?”
“I didn’t know how,” he says back, just as low. “No one in
my house ever did.”
Macon shifts his weight onto his bad leg, winces, then
leans back on his good leg. He clutches the smooth egg-shaped
amber knob at the top of his cane hard enough to turn his
knuckles white. “That’s why I loved going to your house. For
better or worse, you all were entirely yourselves. It was
beautiful and strange to me, as if I was watching a beloved
play, but the actors were speaking in a foreign language.”
For a moment, I can’t move. The crowds of people drift by,
and I simply stare at Macon and wonder if I’ve ever really
seen him. I’d recognize his face anywhere. I used to see it in
my nightmares. Though older, his features haven’t changed:
the same sculpted cheeks, square jaw, and bold, high-bridged
nose. The same well-shaped lips that manage to appear both
uncompromising and wonderfully soft. He still has a freckle at
the corner of his right eye. On a woman it would be called a
beauty mark. And yet this Macon is something entirely
different—willingly showing me pieces of himself that aren’t
perfect.
I want to ask him why his family weren’t themselves, why
he felt the need to play a part. But it’s clear that regret for
speaking too freely is creeping up on him, his gaze darting
around as though he’d rather look at anything but me.
Whether he wanted to or not, Macon gave up a private
piece of himself. One that I doubt anyone has ever seen. I feel
. . . humbled.
“Oh, my family were ourselves all right,” I say with a light
shrug as if the air between us hasn’t become too heavy with
old ghosts. “To the point of oversharing. Don’t tell me Sam
never mentioned ‘Family Grievance Night.’”
A protracted, shocked laugh escapes him. “No. What?” He
grins, easier now. “Do tell, Ms. Baker.”
 Ordinarily, I’d take the horrors of Family Grievance Night
with me to the grave. But he shared with me. I can do the same
for him.
“Whenever we started bickering too much for Mama to
take, she’d sit us all down as a family, and we had to ‘air our
grievances.’”
Macon is clearly a hair’s breadth from cracking up. His
eyes are glossy with restraint. “You mean like Festivus?”
I cringe, remembering too well. “But without the pole.”
A snort rings out, and he runs his hand over his mouth.
“I’m pretty sure Mama got the idea from Seinfeld.
Whatever the case, it never went well.”
“You don’t say.”
“Inevitably we’d end up squabbling so badly that—”
“You engaged in the Feats of Strength?” He waggles his
brows, biting his lower lip in an ill-concealed attempt to hold
back a full grin.
“Might as well have,” I admit ruefully. “Mama would
threaten to turn the hose on us and lament about where she
went wrong.” If I close my eyes, I can picture it now: Mama
with her hands on her hips, a frazzled look about her. “I once
made the mistake of answering that ending Family Grievance
Night would be a good start in fixing the error.”
He laughs freely. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry I didn’t know this
then. I would have found a way to attend.”
“I would have been scarred for life if you had.” I shake my
head. “I can’t believe Sam never told you.”
“Why would Sam tell me about it?”
I stop short, my gaze searching his face to see if he’s
serious. He appears genuinely confused.
“It was a nightmare for both of us. You and Sam were in
each other’s pockets all through childhood. I assumed she told
you everything.”
 The tendon along his neck stands out as he looks away, his
brows drawn tight. “Sam did most of the talking, and I’d
pretend to listen. But it was never about anything personal.
She’d complain about her hair or if someone was being a shit
to her, and I’d nod along. Truth is, I found her boring as all
hell.”
My mouth falls open. “But you . . . she . . . God, Macon.
You were with her on and off for years. Why would you do
that to yourself if you thought she was boring? Why would
you do that to her?”
His lips curl in a parody of a smile. “You don’t get it,
Delilah. The feeling was entirely mutual.”
“How do you know?” I challenge.
“Easy. She told me.”
“Bullshit.” Sam had thought Macon was the bomb. She
loved him for a time.
He scratches his chin. “Let’s see; if I recall, she said, ‘I
don’t particularly like you, Macon Saint, but aside from me,
you’re the best-looking person in this school, so we really
should be together.’”
I wince. That sounds exactly like something Sam would
say. “And you agreed?”
His nose wrinkles as if he smells something off. “No, I
couldn’t have cared less what people thought of me. But if I
was with her, other girls wouldn’t bother to approach me.”
Everything in me goes still, and I feel the bottom drop out
of my stomach as understanding finally hits. “You’re gay.”
“What? No.” His brows wing upward. “Why the hell
would you think that?”
I lift my hands in confusion. “You’re describing Sam as a
beard, Macon. You went out with her to keep girls at bay.”
The crests of his cheeks flush again. “Oh, for the love of
. . . I did not keep Sam around because I secretly liked guys.
Sam was safe, Delilah. She didn’t ask questions, and she
didn’t really want to get to know me. I was a loner stuck in the
role of town charmer. Sam suited my purposes because she
played the part of devoted girlfriend and kept people from
getting too close. That’s all.”
I really don’t want to examine the purely selfish reasons
that I find myself relieved to know he’s not gay. But his
confession depresses me. “Life isn’t a play,” I find myself
saying. “You don’t act out roles in real life.”
“Just because you’re an open book doesn’t mean everyone
is.” His brows lower as he leans closer to me. “Most of us
pretend to be something we’re not. It’s only to a select few that
we really show our true selves.”
“I’m not an open book.”
“More like newsprint.” He gives me a level look. “I can
read you like a headline, Delilah.”
I huff out a breath. “Okay, I’m fairly open, but I do get it.
Everyone has a public self and a private self. I’m only saying
that it’s kind of sad, you and Sam sticking together for those
reasons.”
“Why do you think I found you so annoying?” Macon
quips. “Because you damn well knew we were fakers.”
I smile, showing teeth. “I thought you two were plastic.
Not faking a relationship.”
“Brat,” he says, amused.
Thing is, I’m amused too. It’s easier now, hashing things
out with Macon. Which is a surprise. People grow up; I know
that. But usually you’re there for the growth, the steady
change of character. Seeing is believing. I hadn’t been around
Macon for a decade. I hadn’t seen the change from boy to
man. And though he might look and act more mature, my
instincts react as if no time has passed. My first impulse is to
think the worst of him. Only slowly but surely, he’s making
me reassess that.
Rolling my eyes, I unwrap my mango and take a bite. It’s
richly sweet and perfectly ripe. Like Macon, I find myself
scrambling to wipe away the juice that runs free.
 He watches beneath lowered lids. “Missed a spot.” The
blunt tip of his thumb brushes the lower edge of my lip, just at
the corner—a place I never thought to be particularly
sensitive. Yet that small touch sends thick chords of
shuddering pleasure through my body.
That damn spot fairly hums now, a little tickle, and it’s all I
can do not to lick it. Macon stares at my lips like he knows I
still feel his touch. When did he get so close? The scent of his
skin and the heat of his body carry on the breeze, moving over
me like warm cotton.
I want to lean into that warmth, soak him up. Something
catches my eye. North stands a few trees away. I’d forgotten
he was here. He isn’t watching us—but scanning the perimeter
—and is far enough not to overhear. But the sight is enough to
snap me out of the haze I’d been pulled into.
I swallow down my bite of fruit. “Don’t flirt, Macon. It
won’t make me more biddable.”
The intensity of his gaze plucks at my skin, but his
expression remains neutral. I want to squirm. I’m vastly aware
of how well he can read me and wonder what my expression
gives away.
But then he simply smiles, all easy and relaxed. “Damn,
you caught me out.”
I eye him warily because he relented a bit too easily. “Mm-
hmm . . .”
He nods in agreement. “It was stupid, thinking you’d fall
for that.” His voice lowers as he takes a small step forward.
“You’re completely immune. Always were.”
My voice doesn’t appear to be working properly. “Right.”
Macon rests a hand on the tree trunk, his big body angling
toward me. I press my back to the tree, all too aware that his
inner arm almost touches my cheek. God, he has pretty eyes. I
have issues.
A smile plays about his mouth as his gaze lowers to my
mouth. His voice pours over me like hot syrup. “Doesn’t
matter what I say, does it? I could tell you that watching you
suck on that juicy bit of mango was one of the erotic
highlights of my life. That I want to lick the pink, pouty curve
of your lower lip to see if it’s sticky sweet.”
Gently, he touches the swell of my lip, and I feel it deep
within my sex.
“Such a pouty fucking mouth,” he whispers. “Always
frowning at me with that plump lower lip.”
I. Cannot. Breathe. I am flush with fever-bright heat.
And it is all Macon’s fault.
Macon, who watches as my breasts rise and fall with
increasing agitation. Macon, who makes a pained grumble
deep within his throat.
The tips of my breasts graze his chest with each breath I
draw. His own breath hitches, and I make my move, leaning
just close enough so that my mouth is by his ear. He doesn’t
move an inch, but I see the tremor run through his shoulders.
I find myself smiling, though I’m too hot, too weak kneed
to be truly amused. “Macon?”
He makes a sound that is the approximation of “Yes.”
I allow myself one nuzzle, the briefest brush of my nose
against the curve of his ear—loving the way he tries to
suppress a shiver—and then I make my voice hard and firm.
“Bugger off.”
Macon rears back as though goosed, his brows raised high
in surprise. His gaze clashes with mine, and then he’s laughing
—a wry, self-deprecating sound that’s just a bit too forced.
“For a second, I thought I had you.”
“Not a chance,” I say, making my own show of laughing
the moment off.
But when we resume shopping, walking close enough that
our arms occasionally brush, I wonder who is the bigger
bullshitter here.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
Delilah
The next day, when North pulls around with the car,
Macon tells him we’re dining out for lunch. “We”—not him. I
don’t want to be a “we.” I especially don’t want to have lunch
with his agent. If the one-sided phone conversation I’d
overheard is anything to go by, the woman is already dead set
against me. Not my idea of a good time.
“No, I have menus to plan and a list of frivolous crap to
take care of.”
Macon gives me a deadpan look. “None of the tasks I ask
you to do are frivolous.”
“Oh, really? Sending some chick a batch of cardamom
cupcakes with lavender frosting made by a specific baker that
I have to drive all the way out to Laguna Beach to pick up,
because of course they don’t deliver, isn’t frivolous? Hell, I
can make those myself. I can even put happy birthday on them
in little gold letters like you wanted.” Frankly, I’m surprised
he hadn’t specified what font should be used.
“But they wouldn’t be from her favorite baker,” he tells
me, then makes a sound of exasperation. “She’s my makeup
artist. The woman I have to spend hours in the chair talking to.
She needs to know she’s appreciated.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to bribe people with
goodies, Con Man.”
“Everyone here does.”
“So being yourself isn’t enough?”
At that, he shoots me a slanted smile that doesn’t reach his
eyes. “Why, Ms. Delilah, are you saying that my personality is
capable of winning people over?”
“You could charm the skin off a snake if you wanted to,
and you know it.”
 His chuckle is smug, and I turn away to look out the
window so he doesn’t see my reluctant smile.
North takes us to Chateau Marmont, an old Hollywood
hotel that looks like a castle holding court over Sunset
Boulevard.
We’re whisked to a table on the terrace, nestled between
rustling palms and heavy red hibiscus flowers. I want to scoff
at the location because it’s definitely a place to see and be
seen, but it’s also lovely in that way of LA restaurants, a
secluded little fairyland of grace and beauty.
I order their take on a moscow mule and sit back with a
content sigh. Now that I’m far away from the doctor’s office
and soaking up the warm sun, I’m happy.
The drinks are arriving when a harassed-looking woman in
a dove-gray Dior day dress hurries over.
“I’m sorry I’m late, darling,” she says to Macon,
forestalling his attempt to rise by giving him a quick kiss on
the cheek. “Traffic on the 101 is a beast.”
It’s always a beast. But I suspect she knows this and is
more concerned about making a grand entrance. The woman is
tall and thin, her long dark-brown hair flowing in perfect
waves around her face. I know the effort it takes to have your
hair turn out that perfectly; either she puts aside a few hours to
get ready in the morning, or she has a standing reservation at a
salon.
Regardless, I’m impressed and a little envious. I’d resisted
washing my hair for as long as possible, but my own blowout
gave up the ghost with this morning’s shower, and I am not
nearly as adept with the flat iron as my stylist. Which means
my hair now floats too thick and fluffy around my head.
Karen takes a seat and plunks her elbows on the table with
a dramatic sigh. She’s older than Macon and me, maybe five
years, and there’s a hardness about her, as though the lines
bracketing her mouth were made by frowns instead of smiles.
“Well,” she says, eyeing Macon. “You’re looking much
better.”
 “Out of the wheelchair, at any rate,” he answers before
taking a sip of his iced tea.
“Thank God for that,” Karen says expansively. “The studio
wants you looking strong and healthy, or they’ll start worrying
you’ll be unfit to play the role.”
I frown at the idea that Macon has to hide the fact that he’s
been seriously injured. The man has months to heal, for pity’s
sake.
I don’t realize I’m swinging my crossed leg in agitation
until the tips of Macon’s fingers touch my knee. The contact is
firm and fleeting, but it’s enough to grab all my attention.
Abruptly, I halt and uncross my legs.
“Karen,” he says. “This is my new assistant and chef,
Delilah.”
It’s as if I’ve magically just appeared at the table and she’s
seeing me for the first time. Her blue eyes do a quick
inventory. “I see what you mean,” she says to Macon,
dismissing me with a turn of her shoulder.
My eyes narrow.
“Wherever did you find her?” Karen asks, oblivious.
“976-BABE,” I say with a smile.
The entire table seems to freeze, and they all gape at me.
But then North swallows down a snort. I stare at them in turn.
“Oh, come on. Pretty Woman? ‘Welcome to Hollywood!
What’s your dream?’”
“Yes, dear, I know the movie.” Karen gives me a pitying
look. “I simply didn’t connect the line with you.”
Heat prickles over my cheeks. I know what she sees and
what she doesn’t. Compared to the stars she works with, I am
fairly plain. I don’t stand out in a crowd. I don’t wear couture
or smile on command.
I know this, and yet that doesn’t give her the right to treat
me like dirt under her shoe. It’s taken me years to truly
understand that I don’t have to take other people’s crap lying
down.
 Wisely, Macon leans forward, partially blocking my sight
line with his big shoulder. Or maybe he just wants to create an
obstacle between my fist and his agent’s face.
“You had a script you wanted to show me?”
Karen brightens. “Oh my God, do I. This one is top secret,
so I really don’t want to say too much here.”
“North and Delilah will know whether you tell them or
not,” Macon says. “Because I will.”
Her nose wrinkles. “It involves a particular comic
franchise and a new superhero . . .” She trails off suggestively.
“Holy shit,” North murmurs, looking impressed.
If it’s the franchise I’m thinking of, I am too.
“Marvel,” Karen adds with a little wiggle in her seat. “Can
you believe it?”
Macon sits back and rubs the stubble on his chin. “No
shit.” Though his voice is subdued, I can see the excitement
he’s hiding. It’s there if you know where to look, in the slight
tremor of his hand that rests in his lap, in the way he holds
himself too still. Macon wants this.
How could he not? If his character becomes popular, he’ll
be able to write his own ticket. And while Macon clearly
doesn’t have to worry about money, the fact that he could
command a high salary would equate to power. In La La Land,
as my mother continues to call it, power means everything.
Karen nods slowly. “They’re impressed with your work on
Dark Castle and have asked for you specifically.”
Macon shifts in his seat. “Okay.” He glances at me, and
our gazes clash and hold. The restaurant seems to fade, and
there is only us, Macon looking at me as if to say, “Can you
believe this crazy shit?” Thing is, I can. There isn’t any limit
to what this man can accomplish; I’ve always known that
much.
“Okay,” he says again in affirmation, his eyes still locked
with mine, and then he turns, and the spell is broken.
 A small frown works its way along the sides of Karen’s
mouth as she looks at us, but it quickly smooths over, and she
puts all her focus on Macon.
After ordering lunch, he and Karen map out possible plans
to get him the role while North offers training routines he can
do with Macon to work around his injuries.
And I eat.
It’s not that the conversation isn’t interesting. I simply
have nothing to add. Occasionally Macon asks me to put a
date or note down in his calendar. I do but then notice that he
appears to have perfect recall of other dates and contract
points, and I wonder if he’s simply giving me busywork,
especially when Karen tells him that she’ll send over all the
information anyway.
I’m typing in one such date when Macon’s fork comes
drifting over to my plate and spears a piece of my black-truffle
arancini. “Hey. Get your own.”
He is unrepentant and steals another bite. “But it’s so
good.”
“Then you should have ordered it. Take another bite, and
I’m biting your hand.”
He goes in for a piece, and a fork duel ensues.
“Stop eating my food.”
“But yours is better.”
“I know. That’s why I ordered it.”
“Come on, Tot. Just one more bite.”
“No. Eat your damn salad. It’s good for you.”
“I hate salad. Fuck the salad.”
“You first, salad boy.”
We’re snickering now, our forks clanging as they thrust
and parry. A loud exasperated sigh cuts into our fun.
“You’re acting like children,” Karen says, wrinkling her
nose.
 Macon straightens, his brows drawing together. He looks
at his fork as if he’s never seen one, his thumb running along
the tines. The transformation of his expression is like a slow
unfurling, from confusion to irritation to bland remoteness. He
sets the fork down and is all business once more. “Delilah
brings out the worst in me.”
I want to snort but don’t. There’s something about his
manner that makes me feel as though he’s set me aside as
easily as he did the fork. When am I going to learn? I’m pissed
that I forgot how easily Macon can draw me in, only to drop
me off a cliff when I least expect it.
And I’m pissed at myself for feeling chastened by Karen,
of all people.
She gives me—not Macon—another reproachful look, then
turns to him. “You should listen to your assistant. She clearly
understands about fattening foods.”
Her tone is not kind. And I’m done being polite. Or quiet.
I turn to North, who is sprawled back in his chair, blue
eyes alight with undisguised anticipation. An ally I desperately
need. “Tell me something . . .”
“Anything, babe.”
I kind of love him just then. Because I know, I know, he’s
calling me babe to irritate Macon. It’s in his eyes and the way
his mouth twists to hold back laughter.
“Do agents in this town take Cliché Bitch 101 classes
around here?”
A muscle in his lower jaw twitches while Karen huffs out a
sound of annoyance.
“Pretty sure they offer a special discount at UCLA.”
We both grin.
“All right,” Macon cuts in. “That’s enough.”
I shoot him a look. Tell that to Ms. Sunset Boulevard.
And he returns one of his own. Behave.
 Make. Me.
His answering grin is crafty. “Later.”
“Later for what?” Karen demands in a snit.
“To perform my other services.” I dab the corner of my
mouth. Because fuck her.
Macon chokes on a sip of his water. North, however, just
laughs, a big booming sound.
“I like her,” he says to a glowering Macon.
“Well, I don’t,” Karen snaps before leaning into my space.
“Watch yourself. I could eat you for breakfast.” Her gaze
flicks over me. “Well . . . maybe for dinner.”
Rage surges up my body. “You can eat a bag of dic—”
Macon grabs hold of my wrist, gently tugging me back
down to my seat. “Apologize.” For a hot second, I think he’s
talking to me, but for once, his laser gaze is on Karen. “You’ve
been antagonizing Delilah since we got here. Which isn’t a
good move since she’s going to be around for the foreseeable
future.”
There is a tense silence in which Karen clearly
contemplates swallowing her tongue to avoid speaking. But
she does, eventually, spitting out the words between clenched
teeth. “I’m sorry if I implied you were anything other than a
light meal.”
Oh, the things I want to say to that. But it will only make
things worse. Still, the evil pixie on my shoulder goads me to
give the woman a tepid smile. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry
for implying you were a bitch.” I should have said it flat out.
A bare nod, and Karen is back to chatting with Macon,
going on about numbers and scripts she wants him to read.
We’re sitting outside in the sunlight, and yet it feels like
dark walls are closing in on me. I move to take a sip of my ice
water, but a warm weight on my wrist halts me. Macon is still
holding on to me, my clenched fist resting on the top of his
thigh. A jolt goes through me, and I tug my arm.
 He lets me go immediately, not even looking my way. But
I feel the ghost of his touch long afterward, like a phantom,
maniacally reminding me that this is my life now, tied to a
man who has been my enemy. We aren’t that now. The
problem is, I don’t know what we are or how I’m supposed to
survive living with him.
It stretches out before me like a long gloomy road. A road
I put myself on. Damn it. But I can’t think like that. Because
there is a small silver lining. According to the agreement, if
Sam returns at any point before the year is over, which she
will, then I get paid for the months I’ve worked—rent-free. I
am going to take that money, combine it with the money I’ve
saved, and start my life again. Start a restaurant. Something all
mine.
And yet I can’t shake the heavy feeling of defeat that rests
on my shoulders as North drives us back to the house. Maybe
Karen got to me more than I’m willing to admit.
Macon sits in the front with North, silent and staring out of
the window. North catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and
concern tightens the friendly laugh lines around his eyes.
Though North doesn’t say a word, somehow Macon senses the
direction of North’s gaze. His eyes narrow, and he shoots a
glance my way. Whatever conclusion he comes to has his
expression going dark. But he sits back in his seat and resumes
his brooding out the window. Which is fine by me; I have no
desire to talk.
Only I’m not given much of a reprieve. As soon as North
drops us at the front of the house and drives off to the garage,
Macon pulls me under the shade of a lemon tree. Those yellow
fruits, heavy with juice, dangle over his head like golden
raindrops as he starts in on me without pause. “Let’s get one
thing clear—”
“If this is about not being nice to Karen, I swear to God,
Macon, I will nut you where you stand and leave you for
dead.”
A protracted laugh escapes him. “I don’t care about Karen;
she was being a shit.” He ducks his head so that we’re eye to
eye, and there’s a glint in his. “And keep my nuts out of this.
They’re entirely innocent bystanders here.”
“They’re attached to you, so I call them fair game.”
His eyes crinkle briefly. “You never played fair, Tot.”
“Stand back, will you? Your hypocrisy is smothering.”
If anything, he moves closer. The scent of lemons mixes
with the buttery warmth of his skin. I catch a hint of the mint
iced tea he drank at lunch as the deep syrupy roll of his voice
touches my ear. “I don’t care what you do on your days off—”
“Wait, I actually have days off? Color me shocked—”
I nearly yelp when he tweaks my earlobe with his finger.
“Tuesdays and Thursdays, starting next week, brat.” His
thumb smooths over my lobe before drifting away. “Now, will
you be quiet and let me speak?”
I’m assuming it’s a rhetorical question and bite my lip as I
angle my head back so I can glare at him properly. His
expression is part aggrieved, part reluctantly amused. But it
quickly turns black.
“Your personal life is your own,” he bites out. “But North
is off limits.”
Of all the . . . I’m not remotely interested in North, and I
know North isn’t interested in me either. Apparently Macon is
clueless. And I have no intention of enlightening the jerk. I
suck in a breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. I don’t need the aggravation of my staff
members avoiding each other when the sex goes stale. And
believe me, it will.”
I want to laugh. I want to slap his face. As it is, my
breathing comes on quick and fast. “Which means North is
really only off limits while I work for you. Good to know.”
A streak of red spreads across the tops of Macon’s cheeks,
and I swear the man growls. It rumbles in that wide chest of
his as his mouth tightens. “He’s not for you, Delilah. Unless,
of course, you’re into having Sam’s leftovers.”
 As if I’ve been slapped, my breath hitches. Oh, that was
low. Not only to me but to North as well. My face feels tight
and hot. And for an instant, something that looks like guilt
flickers in Macon’s brown eyes, but it’s quickly smothered by
stubborn self-righteousness and a pugnacious lift of his chin.
“Well then,” I manage, “I guess that leaves you out of the
running too.”
The second I say the words, I want them back. Horror
whips through me, cold and bright. Why did I say that? Why?
Why?
And, God, the smug grin that creeps across his firm lips.
His lids lower a fraction, that smile growing—the picture of a
self-satisfied male. “Nice to know you were considering me,
Tot.”
With that, he turns on his good heel and gracefully limps
back into the house.
 CHAPTER TWELVE
Macon
“I’m in trouble.”
North glances my way. We’re in the media room of my
house, looking over sword-fighting footage from last season’s
Dark Castle. In a week or so, my wrist and ribs will be healed
enough that I’ll be able to take up modified training again, but
until then, I’m staying fresh by watching and discussing
moves with North.
“You’ll be fine,” he tells me. “I don’t know a person in the
stunt business who hasn’t broken a bone or ten. Sure, it’ll hurt
like hell at first, but you’ll bounce back. Besides, you’re the
star; we’ll work around what you can’t do when the time
comes.”
I should let him believe I’m talking about getting into
shape, but clearly I’m in a mentally weakened condition
because I elaborate. “Delilah is the trouble.”
North’s grin is small but smug. “Ah. The pretty Ms. Baker
is throwing you for a loop, eh?”
“Pretty?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“What?” That smug grin is growing. “You don’t think she
is?”
“I’ve got eyes, don’t I?”
Delilah is pretty. Quietly pretty. She will never be the first
person everyone looks at when entering a room. Especially not
in LA, where beautiful women bloom like flowers in a well-
tended garden. But among a bouquet of perfect roses, Delilah
is much like her namesake flower—unexpectedly vivid and
complex—making you realize that roses are boring in
comparison.
I don’t tell North that. Instead I glare at him. “Touch her,
and we’ll be wearing matching casts, even if I have to pay
someone to put you in one.”
 He laughs. “You’re getting in a twist for nothing. But don’t
worry; I’ll stay far away.”
I grunt but then shake my head. “No, don’t keep your
distance. The crazies are still out there. I won’t have her hurt
because someone wants to get to me.”
For one cold second, I’m back in my car, the road falling
out from under me, knowing I am going down. Despite the
terror, the main emotion that grips me is regret. I regret too
many things in this empty life of mine. Delilah getting hurt
because of me will not be another. “Watch over her whenever
she leaves the house.”
North’s lips compress. “Understood.”
I know he does. North is golden like that.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to keep her here?” he asks.
“Probably not. She drives me nuts. Just this morning, she
kept me arguing for thirty minutes on the difference between
clarified butter and ghee, which I finally said means fuck all to
me since my stupid diet doesn’t even allow me to sniff butter,
much less taste it.”
North chuckles.
I rub a hand over my mouth, hiding my smile. “And then
she has the nerve to tell me that’s too bad since she’s been
cooking all my meals with clarified butter anyway.”
Fuck if I hadn’t loved every second of our argument. Yep,
we’re definitely flirting. Angry flirting. Is there a word for
that? There should be.
“What the hell is ghee?” North asks, earning a sidelong
look from me.
“Man, explore the multicultural soup that is the American
experience.” When he just stares me down, I elaborate. “As far
as I can tell, it’s like clarified butter but prepared differently
and used in Indian cooking. You’ll just have to google the rest
because I am not going through Delilah’s lengthy explanation.
Once was enough for a lifetime.”
 Which is mostly true; witnessing the pink wash of color on
Delilah’s cheeks and the irate flash of her eyes made it worth
it. That and every time we argue, her tits tend to jiggle. Call
me a pig for noticing, but I do, and I enjoy it every damn time
it happens.
North’s smile fades. “I don’t know why you’re keeping up
with this pact. It’s goddamn medieval.”
My insides tighten uncomfortably. “I’m not breaking our
agreement. It would hurt Delilah’s pride.” And I’ve stomped
on that in the past enough to never want to do it again.
“Besides, the arrangement will likely draw Sam out of hiding.
Even she isn’t heartless enough to disrupt her sister’s life to
this extent.”
North doesn’t look like he believes that shit for a second. I
don’t blame him; it’s a weak argument, but the deeper truth is
one I can barely say to myself: I can’t let her go.
Something is waking up in me or settling back into place. I
don’t know which, but everything in me wants to hold on to
the sensation and soak it up.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “Delilah and I never got
along. Her mama used to say we fought like rats over a scrap.
But I respect Delilah. Always have.”
“You know,” North starts in, “it’s kind of funny—”
“And there goes my hope that you’d drop this.”
“All I was going to say is that if you’d introduced Sam and
Delilah to me at the same time, I’d have thought Delilah was
your ex, not Sam.”
I shift in my chair, trying to get comfortable. “Sam is much
more my type.”
The women I hook up with are happy to take attention
away from me and keep the spotlight on themselves. Hell, my
“type” started with Sam. But the truth is, I haven’t been
attracted to her in a long time. And even then, it’d been a mild
interest at best.
 It is an astonishing thing to realize that I have never been
so hot for a woman that I lose my head, forget myself in her.
Sex has never meant much to me. An itch scratched, but not
something essential. Men aren’t supposed to admit that their
sex life is lackluster and has always been that way. It feels like
a failure.
North studies me now, his eyes seeing far too much. “You
never eyed Sam like she was . . .” He trails off with a shrug.
“Like she was what?”
“Butter.”
I snort, but it has no conviction.
“Delilah, on the other hand—”
There’s a knock on the door. Speak the devil’s name, and
she will find you.
“Yeah,” I call out, eager for a reprieve.
Delilah sticks her head in, her hair glowing in the light of
the projector. “Hey. Y’all busy? Because I have cookies.”
“Cookies,” I repeat. Lord, this woman tempts me.
Her smile is wide and impish, making her cheeks plump
like a chipmunk’s. “Don’t worry; they’re healthy.”
North and I exchange a look.
“Well,” she says, carrying in a plate, “as healthy as cookies
can be.”
“Which means they suck,” I mutter, disgruntled as hell
over my restrictive diet.
Her eyes flash. Extraordinary eyes, the color so light
brown it’s startling. I’ve never been able to meet her gaze
without feeling it deep in my gut. I wonder if she feels that
weird hot zing that zips through the air whenever we’re
together.
If she does, she’s not showing it. Instead she smiles
brightly at North. “I guess that means these are for you.”
“Hey!” I protest, reaching for the plate.
 Since I’m slowed down by my broken body, she easily
evades me. “No, no, I insist. I wouldn’t want to serve you
sucky food, Mr. Bossy Butt.”
Bossy butt?
North is grinning as he eats a cookie. “It’s good. What is
this?”
Delilah beams. “Flourless dark chocolate with peanut
butter chips. It’s high in protein.”
“I could eat an entire platter of them,” he says.
Delilah practically purrs. “You can have all the cookies
you want.”
Fucking hell. One instance of jealous stupidity, and I’m
paying for it.
“All right, brat,” I cut in, reaching again. “Give me a
cookie.”
“Brat?” She sets a hand on her wide hips. “Is that supposed
to convince me to give you one?”
“Are you or are you not my cook?”
Her eyes narrow, but I keep mine on the plate. She might
dump those cookies on my head, and I’ll have to be quick.
“That’s twice you’ve played your little lord-of-the-manor
card.”
I grin, having fun. “What was the promise? Oh, right. The
third time I do so, you make a jerk-off gesture.”
Delilah sets a hip against the back of North’s chair as she
faces me. I don’t like the proximity of her butt to his head. At
all. But she’s smirking at me with those pouty lips. “Let me
save you the trouble.”
With her free hand, she makes a loose fist and pumps it.
The gesture is expected, but not the bolt of heat that punches
through my gut and goes straight to my cock.
Fuck. I can practically feel her hand on my swollen flesh,
the tug she’d give me. Biting back an internal groan, I give her
a lazy smile. “Looks like you’ve had some practice with that,
Tot.”
Practice some more. I’m here all week, willing victim.
She doesn’t blink. “I’m multitalented, Con Man.”
“I just bet you are.” My dick is rapidly rising, getting
heavy in my pants. Hell. Calm yourself, Saint. The request is
easier said than done. She’s locked eyes with me, unwilling to
back down. And she has no idea what she’s stirring up. It isn’t
anger I’m feeling.
I’m in so much trouble. It would help if you stopped
flirting with her, dickhead.
Clearing my throat, I glance at North, who looks on avidly.
“Butter,” he says.
I envision nut punching him.
Delilah frowns his way. “Pardon?”
He becomes the picture of innocence as he grabs another
cookie. “I was wondering if you used butter in these.”
Her gaze darts between North and me. I will kill him if he
lets on what he really meant. I keep my expression neutral and
sweat it out.
She stares at me for a beat; then her gaze turns cheeky. “I
used clarified butter.”
With a groan, I run a hand over my face. “All right. I
surrender. You’re the greatest chef on earth, and nothing you
cook or bake ever sucks. Now can I please have a cookie?”
“Hmmm . . .” She pretends to ponder the question. “Nope.
I don’t think so.”
“What!”
“You’re right. These aren’t healthy enough for you. Whew,
you really dodged a bullet there, Con Man.” Quick as a blink,
she reaches out and ruffles my hair. The unexpected physical
contact distracts me enough for her to scamper off, cackling
like a witch.
 “Delilah Ann Baker,” I shout after her. “You’re going to
pay for that!”
Mad cackles are the only reply.
Silence rings out, and I remember North.
His expression is smug but sympathetic. “You’re right.
You’re in trouble.”

Delilah
It pisses me off to no end that a twinge of guilt nips at my
belly when North asks if I want to drive with him to Beverly
Hills. Macon had no business trying to order me away from
North. And I need to go; Karen has demanded that I pick up a
few scripts for Macon from her office. She doesn’t trust it to
couriers or sending via email. I might as well have been asked
to pick up the Ark of the Covenant.
Since North has a bit of an Indiana Jones flare about him, I
figure he’s a good escort.
“Okay.” I grab my purse from the hooks by the side door.
“But I’m driving.”
North halts. “I’m the driver. It’s in my employee contract.”
“Since you’re not carting around our employer, your point
is moot.”
North crosses his arms over his chest, an unmovable
mountain. “I am a trained stunt driver.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure you do a great job on stunts.”
Pulling out my keys, I head for my beloved MINI
Clubman that’s been sitting idle and ignored in the driveway.
North follows in a huff, and I shoot him a look over my
shoulder. “Are you going to whine about this?”
He puts a hand to his chest as if affronted. “I never whine.”
“Good. Get in the car.”
I hop into the driver’s seat and run a hand over the steering
wheel. “Hey, baby. Mama’s back.”
 North gives me an amused look as he shuts the passenger
door. “You going to talk to the car the whole time? If so, I
might actually start whining.”
With a laugh, I turn the car on, and we head out. It isn’t
until we’re driving down the highway that I talk again. “Until
now, you seemed to be a fairly laid-back guy. Does it really
bother you so much that a woman is driving?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and turns his attention to
the blue streak of the ocean just outside his window. “Saint
will have a fit,” he mutters.
“Macon? Why, because we’re running errands together?
Tough shit.” Okay, I’m still grumpy and still feeling guilty,
damn it.
North casts an amused smile my way. “Why would he care
if we’re running errands?”
I wisely refrain from illuminating North. “You tell me.”
The big man glances out the window as if he’s
contemplating jumping out of the speeding car. With his
credentials, he’d probably do a graceful roll, then dust himself
off before walking to Beverly Hills.
“The accident,” North bites out. “It’s made him . . .
cautious.”
It’s clear North feels he’s sold out Macon’s privacy by
admitting this. And I don’t blame Macon for having certain
fears about driving. If I’d careened down an embankment and
gotten wrapped around a tree, I probably wouldn’t get in a car
for months.
North’s voice is subdued. “He told me to drive you
anywhere you needed to go, whatever the case.”
The car hums along the road as I grip the wheel and think.
“That’s why you asked if I wanted to come with you to
Beverly Hills. You knew Karen wanted me to pick up the
scripts.”
“I’m meeting a colleague in the same building,” he
protests before his shoulders slump. “But yes, that was the
motivating factor.”
“And here I thought you enjoyed my company.” A thick
silence is my answer, and I can all but hear him wincing. With
wide eyes, I glance at North. “Oh my God, you got the lecture,
too, didn’t you?”
His smile is wry. “The ‘if you so much as look sideways at
Delilah, I’ll break your legs’ lecture? Yes.”
A shocked laugh bursts out. “Mine wasn’t quite so violent.
More of an irate warning.” My lips purse. “That arrogant . . .
pain in my butt. I can’t believe him.”
“No fraternization between employees is a fairly standard
clause.” He doesn’t look as though he believes that’s the
reason Macon ran interference. I don’t either.
Macon has been sticking his nose into my love life ever
since we were kids. Every boy I showed any interest in was
immediately told of all my supposed faults. They were run off
with the effectiveness of a deployed stink bomb. I never
believed jealousy was the motive. Macon did it out of spite.
And now he’s doing it again.
“First off, I didn’t sign any employee contract, and there is
no handbook. We both know that. Secondly, Macon said that
because he’s an asshat. No, an ass bonnet with flowers on
top.”
North laughs but then gives me a wary glance. “You
weren’t . . . I mean, I think you’re great and pretty, but—”
The tips of his ears turn red as he squirms in his seat. And
the devil in me can’t help but respond. “But what, North?” I
give him a sappy look. “Don’t you like me?”
He clears his throat. “Of course I do, but . . .”
“It’s Macon, isn’t it? Trying to get in the way of our love.”
North pales, blinking rapidly as his mouth falls open. For a
second, I imagine he’s contemplating jumping from the
moving car, but then his expression clears with a rush of color
and the narrowing of his eyes. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t
you?”
 The laugh I’ve been holding in bursts free. “I’m sorry. You
were just so nervous about offending me.”
“Sorry. That was bigheaded of me, eh? I just . . .” He
smiles tightly. “You know what? I’m going to shut up now.”
“Just to be clear, I’m not over here crying in my soup. I’m
not interested in you that way.” I give him a sidelong look, still
smiling. “Not that you aren’t pretty.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “Now I understand why
Saint doesn’t know if he’s coming or going with you.”
Laughing, I turn onto the next highway. So many LA
highways. “It’s awkward as all hell talking about this. Really,
I’m annoyed on principle. And Macon just annoys me in
general.”
“Probably because you two are so much alike.”
“Alike? Ah, no.”
“Both of you are uncomfortably blunt, proud, stubborn—”
“Hey!”
North grins, tilting his head in my direction. “I don’t find
these qualities faults. I’ve known Saint for two years, and
already, he is my closest friend. You’re both exceedingly loyal
too.”
“Loyal? Macon? Are we talking about the same person?”
“If you can’t see his loyalty, you aren’t looking,” North
says quietly.
Something uncomfortable twists in my belly. Guilt,
frustration, I’m not sure, but I shift in my seat.
“I know Samantha took the watch.” Anger twists his lips
and fills his blue eyes. “I know you’re working here to pay
him back, which makes you a fucking saint in my book.”
I glance away, embarrassed and upset with Sam all over
again.
“But I figure that’s a pretty bitter pill to swallow,
regardless. So you should know that even though Saint can be
a dick now and then, it’s clear, to me at least, that his actions
toward you aren’t motivated by some old feud.”
I’m the one now fighting not to squirm in my seat. “I don’t
know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” North shakes his head,
chuckling under his breath. “This is awkward as hell. But I
wanted you to know you’re valued here. Shit situation or no.”
“You’re a good egg, North.”
“Just trying to keep the peace, ma’am.” He thumbs up the
brim of an imaginary hat.
I laugh, feeling lighter. “So what’s your story?”
“I have to have a story?”
“Everyone has a story. Some are boring, some aren’t, but
everyone has a story.”
“My family is in the stunt business—dad, brother, sister,
me. That’s how I met Saint; I’m his stunt double on Dark
Castle.”
“Really?” I wouldn’t mistake him for Macon for a second,
but aside from the hair color, they do have roughly the same
build and height.
“It’s colored black during filming,” he says, seeing the
direction of my gaze. “The fake beard itches like hell, though.”
While I haven’t watched the show, I have seen pictures of
Macon as Arasmus. He’s often in Roman-style leather body
armor and heavy fur capes, his hair roughly chopped and
sticking out at all angles, a full beard covering his jaw. I’ve
never been one for beards, but Macon works the barbarian
look.
North stretches his legs out. “Since Saint and I both do the
sword-fight shots, I was also responsible for training him.
Then that crap with the crazed fan and the accident happened
—”
“What?” I cut in shrilly. “What fan?”
“Hell, you didn’t know?”
 “How could I know?” My grip is a vise on the wheel.
North swears under his breath. “Saint said he was going to
talk to you about—”
“What happened?” A sick lurch tilts my insides, and I have
to swallow hard. “Please, North.”
His jaw twitches, but then he relents. “He has lots of fans.
Some of them get a little more attached, lose touch with
reality. We managed to keep this part out of the news, but two
women tried to follow Saint home one night and kept too close
for comfort. Whether accidentally or on purpose, they hit his
bumper. It was raining; roads were slick. Saint lost control of
the car. The women stopped too. But only to take some
pictures of him in the wreckage.”
My back teeth meet with a click. “Jesus.”
Shock tingles through my veins. If you’d have asked me
last month if I’d react like a protective mama bear over Macon
Saint, I would have laughed. I’m not laughing now. I’m sick.
I think of Macon hurt in the dark while some shitheads
took pictures of him, and I have to fight the urge to turn the car
around and comfort him. The sensation is almost dizzying and
completely unfamiliar when it comes to Macon.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I swallow hard. “He should have
told me.”
“Yes, he should have. But try not to be too hard on him.
It’s like pulling nails to get him to talk about it.” North rubs a
finger along his temple as he frowns. “He thinks that if he’d
kept his cool, he wouldn’t have lost control of the car.”
“That’s ridiculous. He was being stalked. I would have
been terrified.”
“Macon loves to be in control. And he doesn’t ever admit
to fear.”
“This is true,” I mutter, then expel a breath. “Jesus. I can’t
believe someone did that to him.”
“Stalking . . . it’s a shitty aspect of fame.”
 “And there’s more of these people?” My voice is wispy,
fear for Macon pulling at my throat. “Crazies who stalk him?”
He considers his answer. “It’s hard to tell who is going to
act out. But Saint and the studio agreed to have him guarded
while he’s recovering. Once shooting starts up again, I’ll go
back to stunt work and training, and Saint will have another
bodyguard detail assigned to him if he wants it.”
If he wants it? He had better.
My thoughts halt. When had I become so invested? No,
this is normal. Of course I care; Macon is a human being.
Anyone with a lick of compassion would care. But that doesn’t
explain how personal it feels or the way ice has settled in the
pit of my stomach. I’m afraid for him. Specifically.
Rattled, I then reach down to turn on the radio. North and I
maintain a thick but not uncomfortable silence as we drive
along, listening to the Strokes.

Two hours later, my somber mood has turned to

annoyance. Karen has left me in the waiting area of her office
suite. It’s a very nice area, with shining concrete floors,
exposed ductwork, and colorful modern art on the blinding-
white walls.
There is one wall dedicated to her clients, featuring
pictures of Karen laughing it up with Hollywood A listers and
up-and-comers. Macon’s picture features Karen leaning on his
arm, her fingers trying—and failing—to wrap around his big
biceps. Macon stares back at the camera, a faint, polite smile
on his face.
There is something almost chameleonlike in his looks.
Sometimes, he is the dark and brooding Byronic hero; in other
lights, he’s the all-American athlete; and then you look again,
and he’s a marauder—intimidating and brutish. And yet no
matter what, he is still Macon; the symmetry of his features,
the undeniable beauty of him, is always there.
I glare at that face now, my butt sore from sitting in a
leather chair so narrow I swear it’s designed to weed out
undesirables based on ass width alone. There are two other
people stuck here with me, a pretty young woman who’s
probably no older than nineteen and reminds me of Lorde and
a guy around my age who is Matt Bomer handsome. Both are
tense but trying not to appear that way. Both have been
waiting less time than I have.
Karen’s assistant catches my eye and quickly looks away.
She’s beautiful too—must be a requirement—and wearing
stilettos that are too small. I should know; I spent a good
fifteen minutes trying not to stare at the toe crotch bulging
from the tops of her shoes.
The fact that I’m even thinking about toe crotch settles it.
Enough is enough. I can either try to get past Ms. Heels—and
I’m guessing that’s easier said than done despite the fact that
I’m wearing Keds—or I can annoy the hell out of Karen.
Annoying Karen sounds much more fun.
I am a woman of few talents. I cook, I bake, and I know
songs. I can carry a tune, but I’m not going to win any awards.
But I have the ability to remember song lyrics. Dozens of
them.
Setting my purse down, I smile around the room, making
sure to catch everyone’s eye. Not surprisingly, they all return
my look with varying levels of caution. Weird might work on
Sunset but not at a high-level talent agency. Well, at least not
for them.
“At first I was afraid.” Slowly I rise. “I was petrified.”
Lorde’s look-alike’s eyes go wide as I really start singing
“I Will Survive.” Mr. Blue Eyes grins. And Karen’s assistant
frantically picks up her phone.
Throwing my hands wide, I give myself to the song,
selling it for all it’s worth. I add in jazz hands because every
performance is that much better with a little shimmy.
Blue Eyes begins to clap and egg me on, while the young
woman—who quickly hurried to the other end of the room—
laughs into her hands.
By the time I’m standing on the chair, doing some weird
version of the bump and belting out how I will survive, Karen
is in the room, red faced and huffing. From the doorway
comes enthusiastic clapping, and I find North and another man
watching. North gives me a thumbs-up, which earns him a
glare from Karen.
Given that I’m standing on the world’s narrowest chair, my
curtsy isn’t as grand as it could be.
Karen steps forward, flailing as if she’s torn between
pulling at her hair or me. “What are you doing?” It comes out
in a loud hiss of sound.
Sweating and panting, I jump down from my perch.
“Warming up the pipes,” I tell her. “However, I’m much better
with an accompanist.”
“You are not amusing, Baker.”
“That’s Ms. Baker to you. And neither is waiting for
endless hours just so you can try to put me in my place.” I take
a drink from my bottled water. “Now, give me the damn
scripts before I start in on show tunes, and believe me, I know
them all.”
I have a stack of scripts in my hands in ten seconds flat.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Macon
SweetTot: I’m looking through your social media
pages.
Delilah left with North about an hour ago. I welcomed the
reprieve, knowing she was still pissed at me yet having no idea
how to fix it. I take it as a good sign that she’s actually texting.
Then again, she might just be bored.
Miss me already?
Yeah, I’m counting the seconds until I see you
again. [Insert eye roll here]
Laughing lightly, I respond.
Hide behind eye rolls all you like. I know the
truth, Tot.
Uh-huh. Seriously, though, Macon, your
accounts are a disaster.
What’s wrong with them?
Personally, I thought they were okay given that I hate
maintaining them and feel like a fool every time I post.
They’re so wooden and stilted. And OLD. You
never update!
What did you expect? I AM wooden and
stilted. And I hate updating.
You forgot old. You’re old too.
A snort echoes in the silence of my living room. I sit back
in my chair and get more comfortable.
I’m a few months older than you so . . .
In spirit, Macon. You’re old in spirit.
It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.
 She responds with an eye-roll emoji. Don’t quote Indy.
You are no Professor Jones.
I bite back a grin like she might see me, even though she’s
far away.
You can’t make that assessment until you’ve seen me
handle a whip.
I can picture her making a face.
Anyway .  .  . You need to x this. Show them just a
little bit of the real you.
Sitting up, I hesitate for a second before answering.
What is the real me?
Little dots appear on my screen, then pause, then appear
again like she’s deliberating on how she wants to respond. I
sweat it out, needing to know. When the text finally appears,
though, I’m almost afraid to read it.
Better than what you show. You’re funny
when you want to be. You know, in a sarcastic
way.
Oh, well, thank you. [Insert my sarcasm here]
I’d never admit it, and I’m suddenly grateful no one can
see me, but her words leave me uncomfortably warm. I’ve
never been good with compliments. I don’t know how to
handle them from Delilah. At all.
I cover the moment by quickly texting before she can.
Consider social media another addition to
your duties.
You want me to pretend to be you? Are you
feeling all right?
Yes. And yes. Why do you ask?
Because I could make your life hell. I could
post ANYTHING.
Snorting again, I shake my head.
 But you won’t.
I know Delilah too well. Everything she does, she makes
sure to do perfectly. It would hurt her soul to put out bad or
embarrassing content. Not because she’d worry about how it
reflected on me but because she’d know it was her work, and it
couldn’t be subpar.
Damn it, you’re right. Ugh. Okay. I’ll help you.
But I’m not doing it on my own. I’ll give you tips,
but it has to come from you for the content to be
authentic.
I could push the issue, insist she take it over entirely. And
then I’d feel like a dick. I already feel like that enough around
her anyway.
Deal. But I’m NOT posting torso shots or crap
like that.
Another eye-roll emoji follows.
You always thought too highly of yourself,
Macon. And you will if I say you will. Abs = love.
So . . . you love my abs? I knew it. My butt is
pretty awesome too, isn’t it?
Sorry, Delilah has left the building.
Look, you don’t have to beg. I’ll send you a
picture.
Don’t you dare!
I lift up my shirt, take a quick picture of my abs, and send
it.
Asshole!
Now, Delilah, don’t get kinky with your
requests. I draw the line at ass shots.
ARGH!
Laughing, I leave it at that. She doesn’t respond again,
which is kind of a disappointment, and I’m left not knowing
what to do. Ordinarily, I’d be out—visiting acquaintances,
jogging along the mountain paths, whatever I could to occupy
my mind.
With North and Delilah out, the house is still and quiet.
The distant crash of the sea against the shore is a constant
hum. An hour rolls by, too still, too quiet. I get up and walk
slowly from room to room, chasing the sun as it slants through
the massive windows. I know every inch of this place. It is all
mine.
Growing up, nothing was mine. Not even my bedroom. It
could be invaded without warning. There was no safe space. I
used to dream of my own place, design it in my mind’s eye—
where it would be, how it would look. I grew up in a mansion,
so I knew all about beautiful spaces. That didn’t interest me as
much as thinking about light and space. A place to breathe
freely, see everything around me with clear eyes.
The pool shimmers in the afternoon sun. I’m not yet
allowed to go swimming, but damn if it isn’t tempting. To the
best of my knowledge, Delilah hasn’t gone near the pool. Did
she even swim? The last time I saw her in a bathing suit was
when she was thirteen. She caught me looking a few times—
much to my horror—and hadn’t been pleased. I can’t say I
blamed her. I was pissed as well—both at being caught and
over my lack of self-control. It was a relief when she stopped
going to the lake with Sam and me to swim.
Only, it left me alone with Sam. The realization that
without Delilah in the equation, that hanging out with Sam
was an exercise in patience and boredom was an ugly shock.
Shortly after, I made certain we always went out with a big
group of friends.
With that regrettable memory prodding my back, I turn
away from the view and head for the kitchen. Delilah has left
me a lunch. There’s a note with instructions, as if it wouldn’t
occur to me to take the cellophane wrap off the plate before I
ate my food. Smirking, I set the note aside and am pulling the
carefully wrapped plate out of the fridge when my phone
dings.
It’s from North.
 Someone’s gone viral. lol
I grow cold inside. Have more photos surfaced? I paid a lot
of money to gather up the majority of the photos of me in the
wreckage. But I might as well have tried to hold water in a
sieve. North sends me a video link.
Hell, video?
Gritting my teeth, I click the link. And find my mouth
falling open.
I’m so shocked I’m not sure I can trust what I’m seeing.
But there Delilah is, standing on a chair in what looks to be
Karen’s outer office and belting out Gloria Gaynor with such
feeling it almost makes up for her terrible singing voice.
Almost.
Delilah shimmies and shakes, setting all her abundant
curves in glorious motion. She is completely uninhibited. And
she is magnificent.
A laugh bursts out of me. I laugh so hard my bruised ribs
protest. But I can’t stop. It keeps tumbling out. I laugh until
tears leak from my eyes. And just when I finally get myself
under control, I break down and start all over again.
I can’t help it. The video is just so Delilah and yet not. It’s
the Delilah I always suspected hid under the surface, yet so
much more. It’s clear she’s performing to piss Karen off, and
it’s obviously working judging by Karen’s screeches.
I’m suddenly extremely sorry I wasn’t there to witness all
of this in person.
The second viewing only gets better.
I’m wheezing with laughter when the phone rings. Karen’s
name flashes on the screen, and I know I’m in for an earful. I
can’t control my voice when I answer.
“Oh, good,” Karen snaps. “You’re laughing. Clearly
you’ve seen it.”
A snicker escapes before I clear my throat. “Twice,
actually.”
 “Are you going to do something about it?”
“Such as?”
There’s a sound of utter disgust. “Fire her, obviously.”
“For that?” I unwrap my lunch and find a cold Moroccan-
style chicken-and-bulgur salad. “It was the best laugh I’ve had
in years. I’m kind of thinking she needs a raise.”
Well, I’d give her one if she was working for a salary. Ah,
that pinches. Right in the guilt department. I shake it off as
Karen launches into a tirade.
“She is completely unprofessional with that little stunt.”
“And I’m sure it wasn’t at all instigated,” I add dryly.
“What are you suggesting, Macon?”
“I know Delilah. She doesn’t act out so much as she reacts.
What did you do?”
A huff comes over the phone. “Not a thing. I was going
about my workday—a day that includes making your career
shine, I might add—when I heard her god-awful
caterwauling.”
Caterwauling is a good word for Delilah’s singing. My lips
twitch, the urge to lose it once more rising up. I swallow it
down and take a bite of my lunch instead. Jesus, the woman
can cook. I take a bigger bite, practically shoving the salad in
my mouth, suddenly starving.
“You cannot be serious about keeping her around,” Karen
says. “Even without her poor behavior, she’s an utter
embarrassment to you.”
I freeze, fork laden with food halfway to my mouth.
“Karen,” I say calmly. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but
that’s the last time you speak about Delilah that way.”
She’s silent for a beat. “You’re taking her side?”
“There aren’t any sides—”
“After all these years of working together, all I’ve done for
you?”
 “Cut it out, Karen. You were a shit to her at lunch. And—”
“So was she!”
“This is beneath you,” I say in a low voice. “Making
comments about her weight or appearance isn’t what I hired
you to do. I know you are better than that.”
I want off this phone. I want to eat my lunch. Actually, I
really want to see Delilah and tease her about the video. Yes,
I’m a little bit childish when it comes to Delilah.
Karen sniffs, collecting her dignity. “All right. I concede;
that wasn’t well done of me.”
I don’t say a thing.
“I don’t know why she irritates me,” Karen mutters.
But I do. Delilah sees right past people’s bullshit. Even if
she doesn’t call a person on it, they somehow know she sees
them. It chafes if the person doesn’t like who they are on the
inside.
“She’s an acquired taste,” I say, reaching for my salad
again.
“What’s going on with you two?” Karen asks, sharper now.
“Aside from being employee and employer?” I quip.
“Nothing.”
“Defend the woman all you want, Macon, but she clearly
isn’t a professional assistant.”
No, she really isn’t. “She’s a hell of a chef.”
“Macon,” Karen begins, then hesitates before rushing on.
“Does she have something on you? Is that it?”
I start laughing again. Hard.
“This isn’t funny,” Karen says. “Something is not right
between you two.”
Where to begin with that?
She takes on the tone of a worried mother. “If I need to
handle this . . .”
 “There’s nothing to handle,” I cut in. “I’m hanging up now.
My salad is getting cold.”
“Salad is already cold!”
“So you see my problem. Bye, Karen.”
“What problem? Macon—”
It is far too satisfying hanging up on her. I’ve done it
before. She’s hung up on me before as well; it’s the
relationship we have. But this is the first time I’ve been
irritated on behalf of someone else.
I text North again.
Don’t tell D that I know about the video.
North answers a few seconds later.
If I told her, I’d have to confess that I sent it. I
don’t have a death wish.
Smart. She would de nitely kill you.
Luckily, you piss her off more. Having seen
her in action, I’d sleep with one eye open if I were
you.
Snorting, I hit play on the video again, and a smile erupts
as Delilah’s terrible voice fills the kitchen. I find myself
eyeing the front door, waiting for her.

Delilah
“So . . . ,” Macon drawls as he walks onto the upstairs
balcony where I’m sitting, painting my toenails. “You had
quite the day.”
I don’t look up from my work. One bad swipe of Cherry
Sundae will show for miles. “What, did Karen call to
complain?”
He plops his big frame onto the Adirondack chair beside
mine. “She’s always complaining.” His attention drifts to my
toes. A small smile plays about his lips, and he taps his long
fingers on the arms of the chair. Macon leans back, but his
gaze remains on my feet as if he finds the process of my self-
pedicure fascinating. “Somehow, I don’t think she’ll try
anything with you again.”
Pressing my lips to my bent knee to hide my smile, I finish
off the last toe. “She’d better not. I studied up on Rodgers and
Hammerstein during my shower, and I’m not afraid to belt out
a stirring rendition of Oklahoma! if needed.”
Macon snorts. “If she messes with you again, I’ll provide
backup.”
I pause and dab at a small spot on my toe. “That’s right;
you starred in our junior-year musical.” Unlike me, Macon has
a wonderful voice—deep and resonant. I still kind of hate that
he wore suspenders and sang “The Surrey with the Fringe on
Top” and still managed to make all the girls swoon.
Silence falls, and Macon stares out at the Pacific, where
the sinking sun has turned tangerine in a violet sky. That smile
of his grows secretive and quivering around the edges as if
he’s holding on to his composure with great effort.
“Macon Saint, you’re itching to say something. Spill it.”
He full out grins. “Well, Ms. Delilah Baker, it appears
you’ve gone viral.”
“What?” My voice rises as panic sets in. “What!”
Macon pulls out his phone and flicks on the screen. And
the horrifying sound of me singing at the top of my lungs
comes out.
“I’ll give you this,” he says, laughing. “You really sell it.”
With a screech, I launch myself out of the chair and at the
phone. Macon holds it up out of my reach while his other arm
wraps around my waist and pins me against him. Only then do
I realize that I’ve basically thrown my body over his in my
attempt to get to the phone.
“Give me the phone,” I cry, still struggling.
“Not a chance.” I don’t know how he manages it, but I find
myself sprawled on his lap, arms tucked against his chest. I’d
find his strength impressive if I wasn’t in full panic mode. He
holds me prisoner with one arm. “We’ll watch it together.”
Since I can’t move, and he still has the phone, I can only
groan and slump against the wall of his chest. “Fine. Torture
me; I give up.”
Chuckling, Macon hits replay. And there I am, singing
loudly and obnoxiously and dancing like a fool.
I let out a sound that is somewhere between a moan and a
wail. Whatever it is, it is pitiful.
Macon, however, is extremely entertained. “Is that the
Funky Chicken?”
“Yes.” Unable to take it, I burrow my face into the crook
of his neck. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move, and I’m
unwilling to move either. Macon makes for a surprisingly nice
shelter; his skin is smooth and warm and smells of musky
citrus. I almost can’t hear the stupid video. Almost.
Laughter rumbles in his chest and vibrates along his skin.
“Oh, man, look at you go, my ‘Tiny Dancer.’”
“Shut.” I punch his chest. “Up.”
“Two hundred thousand likes and counting.”
“Noooo.” I press closer to his neck. “Make it stop.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, suddenly softer. “This video is a
thing of beauty. People love it. You’re a badass, Tot.”
With a sigh, I lift my head. Despite my utter humiliation, a
smile threatens. “I didn’t know what else to do. She left me
waiting for two hours.”
Macon’s happy expression dims a little before he gives me
a conspiratorial look. “Let’s put her profile on Tinder and say
she’s into diaper play.”
I snicker. “And disco.”
“Diaper disco.”
We both chuckle softly. He doesn’t stop me when I take
the phone from his hand. The video is over, and I force myself
to look at it again. Nope, just as embarrassing the second time
around. But it hits me that the angle of the shot is coming from
the doorway to Karen’s office. “Oh my God. She’s the one
who filmed it and put it on YouTube. That bitch.”
Macon peers down at the screen. “I’m pretty sure it was
Elaine, her assistant.” His eyes gleam with glee. “You want me
to have her fired? Disposed of?” He’s clearly joking and
clearly enjoying the hell out of himself.
“No,” I mutter before hiding my face once more. “Just
weigh my feet down with rocks, and fling me into the ocean.”
The warm weight of his hand slides to my hip and rests
there. “That would be a massive waste of talent.” His voice is
lower now, competing with the sound of the waves. The chair
creaks as he adjusts a little, and I sink farther into the cradle of
his lap, my head on his shoulder.
“I’ll say one thing,” he says after a moment. “Life with
you isn’t dull.”
My smile comes out as a hum. The sun is no more than a
tiny pinpoint of orange light atop an indigo sea now, leaving
the sky violent shades of hot pink, lavender, and teal. Evening
breezes play over us, carrying the scent of the ocean. It’s
getting cold, but Macon’s body is warm and solid against
mine.
“This place is utterly beautiful,” I whisper. “I haven’t said
so before, but I love your house. Actively love it.”
He stills for a second before his fingers drift along the
curve of my hip. “I do too—every board, window, and shingle.
It’s too big for one person—hell, it’s too big for two—but it’s
private, comfortable, and of course there’s the view.” Resting
his head against the chair, he expels a long breath as if letting
go of the day. The lines of his body seem to sink into
relaxation. “I know I’ve had it easy when it comes to money.
But every morning I wake up here and am grateful.”
My eyes drift closed. A warm lassitude fills me. I could sit
here all night, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the
even cadence of his breathing. Reality crashes over me. I’m
sitting in Macon’s lap, cuddling him.
Holy hell.
As if pinched, I jump out of his embrace and scramble to
my feet. He eyes me cautiously, clearly expecting an
argument. Or maybe it’s disappointment in his gaze. I’m too
unhinged by the idea that I’ve been snuggling with him to
figure it out. I’ve been on his damn lap, and it hadn’t felt weird
or wrong; it had felt normal, right, good.
Seriously, what the great hell, Dee?
Macon peers up at me, one thick brow quirked as if to say,
“You’re the one who made yourself comfortable all over my
lap.” Yeah, I did. Why did I do that? I take a step back, and my
butt rests against the balcony railing. I have to think about
something other than how very good it felt to be in his arms. I
have to put an end to all this soft, dangerous emotion. He’s my
boss. I’m here because of Sam. And then I remember . . .
“Why didn’t you tell me about the stalkers?”
His good humor shatters like dropped glass, and he stares
back at me, stone faced. “North?”
“That’s not an answer.”
His fingers flex, and I’ve a good idea he’s imagining
wrapping them around North’s neck. “I meant, did North tell
you?”
“Who cares who told me?” I stretch my arms wide in
frustration. “You should have.”
“Why?” His chin lifts belligerently. “It was over and done
by the time you arrived.”
“Is it? You mean to tell me they were caught and are now
behind bars? That you have North as a bodyguard and are
worried about me going out on my own because everything is
just peachy?”
A curse snarls out of him, and he runs a hand over his face,
the bristles of his burgeoning beard rasping against his palm.
With an aggravated sigh, he sits back with the grace and
arrogance of a king. “They’re not in jail. Yes, I am taking
precautions, and that includes having you protected.”
A chill races down my spine. “Jesus, Macon! When you
said you had security concerns, I thought you meant in a ‘let’s
be extra cautious and vigilant’ way. Not that someone had
actually stalked you!”
“Well, now you know.”
“Don’t you dare be blasé about this. You should have told
me. Not North, you. It should have been you!”
“I know!”
I’m not sure who is more surprised at his admission. We
blink at each other before his eyes narrow in that pugnacious
way of his.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I grind out.
“Because I hate talking about it.” The tendons in his neck
stick out as he turns his head and scowls into the growing
night. “It makes what they did real.”
Shit.
“I hate what they did to you,” I say quietly.
His snort is both snide and doubtful. I forgive him for it
because I’d be lashing out too.
“I do, Macon. It was wrong, horrible.”
The tense set of his shoulders eases a smidgeon.
“If it was me,” I go on, “I would be so angry. I’d want to
. . . well, if I’m honest, I’d want to punch them in the face.”
Slowly, his gaze turns back to mine. Wry amusement
lingers in his dark eyes. “You always were bloodthirsty.” He
leans his head back against the chair. “Shit, Delilah. What can
I say? It messed me up. I hate it. But I should have told you.”
“Did it ever occur to you that Sam might be in real
trouble?” Fear bolts through me. Because she truly might. My
breath comes short and fast.
 But Macon snorts. “No,” he says as if it’s the most
ridiculous idea on earth.
“No?” I lean toward him, my body humming with anger.
“What if someone hurt her trying to get to you? That’s a
possibility, you know. Don’t shake your damn head at me! She
might have gotten in their way or—”
“Delilah,” he cuts in blandly. “You’re not living in a crime
novel. Sam didn’t get carried off or hurt by my stalkers.”
“How do you know? Things happen, you patronizing ass
—”
“She’s the one who told them where I’d be.” He stares
back at me, unflinching, pissed off. “If anything, she ran when
she found out what her loose tongue cost me.”
Rocking back on my heels, I struggle to understand his
words. “She . . . wouldn’t. She’s not that low . . .”
“She is absolutely that low. The woman who ran me off the
road confessed that she paid Sam a thousand dollars to get
ahold of my schedule.”
Horror prickles over my skin, sears me from inside out.
Macon lets me absorb it. I can’t look him in the eye. Whipping
around, I clutch the rail and stare at the now inky sea.
“Fucking bitch.”
The chair creaks behind me, the sound of Macon rising. He
comes to stand beside me at the rail. “Not the exact words I
used, but yeah.”
Now I understand. There was no way Macon would let
Sam get away after that. The fact that he even considered my
offer and didn’t pursue vengeance stuns me. I’d be out for
blood.
It takes me a few tries to find my voice. “Do you . . . do
you regret the deal we made?”
The crash of the sea grows louder in our shared silence.
When he answers, his voice is low and wary. “No.”
I turn to him. He’s staring off into the night, the lines of his
body hard. When I made my offer, I thought he was the one
getting the better deal. That my begrudging services were
something of greater worth to him. Now, I have to wonder . . .
“Why did you agree to it?”
I watch his jaw work, tensing and releasing as though he’s
sorting through multiple answers. His coal-dark eyes finally
find mine. There’s nothing in his expression when he gives me
his answer. “I really don’t know.” He huffs out a humorless
laugh. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
He leaves me standing there, shocked and unsettled as all
hell. I stare out at the waves glinting in the waning light.
Somewhere out there is my sister.
“Damn you, Samantha,” I whisper with a sharpness that
scrapes my throat. If she were here, I’d make her face her
mistakes. If she were here, I would no longer have to be. I
could escape, go back to my orderly life, and forget about
Macon Saint—or the terrifying truth that I am in real danger of
falling for him.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Macon
Karen and my publicist, Timothy, keep texting to see when
I’ll be “back to normal.” I am not ready to go back to my
normal schedule. I won’t admit it to anyone, but the idea of
being formally “out there” with the eyes of the world watching
my every move has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Given my
profession, this is a problem.
I didn’t lie to Delilah; talking to the mango seller about
Arasmus and Dark Castle was enjoyable. It was gratifying to
know my work gives others pleasure. But it wasn’t my work
that caused those two women to stalk me. I was a thing to
them. Sometimes, in the still of the night, when I’m not
guarding my thoughts, they’ll creep up on me, those grasping
fingers, the flashing light of their cameras. I might have bled
out and died before they finally called 911. And I can’t help
but think that going out in the public eye will draw more of
their kind.
It pisses me off that I care.
A little more time, I tell myself. That’s all I need. A little
more time to regroup, heal. And then I’ll be good. Just like
new.
Until then, I’m sticking to the house. And there’s one place
I find myself gravitating toward.
The kitchen.
It has become a living, thriving beast in the center of my
once quiet and orderly house. There’s no ignoring the new
heart of my home. It won’t let me. I constantly hear the sounds
coming out of it: clanks, sizzles, muted thumps and bangs. A
cacophony of sounds. It should annoy me, but it intrigues me
instead. What tasty delights will come from those sounds?
What new dish will bring me to my knees and make me beg
for more?
 Scents waft from the kitchen, dancing around the halls to
find me and tickle my nose. Warm and comforting and
mouthwatering. “Come closer,” those scents seem to say.
“Come see what we have for you.”
Come.
How can I ignore that?
So I don’t. I follow the siren’s call and find the siren
herself at the very center of activity.
Delilah moves with utter confidence in her kitchen—
because it is unequivocally hers now. This is a prima ballerina
performing a solo. Not a fast-paced, frantic dance, but slow
and easy, controlled power in motion.
Knowing that she hasn’t yet noticed me, I simply watch
her work, admiring the curves of her body as she reaches for a
spoon to taste a sauce. The pink tip of her tongue flashes as
she licks her lush top lip. Something hot and tight clenches
low in my gut at the sight. Then she’s moving again, adding a
spice to her sauce; a flick of her wrist controls the temperature
on the stove.
My body remembers the feel of hers, the way she cuddled
up in my lap for those few mindless minutes. I was surprised
enough that she did it. I simply held her, afraid to make any
move that might startle her away. She was warm and soft, her
tan skin smelling of butter and cinnamon sugar. I wanted to sit
there all night and breathe her in.
I wanted to let my hands roam over those plump curves
and learn each one. It was an act of careful coordination to
keep her from noticing just how much she affected me. It was
worth the painful dick and the aching gut of lust because in
that moment, she felt perfect.
She turns back to the center island and the cutting board
there and sees me. The loose-limbed ease of her body dies.
She’s all twitchy now, eyeing me like a feral barn cat as if I
might try to lash out and catch her.
Tempting.
 As though she suspects the direction of my thoughts, she
straightens and adopts a casual pose like she never sat on my
lap, never let me pet her as the sun set. “Don’t tell me you’re
hungry again.”
No mention of the cuddle or the uncomfortable
conversation about Sam. For that, I’m grateful. Maybe it’s for
the best that we don’t talk about Sam. Ever.
I move farther into the warmth of the kitchen. “Since you
got here, I’m always hungry.”
She can make of that what she wants.
She’s been bent over a stove, so the flush on her cheeks
might be from the heat. Or maybe not. She nods toward a
pressed tin container on the counter. “I made some oat bars.
Nothing exciting, but they’re on your approved list.”
“I think we both know how I feel about that damn list.”
The corners of her lips curl in amusement. “Yes, we do.”
I stand at the end of the counter, close enough to be within
touching distance but not crowd her. “What are you making
now?”
She’s got two pots going, one of them covered.
“A bordelaise sauce.” At my interested look, she grabs a
spoon out of the canister filled with clean ones that she keeps
near the stove and dips it in the pot before handing it to me.
The sauce is a glossy mahogany, and when I slip it into my
mouth, I close my eyes and groan. Rich, deep, dense—I don’t
have the words to do it justice.
I open my eyes to find her staring with an unreadable
expression on her face.
“God damn, Tot.” I lick the spoon, desperate to get another
taste. I whimper this time.
Delilah watches me, and her nostrils flare like she’s
sucking in a quick breath, but her voice remains smooth as old
silk. “Don’t worry; I won’t be using much of it. Just a spoonful
on top of a flat iron steak. Shouldn’t be too many calories.”
 I cut her a reproachful glare. “Don’t you dare skimp. I’d
bathe in this if I could.”
With a husky laugh, she takes my spoon and puts it in the
sink. “As delightful as that image sounds, let’s keep the sauce
on our plates.”
“That’s not half as fun.” I pull out a stool and sit to
alleviate the ache in my leg.
Delilah eyes me. “You hurting a lot today?”
Since she’s already taken me to task for denying my pain, I
answer her truthfully. “Yes.”
With a hum, she starts on a turmeric latte. I don’t know
how much they actually reduce pain, but it’s soothing and
something made just for me. I accept her gift and curl my
fingers around the cup, stealing its warmth.
Delilah has opened up a journal and is reading heavily
marked pages. The leather-bound journal looks much like the
ones I use, though hers is battered and splattered with various
food and oil stains. She jots down a note in the margin of what
looks to be a recipe, then catches me watching her.
“My recipe journal.” She closes it. “Early on, we’re taught
to write things down. Memories can fade. But I also use it to
develop recipes or make note of an idea.”
Her slim hand, as battered as her book, rests protectively
over the cover. She eyes me warily as though I might poke fun
at her. It touches a nerve deep within that her trust in me is so
thin, that my past actions caused this lack of trust. So I give
her the only thing I can: my own vulnerability.
“I journal too.” I take a sip of latte. “Not recipes, of course.
But notes about my role. Or what happened on set that day, so
I’ll remember it when I’m old.”
Her butterscotch eyes grow wide. “Truly?”
“It is so surprising?”
She blinks and gives a little shake of her head. “Yes. No. I
don’t know. I guess I can’t picture you taking the time to write
things down.”
 “Everything important to me, I write down.” Shrugging, I
palm the cup again. “Or I do now. Back when I lived at home,
I wouldn’t dare. Nothing in my room was safe from being
confiscated.”
Her lips part in surprise. Yeah, I don’t suspect she had any
idea how truly confined I was as a kid. An old discomfort rolls
through me, as ugly and itchy as a hair shirt. I shed that past
long ago, but some things never truly go away; we just try to
forget them as best as we can.
“I got into writing after high school.” After the letter.
Another twang of regret plucks me. I don’t mention that damn
letter. I have some pride. “Helps me gather my thoughts.”
Delilah nods slowly, her eyes still wide and on me. “It
does,” she says after an awkward second. I get the feeling
she’s more surprised we have something in common. I’m not.
Even when being around Delilah made me want to tear out of
my skin just to get away from her judging eyes, I knew we
were forged from the same metal.
“Why did you become a chef?”
She visibly jolts at the question, clearly not expecting it.
Her palm, still on the journal, makes a slow, smooth circuit of
the leather. “Aside from loving to cook?”
She’s evading, and we both know it. I hold her gaze,
letting her see that I won’t hurt her here. “Aside from that, yes.
You could have cooked for yourself and done something else.”
Delilah licks her upper lip. It’s a quick nervous gesture I
saw her do dozens of times when we were kids. But she never
was one to shirk from answering—at least not with me—and
she doesn’t disappoint this time either. “I went to college
because it was what I was supposed to do, you know?”
I nod. Because I did the same. Follow the track society set
for me.
“Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed it. But the closer I got to
graduation, the more scared and less satisfied I became. What
the hell was I going to do when I got out? I felt . . . stifled. I
had this urge to create . . . something.”
 “Like something’s pushing against your insides, wanting to
get out.”
“Yes, exactly!” Delilah’s words flow with more ease. “I
asked myself, what was it that I most enjoyed? And I realized
it was cooking. Food was my joy.”
“So you followed your joy.”
Her slim finger traces the edge of the journal, the one that
looks almost exactly like mine. “A mentor of mine once told
me that food is a commonality that binds us all. We all need to
eat to survive. But in eating, creating dishes that gave us
pleasure, we developed a story of our humanity as well as the
story of who we are as individuals. Food is tied to so many of
our memories.”
“I once read a quote that good food heals our soul.”
“The right dish certainly can.” She leans toward me, her
gaze intent and bright. “Give me a memory of food that makes
you happy.”
She wants to heal me with food? Strange thing is, I’m
fairly certain she’s already doing that.
I answer without thought. “Grilled cheese sandwiches your
mom used to make us after school.”
She blinks, pink lips parting, but recovers quickly with a
warm smile. “Yes.” In a flash, she moves to the fridge and
pulls out a few packs of cheese.
“You’ve been hiding cheese in there?” I say with mock
outrage.
She smirks. “I’m not going to forgo cheese. You never
look in this thing, do you?”
“It makes it worse if I do.”
Delilah puts the cheese on the counter, then goes about
gathering bread and butter. She has a thick loaf of farm bread
that she cuts in slices.
“You’re going to make me a grilled cheese? Actually
cheat?”
 From under the fan of her lashes, her eyes gleam. “I won’t
tell if you don’t.”
I fall just a little further under her spell, my walls
crumbling in places I never thought they’d weaken.
“And I’m not making it,” she adds, taking out a frying pan
and turning on the stove. “We are.”
I stand and stop by her side. “I can make a grilled cheese,
but not like your mama’s. They always come out too dark on
the bread and too cold in the center.”
“That’s because you haven’t learned the proper way.”
Together, we construct the sandwiches, using a blend of
muenster, because it was what her mother favored, and
provolone, because Delilah thinks it adds a deeper flavor—and
liberally buttering the bread because, Delilah informs me, it’s
all about the butter.
“Now,” she says, laying two sandwiches on the hot pan.
“Here is where you learn that cooking involves all the senses.
Taste, yes. But also sound. Listen. The butter is sizzling. No
sound means it’s not cooking the right way. The pan is either
too low or too hot.”
We listen to the sizzle.
“Sight,” she says. “We need to see that beautiful butter
hopping and bubbling around the edges of the pan.”
Dutifully, I watch. How can I not? She is in total
command.
“Smell.” She wafts her hand over the pan, letting the warm
scent of browning butter and bread wash over us. “This is
more important when you’re adding herbs and spices. Does
the dish smell as it should? It’s something you learn on the
way. Flip the sandwiches.”
I take the spatula from her and do as asked. The bread is
perfectly browned.
“Feeling. You have to feel how the food is behaving. The
texture of it. Now, with grilled cheese, you don’t want to cook
it too fast, or the cheese won’t melt. Hear how the sound has
dimmed?”
I nod.
“We need to add more butter; turn the heat down just a
bit.”
She walks me through the entire process, teaching me to
control the heat, baby the sandwiches to get them how I want.
All the time our shoulders are brushing, our moves in
coordination for a common goal. A sense of calm spreads over
me. I’m not thinking about work or the outside world. I’m not
angry or empty. I’m filled up. I’m here, with her.
We get the sandwiches on plates, and she hands me a
knife.
“The best part. Cutting it open.” Her brow wings up in
warning. “Only cut on the diagonal. Down the middle is a sin
against grilled cheese.”
“Please,” I say, with feeling. “As if I’d sink so low.” I
make the first cut and am rewarded with a fine crunch of
sound, followed by the ooze of gooey cheese. Perfection.
“Taste. Take a bite,” Delilah urges with childlike
excitement.
It’s just a sandwich. A kid’s treat. It feels like more.
I take a bite.
“Close your eyes,” she says. “Tell me what you think when
you taste it.”
You.
Me.
Delilah wearing braces, her thick hair pulled back in a tight
ponytail that highlights the roundness of her face. Her gold
eyes glaring at me from opposite her mother’s kitchen table.
Home.
Safety.
 A tremor goes through my gut. I open my eyes, wanting to
step away from the counter. From her. But she’s watching me
with rapt eyes. Waiting for an answer.
“I remember those days,” I say thickly. “Your mama
yelling at us to wash our hands or we wouldn’t get a snack. I
remember how we all ate those grilled cheese sandwiches
quickly so each bite would be just as crisp and oozing, and
she’d warn us that we’d burn our mouths with our gluttonous
eating habits.”
Her gaze holds mine, her voice soft now. “And we didn’t
care because it was too good to eat slowly.”
“Yeah.” The air is thick with memories—and us. I have the
insane urge to step into her space, touch her cheek. Just touch
her.
Delilah blinks, and the spell is broken.
“This is almost exactly like your mama’s,” I say to fill the
silence. “But better.”
She makes a dubious face. “No one makes them better than
Mama.”
“You do.”
Flushing again, Delilah pours us iced tea, and we eat in
relative silence.
“So you’re a chef because you want to evoke memories?” I
ask after a time.
“Not exactly.” She wipes her hands with a napkin. “So we
agree that food evokes memories, but a chef is doing
something a little different. She’s telling you a story through
food. If she does her job correctly, she’s taking you on a
journey, making you taste things in a new way, making you
stop, think, and appreciate the food. A chef not only feeds you;
she gives you pleasure. She illuminates.”
Heat sweeps under my collar, and I struggle to get it under
control, but damn she makes it sound almost illicit.
Unaware of my struggle, Delilah continues, “Good food is
theater in a way, but the audience participates.”
 “We’re both entertainers,” I say with a start of surprise.
“I guess we are,” she agrees after a second.
“So why catering? Why close it down?” I can’t help
myself. I want to know her as she is today, not as she was
before.
Her words come out with measured slowness. “When I
was in New York, working the line, all those monstrous hours,
I used to dream of catering, where I could slow things down,
have a bit of a life outside of cooking.”
Her smile is wry. “But then I got to LA and started up the
business. I became stuck with the strange whims of my
clientele, worrying about parties and how they would go. My
creativity faltered.” Shaking her head, she shrugs. “I found I
didn’t want that, either, which makes me wonder. Do I have
what it takes? How can I if the thought of constantly working
turns me off?”
A frown works across her face, and she ducks her head as
though she doesn’t want to meet my gaze. She probably thinks
she’s said too much.
“When we’re filming,” I say. “We have such long hours I
lose track of days. Hell, sometimes I’m so tired I don’t even
know who I am anymore. It’s exhausting. Sometimes, I want
to say, ‘Fuck it, I’m done.’ But then I think of not working
anymore and feel empty. I never expected acting to fill a void
in me, but it does. So I keep going.”
The moment the words are out, I feel the truth of them. I
love what I do. And I’ll be damned if I hide away because of
one bad incident. No more hiding out. No more fear.
My breath comes easier than it has in weeks. “That you
want more out of life than constant work doesn’t mean you
aren’t a chef. It means you are human.”
The expression on Delilah’s face is one I haven’t seen
before. It almost looks like gratitude. I don’t know what to do
with that. She shouldn’t feel grateful. I’m the one holding her
back. The knowledge wraps itself around my throat and
squeezes. She shouldn’t be here in Sam’s place. I should let
her go. I should say it. But I can’t seem to make my mouth
form the words.
Delilah takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. “In a
weird way, being here has helped put things into perspective.”
“What do you mean?” I ask through stiff lips.
She tilts her head back and sighs. “A chef has to discover
who she is and how she wants to express that to the world.
What is the story she wants to tell?” Her big soft eyes meet
mine. “I closed the shop because I realized I didn’t exactly
know the answers to all that.”
“And being here helps?” I want it to be true, but I can’t
believe it. I’m a hindrance, not an asset.
“I don’t know if help is the right word,” she drawls with
slight humor. “More like I’m learning about myself through
adversity.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
Her laugh is light and oddly carefree. “Don’t look so
pained. It was my choice.”
Sadly, that doesn’t help a bit.
“And when this is done?” The thickness in my throat
swells, making my words rough. “Will you still go on that
tour?”
She worries her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth. “You
know, for the first time in years, I’m not looking forward. I’m
just concentrating on right now.” She appears to find this
surprising, almost funny, if her huff of laughter means
anything. “I don’t want to think about the future.”
In that we differ. For the first time in years, all I see is the
future. It’s dark and empty, and what scares the ever-loving
hell out of me, what makes me get up and leave the kitchen a
short while later, is that it will be because she’s gone.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Delilah
Macon and I do not mention that evening on the porch.
Whether this is by silent, tacit agreement or it simply doesn’t
register as any big deal to Macon, I don’t know. I can’t ask
because, as stated, I refuse to speak of the incident. It’s a
struggle not to think about it, either, but I manage. Mostly.
There are occasional flashes of memory—how very good it
felt to rest on him, how very delicious he smelled, or the heady
feeling I got just hearing the deep rumble in his chest when he
laughed. Those unfortunate snips of memory I push away as
quickly as I can. But they disturb me. Mostly I’m disturbed by
how easy it was to cuddle up to him.
But in the dark of night, when I’m huddled under my
covers alone and too sleepy to fight it, a trickle of regret will
steal over me. It was more than comfortable there with Macon.
For the first time in my life, I felt seen. And for an all-too-brief
moment, it was perfect.
And then there’s Sam. I know without a doubt I won’t see
her until she’s good and ready to be found, that guilt and
shame have pushed her into hiding. This is far worse than the
time she disappeared for a month after blowing a semester’s
worth of tuition on a weekend in Vegas with her girlfriends.
Daddy was alive then and mad as hell. She only came slinking
back when she ran out of money, and only then—I’m
convinced—because she knew Daddy wouldn’t actually kill
her.
She’s got no such assurances when it comes to Macon.
Good God, she sold his trust and his literal safety. I know
that’s why she left. The watch was probably an impulse theft, a
quick way to get cash. Ugh. Everything feels turned on its
head. I want to protect my mother’s tender heart as much as
ever. But I also want vengeance for Macon. I don’t want to
leave him alone in this. If, at age seventeen, someone had told
me that I’d feel protective of Macon Saint, I’d have laughed
my ass off and called them a liar. Now? Damn it, I don’t know.
The hurt and still very vocal girl in me says get the hell out of
here and protect yourself. The adult in me says that maybe
Macon isn’t so bad. Maybe he could be . . . what? A friend.
I shake my head at that, scared and freaking confused. And
I work. Work always helps.
We settle into a routine of sorts. Macon goes about his
business—whatever that may be—and I plan my menus and,
after getting Macon’s okay, set about planting a vegetable
garden along the side of the property. The place already has a
good amount of lemon, avocado, and olive trees dotted
around. Something I take advantage of as much as I can.
The assistant aspect of my job isn’t the greatest; I’m either
shopping, picking up Macon’s meds and whatever else catches
his fancy, or bringing meals. But mostly I field his calls. So
many calls. And Macon doesn’t really want to accept any of
them. I’ve become the queen of giving lame excuses.
His issues aside, there is one personal issue I have to
manage, and fairly quickly. I hunt Macon down and find him
in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee.
“I have a problem,” I say without preamble.
“Oh? Is it sex related?” With a brow waggle, Macon leans
against the countertop. He’s tall enough that his butt rests on
the top of it. The perfect height that, if he wanted to, he could
set a woman on that cool marble, spread her legs, and . . .
What is wrong with you? Stop thinking about sex, you
hussy. A shudder moves over my shoulders, and I push those
thoughts away. Push, push, push. So many unwanted thoughts.
It’s getting crowded in my mind now, harder to hide away
from things I don’t want to address.
“Hardly. My mother keeps texting me. She wants to know
about my new job and is asking questions.”
“So answer her.” He pours me some coffee and slides it
my way. “Or are you having trouble with what you should
say?”
 I shake my head. “No, I’ll tell her . . . something. I’m not
sure what at the moment, but it’ll come. Thing is, I owe her a
birthday lunch.”
Macon pauses and looks at me from under his straight
brows. “You were preparing her brunch when I first texted.”
“I never finished.” I set my cup down. “I want to go home
and host a makeup brunch.”
“This is your home now,” Macon says in a quiet tone.
“Host the brunch here.”
My home? It doesn’t feel like that in the slightest. “Here?
You’d be okay with that?”
His dark eyes are guileless. “Why wouldn’t I? I love your
mother.”
“I know.” After he befriended Sam, Macon was at our
house at all hours. Mama took him in like a stray puppy. There
was always a seat open to him at our table. Even when he was
being a shit to me.
“You two need to put aside your stubborn pride and mend
this rift, Delilah,” my mother said when I complained. “If that
boy needs safe harbor from his homelife now and then, I’m not
going to deny him because you have a bee in your bonnet.”
To this day, I have no idea why she thought of Macon’s
visits as a safe harbor, given that his favorite pastime at my
house was to dog me at every opportunity.
I shake those memories aside. If I think of them for too
long, I’m going to want to throw my mug at him. I have to live
with my nemesis now. The past needs to stay in the past.
Macon is frowning at me as if he’s working things out in
his head. Maybe he’s remembering things as well. Sometimes
I wonder how he views our past. Does he imagine himself the
wounded party? I suppose he was at times.
Whatever the case, he crosses his arms over his chest and
gives me a level look. “Quit trying to pick a fight, and call
your mother, Tot.”
 Patronizing . . . I bite my bottom lip and shake my head.
“All right, then, prepare to be invaded.”
Macon raises his cup in salute. “Bring it on.”

Exactly one day later, Mama and her best friend, JoJo,
descend upon Macon’s house with wide eyes and gaping
mouths.
“Well,” my mother says. “I can see why you’d give up
trekking around Asia if you get to work here. It’s simply
beautiful.”
So far, I’ve told Mama the bare minimum—that I took a
job as a personal executive chef—and left out the part of
assistant because I knew she wouldn’t buy it. I insisted that the
pay and opportunity were too good to pass up, all the while
fighting down the bitter taste in my mouth that came from
lying.
When she pushed for more, I promised to fill her in when
she came for lunch.
We have the house to ourselves. Macon and North are
down in LA, doing God knows what. I think they made up an
excuse in order to flee.
Mama’s blue-gray eyes, so like Sam’s, are alight with
interest. “Who on earth are you working for, Dee?”
“Let me guess.” JoJo grabs my wrist in excitement.
“Someone famous. It has to be. Famous people value their
privacy,” she says to Mama.
Maybe it’s because they’ve been friends for so long, but
despite the fact that Mama is pale and blonde, and JoJo is dark
and brunette, they look remarkably alike. Both wear their curly
hair cut in bobs that pouf out like triangles around their
delicate faces, both are of a height, and both love to wear
loose-fitting capris and flowing tunics in various animal prints.
Standing together now, they look as if a cheetah collided with
a zebra.
Unexpected tears prickle behind my lids, and I have the
urge to rush over and beg for hugs. Because the two of them
together make me feel like a kid again, safe and protected. I
always looked upon them with awe, wanting to be as uniquely
confident as they were when I grew up. I still want that
confidence.
JoJo is on the move, investigating the great room for clues.
“So,” she says, peering around. “Who is it? A movie star? Big
producer? Musician? Tell me he’s handsome.”
“Maybe her boss is a woman, Jo.” Mama smiles at me.
“Put your sexist auntie JoJo out of her misery, and tell us,
sweetheart.”
Auntie JoJo flips Mama the bird under the guise of
scratching her eyebrow. As much as I’d love to see them go at
it—because their squabbling can be epic—I take a breath and
confess. “It’s Macon.”
Mama tilts her head as if she’s misheard. “Macon?”
Dully, I nod.
Her mouth slowly drops open. “As in Macon Saint?”
“Macon Saint?” JoJo parrots. “Sam’s childhood beau?”
Ugh. I hadn’t really thought of Macon in those terms
lately. It somehow makes it all worse—Sam’s theft, the fact
that I’m taking up her debt, all of it.
I clasp my hands tightly. “Yes.”
They exchange a long look.
Mama’s voice is subdued. “I see.”
I fear she does and scramble to reassure. “It’s a great
opportunity. Macon is famous. Chefs get a lot of exposure
working for famous people.” I fear that sounds as horrible to
their ears as it does mine.
But JoJo gives me a kind look. “This is true. And if I do
say so myself, Dark Castle is my favorite show. Have you
seen it, Andie?” she asks my mother.
“No. Or rather, I viewed the first few episodes.” Her pale
cheeks pinken. “But then there was that scene.”
 “Ah, that scene,” JoJo says, failing spectacularly to hide
her grin. “I must say, it was a shock to see . . . that.”
Yes, “that” being Macon’s ass. It seems the whole world
has seen his ass except for me. I’m beginning to feel sorely left
out.
Mama’s color deepens. “I couldn’t look. It was like seeing
my own son . . . you know. For Pete’s sake, how was I
supposed to watch after that? It isn’t as though I could do a
search. ‘Will Macon Saint have sex on Dark Castle tonight?’”
I snicker and quickly swallow it down. “I haven’t watched
either.”
Big mistake.
Mama’s expression turns sharp. Another glance at JoJo has
my honorary auntie suddenly finding a deep interest in the
view.
Mama moves close to me and sets a cool hand upon my
wrist. “You know I’m not one to question your choices,
Delilah, but you’re truly working for Macon Saint? Living
with him?”
“I’m not living with him. I live on the property.” It sounds
lame even to my ears.
She shoots me a quelling look. “Macon has his good and
bad points, just like anyone else. But the two of you got on
like gas and fire. He’s the last person I’d expect you to work
for. Now, tell me what is going on with you.” Her eyes pin me
to the spot. “Is it money? Has it something to do with Sam? It
must, what with the way you’ve been desperately searching
for her.”
My mother isn’t stupid. I knew she’d figure some things
out. So I have my excuses planned.
When lying, it’s best to stick as closely to the truth as
possible. You’d think Sam taught me that, but it was my
daddy. Trick is, I have to tell my mother a twisted version of
the truth for her to believe it.
With a sigh, I meet her gaze. “Sam stole money from me.”
 Mama’s expression crumples. “Oh, Sam, my misguided
baby. My stupid, misguided child.” With a shaky hand, she
cups my cheeks. “Tell me everything.”
I feel like a heel. A horrible, lying heel. “She took my
savings, and I’d already closed up shop, as you know.”
Grimly, my mother nods.
“Macon had heard about my catering through friends and
happened to call at an opportune moment. He offered me a job
as his assistant and chef. The pay is enough that I can save up
to go to Asia next year.”
“This won’t do,” Mama says. “I have some money—”
“No, Mama. Absolutely not.”
Her lips purse. “It’s my money. I get a say—”
“Not with this.” I lay a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already
given my word. I won’t turn back on that.”
With clear reluctance, she nods. And I smile. “Besides,
look at this place. I’m not hurting here. It’s beautiful, and the
work is easy.”
She glances around and then shakes her head. “It is. But it
won’t stop me from tanning your sister’s hide when I find
her.”
“I’ll help you do it. But you know Sam won’t turn up until
she’s good and ready.” I take her elbow and guide her back to
where JoJo is staring out of the living room window and
undoubtedly eavesdropping the whole time. “Now, who’s
hungry for lunch?”
JoJo takes my free arm. “I’m starved, doll.”
I lead Mama and JoJo out to a table set beneath a vine-
covered trellis on the north side of the lawn. There is much
oohing and aahing over the ocean view before they inspect the
table. I managed to find a natural linen tablecloth, some
tumbled glass votives, and a large chrome-and-wood hurricane
lamp. Mixed with his everyday creamware plates and
Mexican-style glasses, the setting is as nice as I can make it.
 “This is lovely, pumpkin,” Mama says, touching one of the
sprigs of rosemary I tucked into the linen napkins. “You didn’t
have to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s your birthday lunch, Mama. And it was no trouble.”
“I can’t believe this view.” JoJo sighs as she stares at the
ocean. She turns our way, and her salt-and-pepper curls lift in
the breeze. “That boy has excellent taste.”
“He always has.” Mama takes the seat I pull out for her.
“Thank you, dear. Though I will say, I had no idea TV acting
paid so well. Oh, don’t give me that look, Dee. I know it’s
tacky to mention money, but we’re family.”
I roll my eyes and pour her a glass of sweet tea.
JoJo takes the seat to her right. “He’s a star in one of the
most popular shows on cable, Andie. I expect it pays well.”
“Not this well.” Mama waves a hand in the general
direction of the lawn.
Knowing that Macon might return home at any moment
makes me itchy. I cringe to think of him overhearing my
mother and her best friend being gossips.
“Lemonade or sweet tea, Ms. JoJo?” I cut in before they
can say more.
“Lemonade for me, angel.” She leans past me to look at
my mother. “This is likely from his family money. Turns out
Cecilia’s family was richer than a shiny-toothed television
evangelist.”
“I knew they had money, but not to that extent.”
JoJo gives a careless shrug. “Old money doesn’t like to be
showy.”
Mama nods sagely, and I press my lips together in
irritation.
“Does it really matter if Macon comes from money?” I
snap without thinking.
Mama grimaces and sets her cool hand on top of mine. “Of
course not, baby.” She smiles brightly. “Well, obviously you
two have made nice this time around.”
A noncommittal hum is all I can manage.
“I always thought Macon was secretly sweet on you.”
I can’t help but snort. “Sweet on me? Not a chance. His
loathing was real.”
“Now, I know he could be . . .”
“An asshole?”
Mama pretends to be shocked. “Language, Delilah.”
It’s JoJo’s turn to snort. Though my mother has excellent
manners and is the soul of kindness, she also curses like a
trucker when she thinks her children aren’t around to hear. I
don’t consider that a flaw, but it is amusing when she tries to
put on airs.
“He was horrible to me,” I say firmly.
Mama waves a hand. “That doesn’t mean anything. You
know, they say boys are meanest to the girls they like the
best.”
“I hate that saying. Meanness is meanness. To tell a girl
that there’s some sort of benevolent action behind it all is to
say that it’s okay for her to be victimized.”
Mama stares up at me for a moment, then shakes her head.
“You’re right, pumpkin. I don’t know why I said that.”
JoJo snorts again. “Because you and I were raised with
‘boys will be boys’ tossed in our faces.” She sits back in her
chair and turns her face to the sunlight. “I say it should be
‘dicks will be dicks, and a misbehaving dick deserves a knee
to the balls.’”
Mama and I look at each other and then start to laugh.
“Well,” Mama says finally with a faint gasp. “There you
go, Dee. If that boy gets out of line, knee him in the balls.”
“Hopefully I won’t give her cause to do that,” says a deep,
amused voice behind us.
I’m ashamed to say we all jump like escaped convicts.
 Macon stands, leaning slightly toward his good leg, the
sunlight glinting in his black hair. A slight smile plays on his
lips. His gaze meets mine, and a flush of . . . something goes
over me.
“You’re back.” I try not to make that sound like an
accusation. And fail.
A taunt flares in his eyes. “I am.”
He lingers a second longer before turning his attention to
my mother.
“Mrs. Baker, Ms. Davis, you’re both looking well.”
“As are you, dear boy,” JoJo drawls. “So handsome. You
have the jawline of a young Robert Redford, even if it is
hidden by all that scruff. Now come over here, and give your
elders a proper kiss on the cheek.”
I barely refrain from coughing “cougar” under my breath.
Macon grins and strides forward, making it look effortless
even with a cane and a severe limp. Dutifully, he leans down
and kisses both JoJo and Mama on their presented cheeks. As
he pulls away from Mama, he gives me a sly wink before
straightening, and I know he’s going to put on a show—sweet,
gallant Macon Saint.
“I hear felicitations are in order, Mrs. Baker. Happy
birthday.”
Mama all but titters. “Why, thank you, Macon. And please
call me Andie.”
His smile is all charm. “I don’t think I’d be able to. It
would feel disrespectful. You’ve always been Mrs. Baker to
me, ma’am.”
Lord, help me.
But Mama soaks it all up. “Sweet boy.”
Traitor.
“Look at you,” she goes on. “All grown up.”
“That I am.”
 “I’d read on Twitter that you’d been hurt.” Mama glances
my way as if somehow I’m responsible. I bristle, but she’s
back to patting Macon’s hand. And I try to wrap my head
around my mother trolling through Twitter.
“I’ll be fine in no time, Mrs. Baker.”
“Yes,” I add. “He just needs to rest.” Go rest, Macon.
His brow raises as if he hears my silent demand. And I get
a look that says, Not on your life, Tot.
“We’re about to have lunch,” Mama says, killing my hope.
“You should join us.”
Oh, hell no. “I’m sure Macon has other plans—”
“Why, I would love to, Mrs. Baker. How kind of you to
ask.”
He goes to grab an empty chair from across the way, and I
glare at Mama, who gives me a pinch under the table. I rub my
thigh and get up. “I’ll just be a moment. Help yourselves to the
fruit plate.”
Grumbling, I head for the kitchen with Macon’s rumbly
voice haunting me as I go. I’d made Macon a plate of food and
left it in the fridge. I add it to our lunch, tempted to sprinkle
some cayenne on it. Wily interloper. He’ll charm Mama, and
all I’ll hear about for months is how sweet and wonderful
Macon is.
When I return, he’s holding center court at the table. He
sees me approach, and his eyes light up with mischief. But he
doesn’t say anything as I set down my massive tray on the
sideboard and begin to serve lunch.
“Why, Delilah,” Mama says. “This looks wonderful.”
I’ve made squash blossoms stuffed with pimento cheese
mousse—because my mother loves pimento cheese—and for
the main course, lobster salad on fresh sweet potato rolls and a
simple roasted-corn succotash and jicama-fennel slaw as sides.
“Delilah is a great chef,” Macon says. “Since leaving
Shermont, I hadn’t given much thought to food. Then Delilah
comes back into my life, and I find myself craving all the
time.”
An awkward beat falls over the table. He said it with a
straight face, but damn him, his words have me hot and
bothered and thinking of sinful cravings that are most
definitely bad for me.
JoJo clears her throat delicately. “Good food will do that to
you.”
Macon quirks a brow my way as if to silently say,
“Indeed.”
I cut him a glare and attack my sandwich with vigor.
Silence descends as we eat, but then Macon wipes his lips
with his napkin and turns my mother’s way. “Perhaps you can
settle an argument, Mrs. Baker.”
“Don’t tell me you kids are going at it again.”
For some reason the words hit me entirely the wrong way,
and all I can picture is Macon and me truly going at it. Against
a wall, all hot and sweaty. And hard. So very, very hard . . . I
reach for my lemonade and spill some in my haste.
The tops of his cheeks become slightly ruddy. “Er . . . no,
not exactly. Delilah tells me she’s named after an aunt who
drowned in a pie.”
I make a face at him, and he returns it while my mother is
distracted by taking a sip of tea.
“Ah, yes, Great-Aunt Delilah, smothered by strawberry
rhubarb.”
“I didn’t know rhubarb was involved,” Macon exclaims as
if the addition of it makes all the difference.
“Cuts the sweetness of the strawberry with a little tart,”
JoJo explains.
Completely straight faced, Macon nods. “I like a little tart
with my sweets.”
I struggle not to roll my eyes.
 “Personally,” Mama goes on, “I can’t stand to eat
strawberry rhubarb pie anymore. Reminds me of death,” she
confides in a lowered voice.
With a groan, I rest my head in my hands.
“I much prefer a nice buttermilk pie or coconut cream,”
she tells Macon.
“Chocolate chiffon is my favorite,” JoJo puts in.
Macon keeps his eyes firmly off me as his mouth twitches.
“I’m partial to warm peach.”
“Oh, for the love of pie,” I exclaim. “Would you please tell
us why I was so named, Mama?”
She gives me a chiding look. “Your patience leaves much
to be desired, Delilah.”
Macon clearly struggles not to laugh. “I’m always saying
that, but she thinks I’m picking on her.”
“If your leg wasn’t broken, I’d kick it,” I say sweetly
before giving my mother a pleading look. “Go on, Mama.”
“It was your father who picked the name. He did so love
his aunt.” She takes a bite of her lobster roll, then dabs her lips
with a napkin. “I wanted to call you Fern.”
“Fern?” I rear back. “Do you know the amount of verbal
abuse I would have gotten at school over Fern?”
Macon clears his throat, then presses a fist to his mouth
like he’s trying to force it to behave before speaking. “It would
have been a lot.”
“Mostly by you,” I add with some asperity.
His grin is quick and unrepentant. “Probably.”
“I told her not to do it.” JoJo helps herself to another
squash blossom. “I said, ‘Andie, your girl will hate you for
this. You want her to at least make it to her teen years before
she tries to kill you.’”
“What’s wrong with Fern?” my mother asks, spreading her
hands in exasperation. “It’s from my favorite book, Charlotte’s
Web.”
I can’t . . .
Macon’s broad shoulders are shaking, his face red behind
the fist he still has covering his mouth.
I lean toward my mother. “Then why didn’t you name me
Charlotte?”
Mama blinks at me as if I’m off my nut. “I couldn’t do
that! Charlotte dies at the end. It would have been bad luck.”
Agitated heat blooms over my chest. “Aunt Delilah died!
By pie!”
Macon loses it with a great burst of rolling laughter. He
laughs so hard he leans back in his chair, holding a hand to his
chest. He laughs so hard his eyes turn into little triangles of
glee.
All the women at the table are momentarily stunned by the
spectacle because Macon Saint full-on belly laughing is an
undeniable thing of beauty. He’s so jovial that it makes me
start to smile. Before I know it, I’m laughing too. Mama and
JoJo fall under his spell as well, and soon we’re all laughing
like a bunch of loons under the yellow sun.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Delilah
SammyBaker to DeeLight: Why is there a viral video
of you singing on a chair?
DeeLight: Sam! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?
Had to get away for a while. Don’t worry.
What’s with the singing?
That’s all you have to say? What about this
mess with Macon?
Don’t worry about him either. I’ll deal with
that when I get back.
R U Kidding Me? When? When are you
coming back?
A few months. Just need to take care of some
things.
Months! Damn it, Sam!
Good chat, D. Turning my phone off now.
Sam!
Sam!

“Fucking bitch!” I toss my phone across the bed and lean

back into the pillows, my nerves jumping and sizzling like hot
oil. After all this time, she finally texted. And jerked my chain,
giving me next to nothing. I’m so pissed and shocked I don’t
know what to do.
I can go to Macon, tell him . . . what? Sam’s definitely
hiding out, but hey, she’s coming back in a few months, which
means, technically, I win the bet. Only I don’t know if she’s
bringing back the watch or exactly when she’s returning. No,
he’ll just get worked up into a froth like I am. And for nothing.
Because that’s what she gave me.
 Why did she text? She’d seen my video? So despite her
claims, she is using her phone. And she is coming back. I
believe that much. Girl can’t stay away forever. She’s too
damn nosy and too damn used to being the center of attention.
I’ll let her get comfortable again, wait until her guard is
lowered, then send out another feeler. That’s all I can do.
Pushing it will just make her dig in her heels.
Grumbling, I roll out of bed and head for the shower. She’s
managed to ruin my morning and leave a sick, ugly feeling in
my stomach. The craziest thing about my situation? I hear
Macon moving around in his room and find myself in the same
predicament I awake with every day—excited to see him.

In the four weeks since the accident, Macon has been in

self-imposed seclusion. He’s slowly getting better; the black
eye fades away; the slash over his brow heals to a faint scar
that merely gives him more of a rakish appearance.
While his leg is still in the walking boot, his wrist and ribs
are now unwrapped. He works out with North every day,
doing a modified routine.
Being more mobile clearly makes him antsy. And he soon
tells me to accept an invitation to a charity luncheon on
Saturday. Which is fine—I’m glad he’s getting out of the
house and back into life—only I have to go too. It’s a daytime
event, which means fairly casual, but I’m still stuck in a little
black A-line dress and sensible heels, trailing behind Macon as
he walks the red carpet, camera flashes going off like
starbursts, people calling out his name.
North blends with the crowd, his job as bodyguard not as
needed with all the security manning the event. I’m met by
Timothy Wu, Macon’s publicist. The energetic man’s
enthusiasm tires me out within minutes, but I have to say he
totally rocks a pinstripe suit and yellow polka-dot tie.
Timothy takes me under his wing, and together we answer
press questions, take numbers, and run interference whenever
someone he deems unacceptable tries to get too close to
Macon. I quickly learn about press-publicist vendettas and
backbiting.
“That bitch,” Timothy hisses in my ear after waving off a
woman with promises to keep in touch. “She completely
misquoted Macon in an interview. Made it sound like he was
ungrateful for his success with Dark Castle.”
One thing I know for certain about Macon is that he never
takes his work for granted.
“Then why did you agree to set up another meeting?” I ask
Timothy.
He shrugs lightly. “Her magazine is too popular to ignore
her.”
That pretty much sums the whole thing up. Here, Macon is
a commodity, a product carefully crafted and handled. It isn’t
that he’s fake; his genuine nature is still there—that’s what
makes him so appealing—but it’s as if a glass wall has been
dropped between him and everyone else. And what we get to
see is a picture, not the true man.
Everyone here is the same. All of them walking around in
their own glass cases—everyone in on the lie. I hate it. Hate
that I have to trail behind, acting as though the most important
thing in the world to me is Macon’s image and what people
think of him.
I am a chef, not an assistant. I want to learn how to make
noodles in Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Shanghai. I should be
taking wok lessons with my friend Sammy in Beijing. We met
in cooking school and exchanged emails when he took a job at
a luxury hotel in China. Visiting him was my first stop.
The invitation is open ended, but the wait chafes. Sam’s
texts chafe. She’ll come back soon. Great. Wonderful.
I miss my kitchen, miss the rhythm and flow of it when my
staff and I were preparing a big dinner. I miss the scents of
good food sizzling in hot pans. I miss the alchemy of food.
Cooking for Macon is challenging in that I have to come up
with health-conscious meals that taste so good he doesn’t
know what he’s missing. So far, I’m only half-successful
because the man wants his desserts, and he wants them badly.
Sitting with other assistants at a table in the back of the
room, I try to suck it up. I shouldn’t complain; I signed up for
this, begged Macon for a chance to make amends. And Macon
hasn’t been the asshat I expected him to be. That’s part of the
problem. I like him. I’m attracted to him—that’s an
understatement. My body is not my own anymore. He’s taken
control of it, made it fluttery, overheated, wanting, needy. I’m
a strange mix of giddy and anxious all the time.
Worse, my mind isn’t my own either. I think of Macon
when I go to sleep, and I think of him again when I wake up.
And for once, thoughts of Macon aren’t haunted or angry but
of things that make me smile—his ridiculous jokes, the way
his eyes crinkle when he smiles, even the way his jaw works
when he eats an apple.
“Lord,” I mutter, taking a sip of white wine. I disgust
myself. I’m sitting here all . . . moony. While he’s up at the
front, chatting with a tableful of equally beautiful people.
By the time the event is over, I’m contemplating trying
hypnosis to get the man out of my head. We’re to meet up
outside, where a line of cars is pulling forward to pick up
celebrities. Over the sea of people milling around and
conversing, Macon spots me. The stern expression that is his
natural resting face lightens, a subtle curving of his lips, a lift
of his slanting brows. But it’s the emotion in his eyes that gets
me. When Macon looks at me, it’s as if I’m the only thought in
his mind. It’s always been that way, only now, instead of
seeing resentment and irritation in his eyes, I see genuine
pleasure.
In that moment, everything melts away: the horrible
tension in my neck, the tetchy feeling in my belly. Warmth and
a flutter of anticipation fill me instead. Macon still uses a cane
—this one is ebony with a silver skull handle, which makes
me smile—but he wields it well, his gait more of a swagger.
He looks every inch a star, ruggedly gorgeous, in a gray
bespoke suit that emphasizes his height and capable shoulders.
He doesn’t wear a tie but has his white shirt open at the collar,
exposing the hollow of his throat. He steps to my side, his
hand touching my elbow. “There you are.” As if I’m a child he
lost track of.
I bite the inside of my cheek because the snappish feeling
returns, and it isn’t his fault that I’m moody.
“Here I am,” I reply as people jostle us.
His hand slips to the small of my back, guiding me around
two Oscar winners. “You should have sat with me.”
I try not to stare at one of my childhood crushes, who
apparently is my height—you learn something new every day.
I tear my eyes away before I’m caught gaping like a rube.
“Macon, it was a twenty-thousand-dollars-a-plate function.
Staff doesn’t sit with the stars.”
His firm lips go flat. “Next time, I’ll buy you dinner, and
we’ll sit anywhere we damn well please.”
Don’t make me like you any more than I already do. But I
can’t say that without revealing too much, so I give him a
weak smile. “That’s sweet of you, but I don’t mind. You’re
working.”
He makes a noise of dissent under his breath. “I kept
forgetting you weren’t there, and I’d lean over, wanting to
whisper something in your ear, only to find Chris looking back
at me as if I’d lost my mind.”
My lips twitch. Chris being Chris Chadsworth, one of
Hollywood’s hottest stars. “Maybe he thinks you’re sweet on
him.”
“Oh, I’m sure my hand on his knee clinched that.” He
winks when I laugh, but something in my tone must give me
away because his expression quickly turns concerned. “What’s
wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Nothing I can fix, and nothing I
wanted him to notice, at any rate. I’m not going to complain to
him, and it irritates me that I let any cracks show. I try to make
my voice lighter. “I’m a little tired; that’s all.”
 It doesn’t fool Macon for a second. His eyes move over
my face as if he can somehow read my mind if he looks hard
enough. “No, something is bothering you. Tell me what it is.
Please.”
It’s the gentle “please” that gets me. At this point, evading
his questions will only make him latch on and try to weed
them out, thinking the worst.
“I feel out of place here,” I confess in a low voice.
The tense line of his shoulders relaxes, and he ducks his
head so his lips are closer to my ear. “I do too. Everybody here
does.”
I cut him a disbelieving glance. “Don’t patronize me,
Macon. It isn’t necessary. You fit here like hand to glove. And
I sincerely doubt your colleagues feel out of place.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says dryly, but he lets out an
expansive breath. “Let me clarify, because you’re both right
and wrong. There are times when I am working, and I feel like
I’ve finally found my place, my people. And that feeling? It’s
fucking awesome, Tot. A relief. But right on the heels of that
is this dread that it can all go away in an instant. Unless you’re
absolute Hollywood royalty, most of us here never truly feel at
ease.”
“That’s how it is to be a chef as well.”
Dark eyes sharpen as he peers down at me, and a cloud
forms over his fine features. “You’re miserable doing this,
aren’t you?”
I can’t deny it, so I look away. Between the folds of my
skirt, his hand finds mine. He links our fingers together, giving
me a slight tug so that I have to look up at him. I see the
remorse in his eyes. “You are.”
“Macon . . .” I push away all my self-pity, ashamed that I
let it show. “I’m fine.”
“No.” His grip becomes a little tighter. “You’re not. Let’s
end this deal. Reopen your catering business, and do functions
again. You can use the kitchen at the house until you get back
on your feet.”
 “No,” I say firmly. “We had a deal. I’m not running scared.
I can take it.”
His brows lower. “I don’t want you to ‘take it.’ I was a
dick to agree to any of this when I knew I was only doing it to
give you a hard time.”
Warmth runs over me like a balm. “It was my idea, and we
both know it. I’m not leaving you in a lurch, Macon. It
wouldn’t sit right.”
With a huff of clear frustration, he runs his free hand over
his hair. “I don’t want this anymore,” he rasps, so low I almost
miss it over the din of the crowd. “Not if it comes at the
expense of your happiness.”
I don’t know what to say. Our arrangement sits like a cloud
over us, but so does Sam’s theft. In the dark corners of my
mind, I wonder if my reluctance has anything to do with Sam.
Or if it’s all Macon.
“My happiness was never part of the equation,” I whisper,
more to myself than to him.
Macon opens his mouth to retort but catches sight of
something behind me, and his body jolts as if hit. Blood drains
from his face, turning his skin the color of sun-dried mud. I
step toward him, my fingers touching his wide wrist, and find
his pulse racing.
“Macon . . . ?” But I then see what he sees, and my mouth
dries.
The man striding toward us is an older, grayer version of
Macon. Same beautifully carved bone structure, same slanting
brows and coal-dark eyes. Only his mouth is different, thin
and flat with a bitterness that appears to be a permanent
affliction. There is a bloated look about his neck and face from
hard drinking, a reddened cast to his puffy skin.
George Saint wastes no time with pleasantries as he stops
in front of his son. “Knew I’d find you here, prancing like a
peacock in front of the press. Always were desperate for
attention.”
 Macon has regained some of his color, and his voice
comes out hard and sharp. “I’d say something about the pot
calling the kettle black, but you don’t have enough self-
awareness to get it.”
George Saint narrows his eyes, and while the gesture is
reminiscent of Macon’s, it holds such cold ugliness that in that
instant, they look nothing alike. “I thought I beat the disrespect
out of you. Clearly I should have hit harder.”
My blood runs ice cold at his words, and I expel a breath
that hurts when it leaves my lungs.
Though he doesn’t look my way, Macon hears me and
shifts his weight, his wide shoulders half blocking my view as
if he’s trying to put a wall of defense between me and his
father. “The only thing your hits taught me was to hate.”
Macon’s words are nails punching deep. “But understand this
well. I hit back now. And I hit much harder.”
George’s florid skin pales before the red returns with a
vengeance. “You owe me my due, boy.”
“I left you in one piece,” Macon snaps back, though his
voice is low and strong. “Given what I wanted to do, you
ought to thank me.”
“I will end you,” George hisses, spittle wetting his lip.
“Tell everyone who you really are. Worthless, spineless little
shit—”
“No!” The word erupts from my mouth like a shot.
Somehow I’ve spoken without planning to, rounding past
Macon and stepping into George Saint’s space without
realizing it. But I’m not backing down. Rage colors my world
a blinding white, hazing the edges of everything. It surges
through my blood like quicklime. “You will do no such thing.
You will leave this place and crawl back under the rock from
which you came.”
I’m in a fine fix now, my body shaking with rage. “This
man is the best of you, the only good you will ever know. And
you will have to go through me to ever touch him again.”
 The din of the crowd returns full force when I, at last, run
out of steam. But I am no less enraged—merely resting. And
then Macon moves, just as his father seems to step forward. It
all happens at once, a sort of strange, ugly dance in which
Macon wraps an arm around my waist, tucking me to his side
as he also straightens, his stance so menacing that George
Saint falters.
“Enough.” One word from Macon’s mouth. A threat and a
promise. Whatever George does will be met with the
impenetrable wall of Macon’s resolve.
His father’s cold eyes land on me. “I recognize you now.
The dumpy Baker girl with the big mouth. Used to fight like a
cat with my boy. Knew he wanted to hate fuck you then. Told
him not to bother since he had the beautiful slutty sister
begging for it.” He sneers at his son. “Should have known you
wouldn’t listen. Slumming now, boy? Must be a new chunky
kink.”
Macon’s grip on me tightens even as my breath catches
painfully in my throat. He clearly feels my reaction, and his
hand spreads wide and warm over my side.
“Shut your ugly mouth while you still can,” he says to his
father. Against my cheek, his heart beats swift and light into
his ribs. Tremors go through his middle, but he hides it well.
“If you think for one second you’re safe because we’re in
public, you’re wrong.”
So far, no one seems to have noticed our argument. People
are laughing and chatting in groups. But that could easily end
with one good hit.
“I think,” George Saint says, leaning in, “that you’d snivel
and plead just like you did as a snot-nosed boy.”
Macon doesn’t move, doesn’t show an inch of emotion,
but I feel the recoil in his body, the hurt that he undoubtedly
hates acknowledging. Because family, whether we like them
or not, has the power to tear our hearts out. They know just
where to twist the knife in.
 My hand goes to his chest and presses lightly against his
racing heart. “Come away now,” I say, looking up, the whole
of my attention given just to him. “There is no reason for you
to be here anymore.”
His eyes have a sheen, but he blinks, a sweep of thick
black lashes, and his gaze is clear. “No reason at all,” he
agrees in a soft voice. “Come on, honey.”
He turns us to go when George Saint lashes out a final
time, his ugly barbs finding their mark on my skin. “Put on
your airs, girlie. But I know you’re nothing. A by-blow,
unwanted and left behind. Only picked up by the Bakers
because they felt sorry for you.”
Macon halts, his long body humming like a struck tuning
fork. I, on the other hand, am numb. It serves me well when I
place a hand on Macon’s back and urge him forward, silently
pleading with him to ignore the hateful man who gave him
life. And he does. His arm is firm around my waist, holding
me up, as he guides me away.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Delilah
There is an incessant ringing in my ears as I walk along
with Macon, a pained smile plastered on my face. I suppose
he’s wearing some semblance of a pleasant expression as well,
but I can’t make my body work enough to check. The entirety
of the nasty encounter with Macon’s father probably took all
of two minutes. And yet it was enough to feel as though I’m
coated in a sticky grime from inside out. A greasy lump of
emotion slides down my throat, and I swallow convulsively.
Blindly, I let Macon lead me, the crowd ebbing and
swelling around us. And then we are at the car, North stepping
up to open the back door for me. But Macon touches his arm,
leaning in so that no one else can hear. “I need the keys.”
Whatever North sees in Macon’s eyes is enough to sharpen
his gaze. He gives Macon a quick nod. “In the ignition.”
Shutting the back door, he then opens the front passenger door
for me. His eyes hold concern, and I give him a tight smile as I
get in.
Inside the big Mercedes SUV is blessedly cool, the air
running in a steady hum, Sia playing softly on the radio.
Shaking slightly, I lean back against the plush leather as
Macon rounds the car. With an impatient grunt, he tosses his
cane in the back and then slides into the driver’s seat with deft
ease, even though he has a broken leg, and the walking boot
isn’t small.
“Should you be driving?” I can’t help asking. My voice is
like gravel, my throat hurting as if I’ve been screaming. He
shoots me a quelling look, something wild in his eyes as if he’s
holding on by a thread, and I lift a hand in placation. “Right.
Carry on.”
Another grunt, and we’re off, smoothly pulling out onto
the road. Neither of us says a word as he maneuvers through
traffic without hesitation. Horrible accident or no, it becomes
clear that Macon is an excellent driver. Memories of sitting
through driver’s ed class with him when we were sixteen flit
through my head. He’d been the teacher’s pet then, something
that annoyed me as usual. The more so when he beat my class
record time for parallel parking by one measly little second.
I glance his way now and find him staring grimly at the
road. Sweat peppers his temple, and his jaw begins to twitch,
but he keeps on driving with determination as if he just needs
to get to his destination and everything will be okay.
Oddly, he’s not heading back to Malibu but south toward
Hollywood. I don’t question it but relax as much as I can and
watch the passing scenery with disinterest. He turns the car
into Griffith Park and heads for the loop trail. At the first
empty overlook, he pulls over and turns off the car. In the
silence, the engine quietly ticks.
Macon draws in a breath, then leaves the car, shutting the
door behind him. I scramble out of my seat and follow. The air
is sweet with the scent of eucalyptus and wildflowers and hot
in the afternoon sunlight. Macon paces for a moment, then
leans his forearms on the roof of the SUV. His shoulders
hunch as he struggles for a breath.
With a violent curse, he slams his open hand on the roof.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Each curse punctuated by a hit to the car.
Silently, I watch him, afraid to get too close, afraid to
move too far away. His eyes squeeze tight for a long moment,
and then they open wide, his gaze landing on me. “Are you all
right?” His voice cuts into my tender skin.
“I’m fine.” I don’t sound it, but I don’t think he’ll argue.
“Are you?”
He ducks his head again, his jaw working, then turns to
glance out at the city below. His thumb drums upon the metal
roof in a hollow rhythm. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Your father’s despicable behavior? Or that we
had to deal with him? I can assure you, neither is even
remotely your fault.”
His smile is dark and pained. “Feels like it, though. Fuck, I
hate him.”
 “He is a hateful man,” I reply softly.
Macon makes a noise of agreement, but it ends up
sounding strangled. He ducks his head again, his fists
clenching, and I don’t know what to say to make it better. I’m
still reeling both over what George Saint said to Macon and
the nasty way he treated us.
Macon’s flat voice breaks the silence. “Remember that
time in seventh grade when I was distracted and collided with
you in the science hallway, and you accused me of doing it on
purpose?”
Given that I seem to have a photographic memory when it
comes to Macon, I do. The memory doesn’t sting anymore but
fills me with wry amusement. “Distracted, my aunt Fern. You
denied it. Said you didn’t see me. But I’d yelled out a warning
right beforehand, so how could you not have known I was
there?”
Deep grooves line his tight mouth. “The reason I didn’t
hear was because I had water in my ears from the night before
when my father held my head down in the bath as punishment
for coming into the house with dirty cleats.”
Horror flows over me in a ripple, leaving my head light
and my stomach heaving. “Macon . . .”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand, his eyes both hard and
pleading. “Just . . . don’t.”
I halt, giving him the barest nod of understanding. There
are times for comfort and times when an ounce of sympathy
can break you.
Sadness shadows his eyes. “All those years, from the very
first, you always seemed to know exactly what made me tick,
and I swore you could see my every weakness. I assumed that
somehow you knew I’d been beaten. It was so humiliating that
I’d lashed out. I hated you because I thought you saw my
shame. I thought you saw it every time you looked at me.”
“No,” I whisper thickly. “I had no idea that he . . .” I can’t
finish without wanting to rail at the sky or turn around and
hunt down George Saint.
 Macon’s snort is weak and without humor. “I know that
now. And I feel so stupid for my assumptions. And for
befriending Samantha instead of you. Empty, shallow Sam,
who would laugh at your discomfort and encourage my
pettiness. I saw her as an ally. She and I were alike that way,
lashing out at others until it became our idea of fun.”
Rooted to the spot, I search for something to say, but I’m
struck mute.
Macon shakes his head softly and squints up at the sky.
“So you see, I’m more like him than you think.”
That gets me going. “No. Not even a little. You said it
yourself. He taught you to hate. The fact that you’re even
worrying about being like him makes you nothing like him at
all.”
Far from comforting him, my words seem to hit hard. His
shoulders bunch under the fine wool of his jacket as his lips
flatten. “He always used to say I was nothing like him. A
complete disappointment.” Bittersweet eyes glance my way.
“That it was to my good fortune I was his spitting image, or
he’d think I was the plumber’s child.”
“He didn’t deserve you,” I snarl, giving the words Macon
said to me about Sam back to him. “And he never will.”
A humorless smile barely touches his mouth. “He thinks
he deserves the money, though. He’s been trying on and off to
sue me for it since my mother died.”
“Truly?” Though I’m not shocked. Not in the slightest.
His expression turns grim. “Problem is, he signed an
ironclad prenup.” At the sound of my surprised breath—
because I was not expecting that—he meets my eyes. “My
grandfather rightly believed my dad was a grifter. He insisted
on protecting my mother’s assets. Dear old Dad got nothing
but what he made on his own.”
“I’m astonished he agreed to it.”
“I think the idea was that he’d say yes to gain my mother’s
trust, then charm her into tearing it up.” Macon swallowed
with effort. “A failed plan since he couldn’t keep his temper
for very long.”
Growing up, I barely saw Macon’s mother, but I remember
her well—petite, bone thin, with chestnut hair that always fell
in a sleek sheet to the tops of her shoulders. Her eyes, the color
of a winter lake, were wide and round and haunted. There was
a fragility about Cecilia Saint that made a person want to both
protect her and feel just a bit sorry for her.
“Did he . . . did he hit her too?”
“No.” Something like gratitude softens his voice. “He
knew better. You know the sad thing? She was divorcing him
when she died. I found the papers. He hadn’t yet signed.”
We’re both silent for a moment. My throat is thick and
sore, the need to give him a big hug fairly strong. But I stay
still. “I’m sorry, Macon. I’m sorry the wrong parent left you
and the shitty one keeps finding ways to hurt you.”
A car drives by, kicking up dust and swaying my skirts.
Macon doesn’t flinch but studies me with solemn eyes.
“You’re adopted.”
The ghost of George Saint’s hateful words punches into
my heart. “Yes.”
I am not ashamed of the fact. How could I be? Not a single
person has control over their birth. And yet there were times
when it chafed knowing that Samantha was of Mama’s and
Daddy’s blood, and I was not, as if that one little point made
me the lesser daughter.
It didn’t help that Sam was beautiful and popular while I
was the problem child, always getting into rows with Macon
or whoever else gave me trouble. But I was also ashamed for
feeling that way because my parents loved me with all they
had. They never treated me as anything other than their
beloved if not somewhat awkward daughter. So I tried to bury
those feelings so far they couldn’t touch me anymore. Their
lineage became mine. They were all I had. They were
everything. But the worry, the need to please and protect,
always pushed right back up to the surface.
 “Your father was wrong about one point. I wasn’t a pity
case. They adopted me because they wanted a child and
couldn’t conceive. But it’s a long process. Mama was pregnant
with Sam—a complete surprise—when the paperwork for me
came through. She always said she was doubly blessed.” I
hung on to those words for years. They shaped me.
There is a pensive air about Macon, and he clenches his
hands together where they rest atop the roof of the SUV. “I
didn’t know. How did I miss it?”
I understand what he’s saying; I am short, curvy, dark
haired, and brown eyed. My skin is light beige in the winter
and golden brown in the summer. Mama and Sam are blonde
and blue eyed, tall, thin, and milk white in the winter and
slightly less milky in the summer. Daddy had the ability to tan
deep bronze, but his hair was blond as well, his coloring on the
cooler spectrum, whereas I am all warm tones. Which all
meant that if you saw us all together as a family, I stood out as
different.
“I honestly don’t know—everyone else in town knew—but
even back then it occurred to me that you hadn’t noticed.”
Somehow we’ve ended up standing close together, our
arms nearly brushing. He tilts his head to meet my gaze, his
brows drawing together. “How did you figure?”
“Because you would have said something about it.”
Macon grimaces. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t.”
I can’t help choking on a bittersweet laugh. “Macon, you
always went for the jugular. Hell, you got the whole school to
call me Tater Tot.” Shaking my head, I stare out over the hazy
valley. “I still have nightmares about all those fucking tots
falling at my feet. You still call me Tot, for Pete’s sake.”
For a long moment, we stand there, me breathing a bit too
hard, my chest rising and falling—and Macon staring at me as
though he’s never seen me before.
But then he blinks, a slow sweep of those thick lashes.
“Did you ever find out who your birth parents were?”
 “No.” I lean my butt against the car. “Mama and Daddy
offered to help me connect with my birth parents. But I didn’t
want to.”
Shaking my head, I sigh and study my sensible black
pumps, now chalky with road dust. “I was afraid to open that
particular box. What if my birth parents ended up together and
could have kept me? What if they had a kid right after me and
didn’t give him away? What if they were horrible people? Or
what if the story is just so sad it breaks my heart? My list of
fears were—are—endless.”
With a shrug, I face Macon. “It seemed better to leave it
be. Besides, I have parents. The fact that they did not conceive
me doesn’t make them less my parents.”
“They’re great parents,” he says fondly. “I used to wish
they were mine.”
“Not anymore?” I tease.
A strange look enters his eyes. “That would make us
siblings, so no.”
“Don’t worry; I find the thought of you being my brother
just as distasteful.” Not in the way he probably thinks, but I’m
not saying that.
“I should hope so.” He gives me a quick wink.
I’m silent for a second. “Maybe someday, I’ll do one of
those DNA kits and see what I’m made of.”
“I can tell you that,” he says easily. “Sugar and spice and
everything nice.”
“That mean you’re made of puppy-dog tails?”
Macon shakes his head. “Never did understand that one.”
The past suddenly seems both a distant memory and far
too close to my skin. Lost in his own thoughts, Macon stares
out at the city sprawl all hazy in the sun. Lines of strain mar
the skin around his eyes. “I was a dick in high school.”
Another small laugh escapes me. “Yeah, you were.”
“And you were a brat.”
 I swiftly look his way. “What?”
Macon’s chin lifts a touch. “As I recall, you said it didn’t
matter how good looking I was, I’d always be ugly on the
inside. A worthless soul who would never find redemption.”
A thick, heavy feeling pushes through my chest as I meet
his gaze and the hurt lingering there. I genuinely wounded the
implacable “I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone”
Macon Saint. He never showed an ounce of tender emotion
when we were kids, never let me see anything other than that
perfect facade. But he is now, and I can’t ignore it.
“Damn,” I whisper, clenching my hands. “That was a
shitty and overly dramatic thing to say.”
“Yeah.” His hand brushes against mine. “You always had a
way with words.”
Slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt, he touches the tips of my
fingers with his, and by some silent agreement, I lace our
fingers together. The edge of his thumb strokes a soft path
over my knuckles. I hold still, afraid that any movement will
end the spell and he’ll stop. I don’t understand him. Here we
are, remembering the worst of our fighting, and yet he touches
me as if he loves the texture of my skin and can’t stop himself.
“God, Delilah.” He sounds angry at himself, and that
grimace returns, twisting his features. “The things we said to
each other. We were horrible.”
I have to laugh, and it feels good, despite the lingering
tightness in my chest. “We were fairly terrible.”
He hums in agreement.
I blow out a breath. “I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Don’t be. We can’t change the past, and you didn’t
know.” His fingers twitch, and he leans my way. “When I call
you Tot now, it’s out of affection. But I’ll stop using it if it
hurts you.”
I find myself hesitating. “It pissed me off at first, but now
. . . I’m used to it.”
 “Used to it,” he repeats, disbelieving. “Like an annoying
hangnail?”
He’s clearly laughing inside.
“You’re the hangnail, Macon,” I say blandly, teasing now.
He flashes a quick grin, but it fades as his gaze turns
inward. “I guess I am, at that. I’m sorry I caused you pain all
those years ago, Delilah. I was an unhappy person back then,
and you took the brunt of a lot of it, unfortunately.”
A lump rises in my throat. His expression is steady, the
breadth of his shoulders stiff as if waiting for my censure. I
swallow thickly. “I shouldn’t have said those nasty things to
you either. They weren’t true.”
He lets my hand go. The loss of his touch takes the
lightness from me. And an air of melancholy settles over my
shoulders. I wrap my arms around my middle.
Blinking up at the sky, I take a deep breath and let it out.
“Well, today has been a day.”
“A shit day,” he agrees with a husky laugh. “With dry
chicken and uninspired roasted vegetables.”
“I wasn’t going to say it, but yes.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and studies the
horizon. The sun is riding low in the sky, obscured behind the
haze of smog. “How about we do something entirely unlike us
and call a truce?”
A truce. Which means we’d be something closer to friends.
Macon Saint as my friend is something I never thought I’d say,
but it feels right. Friends I can handle. I think.
“All right.” I clear the thickness from my throat. “I’d like
that.”
He gives me a measured look that sends a frisson of heat
over my chest but then winks, all easy charmer. “Good. I
wouldn’t like to think my chef might poison me one day.”
With a gasp, I put a hand on my chest. “I’d never stoop to
poison. If I wanted you dead, I’d go for the jugular.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Tot.”
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Macon
Timothy arrives at the house chipper as fuck, which does
nothing to help my headache or my own shit mood.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announces, setting a big box on
the breakfast nook table.
I follow him farther into the kitchen. “Somehow I doubt
that.”
He grins wide. “You’re right.” After taking the lid off the
box, he pulls out a fake ax and plunks it on the table before an
empty seat. “You’ve got stuff to sign.”
The show and I have made an effort to give away
autographed memorabilia for charities. Throughout the year, I
host ball games and fun runs for kids or travel around with my
costars to meet and greet certain groups, but until I’m up for
travel, it’s down to signing things and having Timothy and his
crew distribute them.
“Do you think my social media pages are shit?” I find
myself asking as I sign whatever he hands me.
He pauses. “Hmmm . . . let me see . . . I do recall saying as
much, oh, I don’t know, about fifty times over the past year.”
He delivers his sarcasm so sweetly.
My mouth twists. “I remember.” And I do. Faintly.
Problem is, as PR is my least favorite part of the job, I tend to
block a lot of things. Timothy knows it and makes it as pain-
free as possible. Which is why he’s worth his weight in gold.
He helps himself to a glass of Delilah’s sweet tea and
makes an appreciative noise.
“Careful.” I fight a smile. “That’s the real deal and
probably about a thousand calories.”
I’m fairly certain Delilah keeps it on hand just to torture
me. I snuck a glass yesterday and drank it down like a sailor
who found a lost cask of rum. A lump swelled in my throat at
that sweet taste of childhood. Specifically, my childhood at the
Baker house.
Timothy hesitates, glass halfway to his mouth, then shrugs
and takes another sip. “Fuck it. I’ll do extra cardio today.”
I sign a small poster of me dressed as Arasmus. “Some
days, I really do miss living in the South, where I could drink
my sweet tea in peace.”
“Take me with you,” Timothy says. “Because this stuff is
divine. Where’d you get it?”
“Delilah makes it.”
“I like that girl.”
I sign a faux leather gauntlet, writing along the edge of it.
“I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“No need. She knows. And where is your superchef slash
assistant today?” He glances around the kitchen as if she’ll
suddenly pop up from behind the counter.
“In her room.” She hasn’t come out yet, even though it’s
eleven. Nor did I get my morning smoothie. I’d give her shit,
but I don’t really want to. Dealing with my father left us both
bruised but brought us together in a way that was both
unexpected yet inevitable. Nothing between us is how it
should be. The problem is I don’t know how to make us right.
Or even if there is an us.
Whatever the case, it’s not like her to hide out. I clench my
pen and focus on the repetitive work of autographing.
Timothy sets his empty glass down. “So tell me, why the
sudden interest in your social media?”
My shoulders stiffen. “No reason. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Right. I totally buy that. Completely.” He takes a seat on
the banquette and drums his nails on the tabletop, watching
me. “Delilah gave you shit, didn’t she?”
“Why do you think it was Delilah’s idea?”
“Because she’s smart and clearly not afraid of you.”
 At that, I smile faintly, but it fades just as quickly. “She
thinks it’s sad. A bad reflection on the real me.”
“It is.” Timothy pulls a small compact from his bag and
checks out his reflection. With a frown, he starts to touch up
his foundation with efficient pats. “But we’ll work on it.”
“Delilah said she’d help me.” I stop, cringing inwardly
when one of Timothy’s perfectly groomed brows lifts.
He snaps his compact closed and tucks it away. “Since
you’re open to touchy subjects today, I’ve been meaning to
talk to you about how we’re handling these next few months.”
I sit back in my chair, flexing my stiff wrist. It’s mostly
healed, but signing isn’t doing it any favors. “What do you
mean, ‘handle’?”
“You were run off the road by a fanatic, Saint.”
“I am aware.”
“There’s speculation about whether you’re affected by
this.”
My pulse thrums in my temple as I gesture to my body.
“Obviously I’m affected. What did people expect?”
His gaze is placid in the face of my growing agitation. “I
meant mentally.”
Of course he did. I glance away.
Timothy sighs. “How could you not be? It would have
freaked me the fuck out. But you don’t want them to see that.”
His voice takes on a note of unwelcome sympathy. “You need
to get out there more often. Let them see you strong and
unbroken.”
A harsh laugh breaks free. “I am not fucking broken, Tim.”
“Bad choice of words.” He reaches out as if to pat me, then
obviously thinks better of that bad move. “Look, we got great
feedback after the luncheon. People want to see you living
your life. The industry wants to see you. So let them see you.”
“Fine, I’ll go out more,” I mutter.
 He bites the corner of his lip, and I know I’m not going to
be happy. “Thing is, Saint, it would look better if you were
seen being happy.”
“Happy?” I run a hand over my hair. “Okay, I’ll bite. How
exactly am I supposed to be happy?”
“I think you should go on a date.”
“A date.” Oh, fuck no.
He scoots forward. “Now, don’t give me that look. Let me
explain first.”
“Then hurry up and explain.”
“Going out on a date brings speculation away from the
accident and focuses it on your love life.”
“Seeing as I don’t want anyone focusing on my love life,
that’s hardly an inducement.”
Timothy sucks the inside of his cheek as if he’s trying to
hold back a retort. “Anya Sorenson. Do you know her?”
The question catches me off guard. “Yeah, sure. She’s
doing great work on Gauntlet.”
“Yes. But she’s new. She needs some good press.”
“And you think being seen on a date with me will give her
that.” I snort. “Come on. Really?”
“Yes, really.” He smacks my forearm. “Stop being obtuse.
You’re hot right now. Could be hotter. But you’re still one of
entertainment’s most desirable single actors.”
I roll my eyes.
“So if you go out with Anya, it will both help her with a
PR boost and get people talking about you in a new, upbeat
way. Come on; she’s great and a huge fan of yours. Her
publicist says they’d really appreciate the help.”
I hate that he makes sense. And that he’s set me up to feel
guilty if I turn Anya down. There’s only one problem. “Man
. . .” I rub my tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m up for dating.”
 “I get it. But it isn’t dating. It’s a date. Basically an acting
job, if you think about it. You’ve done it plenty of times.”
I have. Numerous fake dates set up by my publicist. All to
create an image I’m not sure I like anymore. It would be a lie
to say I didn’t enjoy some of the dates. Truth is, I enjoyed the
fringe benefits of them a bit too much. Oftentimes, they started
as an arrangement, but both of us had been more than willing
to end the night with casual sex. A nice release from all the
pressure with someone who knew exactly how the system
worked.
I have to force myself not to look toward the kitchen
doorway that leads to the hall and, beyond that, Delilah’s
room. Going on a date with Anya shouldn’t feel like a
betrayal. I’m not cheating. Delilah and I have only just called a
truce. Hell, she’s my employee. The fact that I can’t stop
thinking about her doesn’t matter. Nothing can come of this
. . . whatever it is, anyway. So why not go out, get on with my
life? Get her out of my head.
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“Great,” Timothy all but squeals. Thankfully, he keeps it to
a minimum before picking up his phone. “How about
tonight?”
I choke out a laugh, the pressure of an unwanted emotion
sitting heavy on my chest. “Don’t waste time, do you?”
“What’s the point in that?” He shrugs, busy texting Anya’s
rep, if I had to guess. “It’s not like you can get time back.
When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Delilah
“Delilah.” The voice drifts through layers of warm sleep,
peeling them back and tugging at my elbow. “Delilah . . .”
Frowning, I burrow down farther into my bed and ignore
it. I know that voice, and I don’t want to listen to it. Sleep is
my friend. My happy place. A blunt-tipped finger grazes my
neck. The touch skitters over my skin and down my spine.
With a strangled cry I flail around, my arms caught in the
covers.
A masculine chuckle has my eyes popping open. Macon
sits on the edge of my bed, grinning down at me with evil
satisfaction.
“You ass chapeau,” I hiss. “You know how ticklish I am.”
Thus far, he’s never used this particular ammo on me,
though I dreaded it in my younger years.
“Ass chapeau is a new one.” He glances at my neck as if
contemplating another go at it.
I narrow my eyes and haul the covers up. God, he smells
good. I want to curl over and inhale him. No, down girl. Bad,
bad, bad Delilah. “Why are you in my room?”
He’s sitting too close. Close enough that I feel his body
heat. Now I know from experience that he’ll feel warm and
strong. A perfect perch to rest on. I pull my blanket up higher
in defense.
“You wouldn’t answer your texts.” Macon holds up my
phone as evidence. “You have this on silence.”
“Yes, I do that when I don’t want to hear my phone,” I
deadpan. “Hooray for technology.”
He cuts me a sidelong glance and flicks the phone off
silent mode. A barrage of questions comes at me in an
authoritative clip. “Why are you still in bed? Did you know
it’s eleven thirty? What’s wrong?” He crosses his big arms
over his chest and waits for an answer with impatience.
Something about Macon tugs at my core. I am aware of
him on a level that I’m not with anyone else. Is it because of
our past? Or is it just base attraction? Likely both. I know he
wants to be friends. Friends who flirt. I know this, but I can’t
yet trust it.
Macon clears his throat, his brows lifting. I haven’t
answered him, and he’s obviously not going to go away until
he knows why I’m in bed.
 “I have my period,” I say. “I feel like bloated death, and I
don’t want to get up.” True. But also not true.
The left corner of his lips twitches. “You’re just gonna
come right out and say that, huh?”
“Should I be ashamed of a normal bodily function?”
The tops of his cheeks turn ruddy, and he grunts.
Not really an answer, so I curl up on my side and try to get
comfortable again. Earlier, I’d been a twitchy ball of throbbing
distress, but a couple of pain meds have me nice and relaxed.
“I’m going back to sleep now. Make your own breakfast.”
“I already did.” He leans closer, bringing the scent of the
sage soap he uses and something purely Macon. The scent of
him is so familiar, burned into the many layers of my memory,
that in my weakened condition, it makes me feel like I’m
home. I don’t like that idea one bit. I stare up at him with a
brow raised to question his invasion of my personal space.
He huffs out a breath as if I’m cute in the way angry
kittens are, then returns my look. “You going to get up at all?”
So much for repressive glares. “Nope. Make your own
lunch too.”
“Delilah.”
The warning in his tone has me snorting. “You really don’t
want to mess with me right now, Con Man. I have superhuman
powers bestowed upon me by the period goddesses.”
Sadly, there is no such period goddess, only an evil she-
devil who makes my life a living hell once a month. I’m weak
as twenty-second tea and abnormally tired. My boobs hurt,
too, and there is no way I’m wandering around Macon’s house
without a bra. Hence, my self-imposed day in bed.
Also, not entirely the whole truth. I need a break from
Macon. He’s too much for me right now. I shouldn’t be
craving the sight of him. I should be able to think of things
other than Macon’s laugh, Macon’s teasing ways, his dark
honey rumble of a voice. Argh! I’m doing it again.
 “Shoo,” I mutter. “Go away before someone drops a house
down on you too.”
Macon rolls his eyes at my Wizard of Oz quote and then
hauls himself up, using his cane for leverage. “Fine. But I’m
giving North the employee-of-the-month award.”
“Unless the award is a chocolate cupcake that is delivered
to my mouth in the next five minutes, I don’t care.”
He snorts, but a ghost of a smile is in his eyes. “Sorry, I
award red velvet.”
“Pfft. Be gone with you, then.” I wave him off, knowing
he isn’t so easily dismissed but finding small gratification in
teasing him.
As predicted, Macon doesn’t move but rests a hand on his
hip and peers at me from under the dark fan of his lashes. All
the humor bleeds out of his expression, and I find myself
frowning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s hesitating. The
moment pulls tighter between us, and he lets out a breath,
squeezing the back of his neck with one hand. It is unfair how
good that makes his bunching biceps look.
“Take the whole day, then,” he finally says. “I’m going out
tonight.”
The way he says it has my hackles rising. I shouldn’t care;
he can go wherever he wants. But there’s something almost
guilt laden about the way he looks at me. Why would he be
guilty?
“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out. “Have fun.”
His lips press together as if he’s fighting some internal
battle, but then his chin rises. “If I’m not back for breakfast,
I’ll text.”
Ah. That’s why. My stomach does a weird, sick lurch. He’s
going on a date. It should be expected; while I might call him
an asshat, there’s no denying he’s gorgeous. Hell, he’s famous.
That right there would get him laid even if he needed to wear a
bag over his head and had chronic halitosis.
 Shit, I’m too quiet. I shrug my shoulder as if it doesn’t
weigh a ton. “Kind of you to let me know.”
His expression turns stony, and I find myself replaying my
words. Was I too flippant? Not enough? Whatever the case, I
clearly didn’t convince him that I am unmoved. And that is not
okay. It’s a struggle to play off tired grumpiness when a lump
of inconvenient and unwanted jealousy sits heavy on my chest.
But I try. “Is that all? Because the ibuprofen is kicking in, and
I’m getting sleepy again.”
Macon’s nostrils flare with an indrawn breath, but he gives
me a bland look. “Nope. That’s it. See you tomorrow, sleeping
beauty.”
Tomorrow? As if it is now a sure thing that he isn’t going
to come home. As soon as he leaves, shutting the door quietly
behind him, I pull the covers over my head and curse my damn
raging hormones. I miss him as soon as he’s out of sight.
Damn that too.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
Delilah
I didn’t lie when I told Macon I needed rest. Well, rest and
wallowing. As soon as he’s gone, I tuck into a quart of coffee
fudge ice cream that I hid beneath a bag of frozen peas,
knowing that Macon hates peas and would never think to look
behind them. Yes, I’ve become that chef, managing her client’s
diet even when not around. Bah.
Bitterness coats my tongue, and I can’t blame the ice
cream. Tossing the empty carton into the kitchen trash and
cleaning off my spoon, I find myself at a loss of what to do
next. I’ve slept too long, and the house is too empty. Outside is
a wall of darkness, and the lights in the kitchen reflect my face
back to me in the window. I look tired and puffy. And there is
a zit on my chin.
“Lovely,” I mutter, instantly wanting to mess with the
thing. Determined to rally, I march to my room, slather on a
pore-tightening mask, and take a long hot shower. Bundled up
in my robe, I put out an SOS call to my friends.
In high school, I used to think I’d get out of my small
town, find my people, and fall into a glamorous life similar to
Sex and the City. Didn’t happen that way. I made friends, but
over the years those relationships have changed. People move
away, get married, get mired in their careers. Some are even
having kids now. Which all means there’s little time for
hanging out in bars, and I talk to friends less and less.
Now, I’m starved for some conversation, anything to get
my mind off things. Predictably, some friends are busy—it’s
Friday night, after all—but Jia answers, asking me to come
visit her and Jose at their restaurant. They are two of my
favorite people, and the thought of hanging out with them
gives me a boost of energy needed to get dressed.
Before I head out, I sit on the edge of my bed and pick up
my phone. No messages. Why would there be?
 Macon won’t text; he’s on a date.
Good.
Great.
Wonderful.
Loneliness washes over me with such stunning force I
actually suck in a sharp breath as though it might drown me.
The backs of my eyelids prickle with uncomfortable heat. I
take another quick breath and find myself texting, even though
I know it’s useless.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: I don’t know where
you are or what you’re doing. I shouldn’t even
care anymore, but I do. What I didn’t get to tell
you earlier is that I’m living in Macon’s house. I’m
constantly reminded of what you did—I know
you told those stalkers where he’d be. I’m so
ashamed of you for that. Maybe I could
understand if you would TALK TO ME. But you’re
hiding. Damn it, Sam, this needs to end. Macon
deserves better than what you gave him. Yes,
Macon. He’s not so bad. Not anymore.
I hit send, then rapidly type out another. It feels safe,
somehow, texting to someone who won’t get the message.
Like a silent confession.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: I like him, Sam. I
like him a lot.
Quickly, as though Macon himself might sneak up on me
and see what I’ve written, I close the text screen and head for
my car. It’s only when I’m at Jia’s that I realize the texts to
Sam didn’t bounce back to me this time.

Macon
I used to be decisive. It was one of my best qualities. I
reflect on this bitterly as I pop a piece of sashimi in my mouth
and chew like it’s tough steak instead of silky, fresh tuna. God
damn, even the taste of the food makes me think of her.
Delilah—the woman destroying my decisiveness.
I should be thinking about the woman sitting in front of
me. Anya Sorenson. She’s utterly stunning: big liquid brown
eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and flawless skin of
mahogany brown. Anya has the natural shine of a star. People
catch a glimpse of her, and they end up staring. She’s
surprisingly easygoing.
I like her. And I’m being a shit date. I swallow down my
food and bring up a smile. “How are things over at Gauntlet?”
Anya pauses, chopsticks midreach for a piece of avocado
roll. “It’s wonderful. Perfect.”
Her smile is bright. But the edges are strained.
“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”
Her smile falls. “God, do I look exhausted?”
The worry in her expression is one I commiserate with.
We’re not allowed to appear tired and worn.
“Not at all.” And she doesn’t. She’s as luminous as ever.
“I’m simply speaking from experience.”
With a soft sigh, she lets her shoulders slump. “It’s insane,
isn’t it? I feel wired, like I’m constantly humming.”
It’s one reason some actors get into drugs—to stay that
way, or we’re afraid to actually crash and burn.
“I’ve learned to catnap like a boss.” I snag another piece of
sashimi. “It helps.”
“I can’t seem to turn my brain off.” She waves an elegant
hand through the air in a helpless gesture. “It’s just running at
full speed all the time.”
“Lines repeating in your head? Even the ones that aren’t
yours?”
Anya’s expression is wry and knowing. “Hell, I even
remember the instructions my director gives the crew.”
 We exchange grins. Somewhere to my left, I feel the
presence of a camera. I hear it click to take a picture. A quick
look catches the guilty party—a guy setting his phone down
too fast, his gaze shuffling away from my own. I don’t mind,
though. That’s why I’m here—to be seen with Anya.
At least, in part. When Timothy proposed a date with
Anya, that’s how he sold it. But the reason I agreed is a little
more muddy. I needed to get out of the house, away from
Delilah.
She’s avoiding me anyway, making it perfectly clear that
she wants no part of getting in deeper with me. Okay, we
haven’t outright discussed the issue. Because every fucking
time I try, she scuttles off like a crab being chased by a gull.
I know Delilah as well as I know myself; she’s running
scared. I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly peachy right now
either. It’s a shit thing to realize you’re falling for your old
enemy. Makes me question everything. Makes me hesitant. I
hate hesitation, damn it.
My gut churns, and I focus on my date—who is supposed
to remind me that there are plenty of women in the world. One
is as good as any other.
Total bullshit. If people were interchangeable, we’d never
grow attached to someone. It’s painfully clear now that Delilah
cannot be replaced by Anya.
Anya, who is smiling at me, her eyes warm and inviting.
“You know, there is only one thing that gets my mind off work
now.”
She’s close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume. It is
a punch to the gut to realize it’s the same as Delilah’s. I
recognize the scent: apples and brown sugar, smoky caramel.
Only it’s different on Anya. Not worse. But different, oddly
less enticing. It doesn’t get my cock to rise the way smelling it
on Delilah does.
Jesus, I’m in a bad way. I resist the urge to tug at my
collar. “Oh?” What were we talking about again?
“Sex.”
 Right. “Sex.”
Anya’s glossy lips curl in a sly smile. “Hot, sweaty sex.
You know the kind that makes you forget your own name?”
I gulp down some ice water, something inside my gut
curdling. Do I know that sex? No. No, I fucking don’t. I know
how to please a woman. I’ve spent years learning how to best
get them off and begging for me. And why? So they don’t
notice that I’m not as blown away as they are, that I’m only
partially engaged.
Resentment is a bitter taste in my mouth. I have been more
present while flirting with Delilah than any time I’ve had my
head between a woman’s legs. How fucking sad is that?
Why the hell did it have to be Delilah? Why her? Anyone
else, and it would be easy. I’d relish falling. Fuck, I’d dive in
with a running jump.
Why couldn’t it be Anya, eyeing me with interest and
waiting for a reply?
“Sex does a body good,” I say. A stock line followed by
my trademark smile.
I’m sick of both.
Anya licks her bottom lip, then glances around before her
gaze meets mine once more. “You want to get out of here?”
Part of me wants to whimper because she’s making it so
easy. And part of me wants to smash my fist into the table.
Because I don’t even feel a stirring of interest, and I know I
would have two months ago. I would have taken her back to
her place and rocked her world.
And then gone home as lonely as always, you sad sack.
My back teeth meet with a click, and I have to force my
body to relax. I don’t want to hurt Anya’s feelings. I just don’t
want to fuck her.
“Anya, I think you’re lovely . . .”
Her smile fades. “But you’re not into it.”
 Rubbing the back of my neck, I give her the truth. “I’m
into someone who isn’t into me. I tried to get over that tonight.
I’m sorry. It was shitty of me.”
“Hey.” She reaches out and covers my hand with hers.
“We’ve all been there.”
“There sucks,” I mutter.
She laughs. “Very true. But I’ll tell you this; avoiding it
isn’t going to make it go away or get you out of Suckville.”
I give her hand a light squeeze. “I really do wish I wasn’t
stuck in Suckville. You’re a great date.”
Her smile is wide. “In another life, we’re probably really
hot together, you know.”
“Probably,” I agree. But I’m lying. Instinctually, I know it
wouldn’t matter what life I lived; I’d find my way back to
Delilah.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.
It takes too long to end the date and get back home. But
when I do, the house is still and dark, only the front lights on.
On silent feet, I make my way upstairs, not wanting to wake
Delilah, but come to a halt when I find her door open and her
room empty.
She’s gone?
I hadn’t expected that. A humorless laugh escapes. So
damn sure I’d find her here waiting. Such is hubris.
I don’t bother turning on the lights as I head downstairs for
a glass of water. Delilah has been experimenting with flavored
waters in the hopes that I’ll somehow find them more
palatable and less boring than all the regular water I have to
drink.
Her ploy worked. I find myself anticipating each batch.
The current one is cucumber, mint, and strawberries. I pour a
glass and sit my ass down on a chair in the great room.
In the dark, I text North.
Do you know where she is?
 I don’t bother explaining who “she” is to North. He’ll
know.
He answers quick enough.
No. Check the feeds.
The house has cameras set up by the front door, along the
driveway, and all around the front gates. Even though only
North and I can access the feed, I refuse to put cameras
anywhere else. Instantly, I’m reminded that Delilah is out there
and so is one of the women who stalked me.
If Delilah were accosted or hurt by a stalker obsessed with
me, I don’t know what I’d do. The air in my lungs grows thin.
My thumbs shake as I type.
She was supposed to stay home. She was
supposed to be guarded.
Mathias is watching Fredericks. She won’t get
anywhere near Delilah.
Cold comfort when the house is empty, and I don’t know
where Delilah has gone. I don’t care if it’s spying; I pull up the
feed. And there she is, looking edible in a clinging wrap dress
and wearing those red fuck-me heels again. She went out
shortly after I did; it’s one o’clock in the morning now. Oh,
how the mighty have fallen. I told her I was going out all
night, making it pretty damn clear I was hooking up with
someone, and did she stick around, get jealous? No. She went
out on her own. As she should. Only, now I’m home alone,
and I feel like a fool. For many reasons.
I don’t have a name for the emotions roiling around in my
gut, but I don’t like them. Setting down my phone, I close my
eyes and breathe. I have to believe she’s safe. Doesn’t stop the
other thoughts from crashing in.
Never in my life do I regret my youth more than at this
moment. I bullied Delilah out of fear and ignorance. There’s
no excuse for it, and I have no idea how to make up for what
I’ve done. But I have to because this need for her is only
growing stronger, deeper. I care for her. A lot.
 Everything could go up in flames if things go south
between us, and I’ll lose her completely. But sitting here in the
dark, waiting for her to come home just so I know she’s safe,
just so I can hear her voice and see her face, makes it perfectly
clear that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care.
Question is, does she want me? I’ve caught her staring
when she thought I wasn’t looking. She doesn’t seem to
realize I feel her gaze on me like a hot hand stroking my skin.
Every. Damn. Time.
I think of the way she snuggled into my lap with complete
trust and contentment. It was a moment of perfect rightness.
Had it felt that way to her? Maybe. Maybe not. Once she
realized what she’d done, she lit out of there as if her ass was
on fire.
“What am I doing?” My voice is a rasp in the dark. I press
a hand over my aching eyes, soaking up the warmth.
I don’t chase women. I am a loner. It works for me. If I let
people in, they might see something they don’t like. Delilah
already sees things wrong with me. She always has. And here I
am contemplating laying down my pride for her. When pride is
the only thing that has kept me going, I have to wonder if it’s
worth it.

Delilah
The Uber drops me off at the doorstep. The windows are
darkened; only the front drive and hall lights that I left on are
glowing. The sight of it almost enough to sober me up and
take away my happy buzz.
But no, I’m not going to think of him. Nope. Nope-ity-
nope-nope.
I let myself in and am greeted with the silence of an empty
house. The unwelcome thought of where Macon is sits heavy
in my stomach. Leaning on the wall for support, I kick off my
heels, one of them flying farther than intended. It pings on a
wall, and I snort before stumbling toward the kitchen. I need to
drink some water to head off a hangover.
 To combat the awful quiet, I start singing “Comfortably
Numb” again, snickering between lyrics because I know how
goofy I sound.
“Are you singing Pink Floyd?”
Macon’s deep voice coming from the dark has me yelping
loudly. I spin so fast I have to grab one of the columns that
frame the great room so I don’t fall on my ass.
Macon sits in a low-slung armchair by the window, the
light of the moon shining down, turning him into a picture of
grays and whites. His dark eyes glitter as he stares at me.
“Jesus wept.” I press a hand to my pounding chest. “You
scared the spit out of me.” Literally. I think I spit. I wipe my
mouth just in case. I don’t acknowledge the little happy flips
my insides are making at the sight of him. My body is a stupid
traitor to my will.
Macon doesn’t move. “Where have you been?”
It’s not quite a demand, but there is a certain sharpness to
his tone that gives me pause. I walk past him and go into the
kitchen to help myself to a glass of cold flavored water. I take
a long drink before I return to him.
“I went out for dinner.”
One of his thick brows lifts. “Must have been someplace
nice.” His gaze glides over my body. “Like your dress, Tot.”
Why that makes me feel naked, I can’t say. My knees are
weak, and I throw myself into the corner of the couch, all
elegant grace. “I went to Jia’s.”
This time both his brows lift. “I think I’ve underestimated
you.”
A soft snort escapes me. I could let him think I have some
magic clout that gets me into exclusive restaurants whenever I
want, but I’m too buzzed to lie. “I’m friends with the owners.”
“Jia and Jose?” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never met
them. Ate at their restaurant, but they weren’t there that night.
Food was almost as good as yours.”
 My snort is much louder now. “Flattery will not get you a
smoothie at sunrise tomorrow.”
His smile is thin. “It is tomorrow, and I’m sleeping in.”
All at once, I remember that he isn’t supposed to be here.
My head lolls on the couch cushion as I peer at his still frame
in the shadows. “Why are you here?”
“I live here,” he says in that same low, slightly off voice.
“I thought you were going to be out.”
Macon looks away, giving me his tight profile. “I did go
out, remember? Now I’m home.”
Elusive ass. He knows what I’m asking. I roll my eyes and
trace the condensation on my glass before taking another long
drink. Hydration is key. “Bad date?” I venture. God, let it be.
No, that isn’t nice.
The corner of his mouth makes a bitter curl. “I wouldn’t
call it a date exactly.” Macon’s gaze collides with mine.
“Timothy set it up. Anya is a star in another series the network
is promoting. They thought it would look good for us to be
seen together.”
Anya Sorenson, beautiful, bright, looks like a supermodel.
Every interview I’ve seen her in, she appears genuinely
intelligent and kind. Right. Great.
Macon’s gaze slides away again, going back to some
distant point only he can see. “Anya was into it . . . willing.”
He waves a lazy hand as if to fill in the blanks.
I fill them in just fine. A burning sensation rises up my
chest. I think it’s heartburn. “I don’t know why I need to hear
that.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I don’t fucking know
either, Delilah.” With a sigh, he leans his head back and rubs a
hand over his face. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Ordinarily, Macon is in perfect control. That he seems to
be sliding off kilter worries me. “Are you drunk?”
 “No. Why? Do I look drunk?” He smiles as though the
thought amuses him.
“You’re sitting in the dark,” I say shortly. “Making vague
and morose statements. It’s a little creepy.”
Macon cuts me a glare. “Didn’t feel like going to sleep.”
“Okay, sure.”
His glare grows glacial. “And you weren’t home.”
“Were you waiting up for me?” I don’t know how I feel
about that. Mushy? Nope. I’m too sick at the thought of
Macon and “willing” Anya to be mushy.
He frowns and looks away. “No.”
Liar.
“So what? You gave Anya a ride on the Macon train and
then were so exhausted you had to sit here in the dark,
thinking deep thoughts?”
“The Macon train?” he chokes out, then shakes his head.
“Fuck, Delilah, your mouth . . .” He pinches the bridge of his
nose. “There were no Macon rides.”
I let that settle, but my insides continue to flip and flutter.
“Why not?”
Oh my God, shut up, drunken Delilah.
He looks as surprised at the question as I am. But then his
expression grows cagey. “I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t want to have sex with a hot and willing
woman?”
Seriously, you need to shut up.
His gaze narrows on me. “You really want to go down this
road?”
Swallowing thickly, I lower my eyes. “No. It’s none of my
business.” I lift my hand in a helpless gesture. “I’m mouthy
when I’m buzzed.”
“You’re mouthy when you aren’t too.”
 I pretend to put on lipstick with my middle finger.
Macon almost smiles, but he’s still pissy about something.
His fingers drum an idle rhythm on the chair arm, his gaze
turning inward. We’re both silent for a minute.
When he speaks, his words come out measured and slow.
“You ever come to a crossroads in your life? When you think
you have everything figured out, and then you realize you
know nothing? And you have no clue which way to go from
there?”
He glances at me as if he truly wants to know. And my
heart begins to beat a little harder.
“Yes,” I whisper. Truth is, I’m there now.
“What did you do about it?” he whispers back.
The glass is wet with condensation; my hands are too cold.
I grip the glass tighter, feel the skin stretch over my knuckles.
“Mama used to say the brain can lie to you, but the heart
always knows the truth.” I shrug. “Problem is, most of us
would rather believe the lie than face the truth.”
His burning stare licks over my skin, exposes things I
don’t want exposed. “What would you rather believe, Delilah?
The comfortable lie or an inconvenient truth?”
I don’t like the way he looks at me, angry and resentful,
tense and alert, as if he needs my answer but doesn’t want to
need it. There is too much riding on my answer, and I don’t
even know what the correct response should be.
“I think that if my heart was ready to hear the truth, no lie
my brain could come up with would matter.”
Macon draws in a breath and lets it out, his chest moving
with the action, but there is nothing relaxed about him. If
anything, he’s tighter now, heavy and tense in the chair.
“I think you’re right,” he says dully and then turns to look
out the window once more. “Take some aspirin before you go
to sleep.”
Dismissed. I feel it as effectively as if he walked out of the
room. But I’m the one who gets up and walks away.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
Macon
I wake up hungry. Let me amend that; I wake up more
hungry than usual. I want something sweet and creamy. I want
to slide my tongue through honey-slick sweetness and eat until
my mouth grows tired and my body becomes laden with
satisfaction.
Problem is, it isn’t sweets I’m hungry for. Last night,
everything became crystal clear. I want Delilah. No one else
will do. Sam, the watch, my broken trust—those things are
part of the past. If I want a future, I have to let them go.
Delilah might want me, but she clearly isn’t willing to risk
any complications. Which leaves me in a predicament. Ignore
this increasingly painful need, or tell her in no uncertain terms
how I feel and try to find a way to work it out. My gut tells me
to fight for Delilah. My head tells me to proceed with extreme
caution. Since I’m not certain of anything anymore, I get up
and start my day.
After a grueling workout with North, who doesn’t go easy
on me despite my bad leg, I head for the kitchen and the
promise of a smoothie Delilah texted that she has waiting for
me. She stands there, frosty glass in hand, the sunlight that
shines through the windows setting her golden-brown hair and
tan skin aglow.
A lot of skin. So much gloriously curvy skin is on display.
She’s wearing dark-green boy-short bikini bottoms and a fitted
white T-shirt that flirts with the edges of those tiny Lycra
shorts, taunting me with potential glimpses of more smooth,
dusky skin.
I swear to all that’s holy my knees go weak. I bobble a step
and try to play it off as due to exhaustion instead of sheer
fucking lust. “Damn, I’m beat.”
Her expression is wry as she hands me the glass. “North
going easy on you again?” she teases.
 My hand shakes as I take a long drink. Whatever she’s
concocted tastes creamy and spicy, like cinnamon oatmeal
cookies laced with coffee. It hits my system with a welcome
kick and runs icy cold down my parched throat. I set the glass
on the island counter with a sigh and then run a hand over my
face.
“Easy?” I repeat with a snort. “Yes, that’s exactly what I
thought while whimpering like a small child on the floor.”
“At least you admit to crying.”
I flash a quick, tight smile. “I was clinging to his leg,
pleading for my life.”
Evilly, she laughs with glee. “What happened to manly
stoicism? Sucking it up and all that.”
I give her a look of mock outrage. “And where would that
get me? Alone? In pain? Without you to wipe my fevered
brow?” Please come up to bed with me and wipe my brow. I’m
so damn fevered.
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” She’s clearly
trying not to give in to another round of laughter.
“I’m a lit major,” I say easily, even though we’re standing
so close my shoulder is rubbing against hers, and it’s
distracting as hell. “I have an endless supply of melodrama
stored in my brain.”
Despite my attempt to put her at ease, Delilah edges away
and cleans out my glass. “You should probably take some
ibuprofen and a shower.”
I don’t want her to go yet. Seeing her makes my day
brighter. Desperate to keep the conversation going, I set my
hand on my heart as if struck. “That’s all you have to say to
me?”
“What? Did I forget your birthday?” she quips, biting back
a smile.
“I’m in serious pain here. Where is my sympathy,
woman?”
 A laugh bubbles over her lips, and I feel like I’ve won a
damn medal. “Fine, then,” she says, looking up at me with a
patronizing expression. “Poor Macon; want me to kiss your
boo-boos and make it better?”
You have no idea how you tempt me, woman. “Would
you?” I’m not above fighting dirty. I reach for the hem of my
shirt and start pulling it up, exposing my abs. “Because I have
this spot here—”
“Ack, stop.” She’s laughing again, but a fine blush spreads
across her cheeks. Bingo. “Pest. I’m not kissing anything.”
I let the shirt fall back into place. “Tease.”
“Flirt.”
I grin without remorse, then get distracted by the gleam in
her butterscotch eyes. She’s looking at me like I’m a snack. I
don’t think she even knows she’s doing it, but it’s enough to
make my hunger return full force. I’m this close to drooling.
Just to be sure, I run my thumb and forefinger along the
corners of my mouth and am gratified to find her watching the
movement. She licks her full bottom lip. The gesture is so
explicitly hungry that my abs clench, and my cock stirs.
Down, boy. Take it easy.
“Been thinking, Tot . . .”
Her eyes narrow. “Probably best if you don’t.”
Probably. But where would that get us? “I want a dessert.”
She turns and starts wiping down the clean counters like
it’s her new mission in life. “I’ll go to the farmers’ market and
get some ripe fruit.”
“Not. Fruit.” Fact is, I can’t eat a mango anymore without
wanting to suck on Delilah’s tongue. “Something rich and
sweet and creamy.” And now I’m thinking about sinking to my
knees before her. Behind the kitchen island, I reach down and
adjust myself. Having zero experience with flirting, I don’t
think I’m doing a proper job of it. I’m only getting myself
riled up here.
 Especially since Delilah’s expression remains deadpan. “I
don’t think any of that is on the approved list.”
“I think you bring up that damn list to annoy me, Tot.”
“This is true.” She doesn’t bother to hide her glee.
Like a bee to nectar, I drift closer. “Come on, Delilah.
Cheat with me. Just a little?”
Shaking her head in clear exasperation, she tosses the cloth
into the sink and faces me. “All right, just this once. Name
your poison.”
She isn’t in my arms. My mouth isn’t on hers. But it’s still
a victory, and I rub my hands together in anticipation. “Let’s
see . . . oh, God, the choices. Your Totally Toffee-Chip
Cookies? Your Mad Monster Chocolate Cake?” I stop to think
of all the deserts Delilah has made over the years. “Ah. I know
. . . Bountiful Banana Cream Pie. That’s what I want.”
It’s as if I’ve kicked her. Her happy expression ices over
into something hard and angry. “You shithead. You total dick
weasel.”
“Dick weasel? Why? What’d I do?”
She scoffs in disgust. “Of course you don’t remember.
Typical.”
She darts past, giving me a wide berth. I’m left standing
alone and bewildered. Why would she be pissed about her
banana cream pie? She made the best ones I’ve ever tasted.
The fact that I haven’t had a taste since we were thirteen and I
still remember how good they are should tell her . . . the
memory rises up like a ghost.
The annual summer pie contest. Delilah at thirteen,
wearing a pretty blue-and-white summer dress without a bra.
A young brainless me realizing that Delilah had breasts. Words
were said. Pie was thrown.
“Oh, shit.” The heavy thump of my walking boot beats a
rapid staccato as I rush to follow her. “Delilah. Wait. Shit . . .”
I catch up to her by the pool. “Okay, I remember . . .”
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. But, God, that pie had flown. The
splatter was spectacular—a virtual Rorschach test of banana
and whipped cream. “But come on, you have to admit in
retrospect it was kind of funny.”
She rounds on me in a fine fury. “I don’t have to admit a
thing.”
I soften my tone, but a smile escapes. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Delilah’s hands clench. She eyes the pool as though she’s
contemplating throwing me into it, then takes a threatening
step in my direction before halting. “You called me banana
tits.” A flush washes over her face. “Do you know how
embarrassing that is to a thirteen-year-old?”
Right. I was thinking about where the pie landed. She got
so mad at me that she threw the pie at my face. Only quick
reflexes born from years of avoiding getting hit saved me from
a face full of Bountiful Banana Cream Pie. Mean old Mrs.
Lynch, the pastor’s wife, wasn’t as quick. The pie hit her
square in the face.
I clear the laughter out of my throat and straighten my
shoulders. “Yes?”
“Yes? Was that a question or an answer?”
I rub the stubble on my chin, trying to figure out how to
diffuse this bomb. “In hindsight, yes, I can see that. But I was
a kid—”
“It was sexual harassment!” She throws her hands wide.
“You called attention to my breasts in front of everyone. I
would never do that!”
“Now, hold on. In ninth grade, did you or did you not tell
the girls in your gym class that you’d seen me changing out of
my swimsuit, and I had a ‘thimble dick’?”
Her mouth snaps shut.
I laugh, shaking my head. “And we both know that was
complete bullshit.”
“Okay,” she amends. “But I’m not going around leaving
thimbles all over the house now, am I?”
 “I’d probably laugh if you did.”
Her eye twitches. “You’re missing the point. You know
your dick isn’t the size of a thimble.”
“I do, but you seem pretty confident about that fact too.
Have you been taking peeks, Delilah?” I tease, wanting to
keep the conversation on my faults.
“I might not have seen it, but I know enough to . . .” She
falters and blows out a breath. “What I mean is, my lie was a
made-up exaggeration. Yours, unfortunately, wasn’t. I had a
complex about the shape of my boobs, and your asshat
comment made it worse.”
“You think I was disparaging your tits?”
“Kind of hard to think otherwise.” Her tone is so pained
everything in me stills.
For the first time, it fully hits me what I’m facing when it
comes to Delilah. Yes, we’ve said evil shit to each other over
the years. Yes, we were both accountable for our shared bad
behavior. But I unknowingly did damage that has left wounds
that still haven’t healed. While she was disparaging of my
character, I picked apart her looks. Like an asshole. It’s clearly
shaped the way she thinks I saw her—see her still.
Some might say she should have gotten over it already. But
I know damn well how negative words can dig into your soul
with sharp claws. I’ve spent a decade avoiding my father,
hating him, and all he had to do was throw a few well-placed
words my way, and I was that hurt, bewildered boy once more.
Is it any different for Delilah? Somehow I doubt it.
Shaking my head, I lower my voice so she’ll be forced to
hear it. “No way. Not for a fucking second.”
She blushes. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Tot, please believe me when I say that the sight of your
tits in that thin top was the erotic highlight of my young life.”
She has to know what she does to me. How can she not know?
Delilah sucks in a breath as though I’ve shocked her, but
her gaze slides away. “Stop saying ‘tits.’ It’s crude.”
 “Fine. Breasts. Happy?”
“Hardly.”
I duck my head so I can catch her gaze with mine. “I was
into them. Really into them. Okay?”
She bites her bottom lip, clearly struggling to believe me.
“And yet you had to tease me about them.”
“It was shitty, yes. But a necessary diversionary tactic to
my thirteen-year-old lizard brain.” I take a small step closer. “I
didn’t want anyone to notice that I had a raging hard-on. And
forgive me for panicking, but it was my first public sight-
induced erection.”
Her snort is sheer disbelief. “Your first?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why would I lie?” I huff out a laugh, remembering the
fine pain of that childhood embarrassment. “Can you imagine
my horror, going hard as a pike upon seeing the shape of my
greatest nemesis’s tits?” I put my hand to my heart. “God, you
have no idea. I was like Pavlov’s dog after that. One sight of
your breasts, and there I went, fucking hard as a rod no matter
where I was. Made me grumpy as hell.”
I’m still like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to her. She just
has to be around, and I’m drooling. Like a damn dog.
“You . . .” She sucks in a breath. “I can’t believe you’re
telling me this.” She starts to smile. “Mrs. Lynch never
forgave me, you know. She used to call me that horrid banana-
pie girl and then scuttle off in the other direction as though I
was preparing for another pie launch.”
I burst out laughing, doubling over. “Oh, shit . . .” I try to
stop. Honestly, I do. But my mind keeps replaying that
moment in slow motion. Evil old Lynch’s pinched mouth
going wide in horror, the wet slap of pie as it hit her face. I
lose it again, and I hold up a hand as if to say, “Give me a
moment here.”
 “You’re just asking for a dunk in the pool at this point,”
Delilah deadpans.
I wipe my watering eyes and straighten. “Okay, I’m good.”
She raises a brow, and my lips quiver. Delilah gives me a
grudging smile, her hands going to her hips. The action thrusts
out her breasts. And all my good intentions fly out the door.
“You’re staring at my boobs.” Her tone is wry but
somehow not insulted.
“I am aware.” I should be sorry, but I’m not. “I’m staring
at your peachy butt, too, if we’re being totally honest here.”
“Macon.”
I glance up at her. “Your body is fucking luscious, Delilah.
Bitable in the best way possible. A juicy peach, a sweet apple
covered in caramel. Do you know how much I’d kill for a
caramel apple right now, Tot? And me stuck on this hell diet.
It’s a torment, I say.”
“I don’t think this is very professional,” she says weakly.
“I should hope not.” God, I love teasing her. Her whole
body lights up when I do it. Foreplay. Does she realize that’s
what we’re doing? “I was just thinking—”
“What did I say about you thinking?” she warns.
“They don’t look like bananas now, Tot.”
“Oh my God, you’re terrible.” But she’s grinning now.
Fighting damn hard not to show it, but definitely grinning.
“More like peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches.”
She sways in my direction before catching herself doing it
and shifting her weight. “You called my butt peachy.” A dry
complaint. “My boobs can’t be peaches too.”
“Maybe I have a thing for peaches.”
Somehow, we’re only a foot apart, the space between us
humming with something. It licks over my tender skin, tickles
the back of my neck. Take it slow, Saint. She’s skittish. Back
off. My body resents this greatly and strains toward her
warmth.
Her voice is a thread, drawn tight. “You’re still staring.”
“Paying proper respect,” I amend quietly. “You don’t
ignore a body like yours. It would be rude.”
“Pretty sure you have that backward.” She’s breathless
now, her glorious breasts rising and falling with agitation.
I lean down, take in the warmth of her scent. “Come on,
Tot. I’ve grown up, seen the error of my ways. Give me your
bountiful banana pie.”
Again she sways into my space, laughing softly. “Pervert.
You’re not getting any pie from me.”
I hum, heat and need making my head swim. “But I have
this craving.”
She’s whispering now. “Disappointment can be character
building.”
“I’ll need my strength for that. How about peach pie?”
Kiss me, Delilah. Or let me kiss you. I’m not picky.
The pulse at the base of her tanned neck visibly beats. The
scent of her skin is like honey.
“I thought you wanted banana cream,” she says, a dazed
look in her eyes.
The tips of my fingers touch the collar of her shirt. “I don’t
think pie is what I want anymore.”
Her breath leaves in a whoosh. I’m more aroused than I’ve
ever been. I want to press up against her and ease the tight
ache in my dick. But the moment is gone; she’s backing away.
“I’ll make you pie later. I’m on break now.”
A nice reminder meant to set us firmly back into our places
of boss and servant.
I might have walked away, let it go. But she whisks her
shirt off, revealing a tiny sixties-style bikini top and that body
with curves for miles. She is glorious, her peachy ass swaying
as she drops the shirt like a dare, then saunters to a lounger.
Yeah, I might have let it go if she hadn’t looked back, a quick
glance as though to make certain I was still there.
I’m still here, honey. And I’m not going anywhere.

Delilah
What was that? I swear I almost kissed Macon Saint.
My heart is beating like an angry metronome. I’m tender
and flushed between my legs. All from a little banter with
Macon. I want to lie to myself and say it wasn’t anything
different than the light meaningless flirting we’ve been doing
since I walked into his office all those weeks ago. Except it
isn’t meaningless anymore. Something fundamental has
changed.
Macon’s direct gaze has always been powerful, capable of
evoking a visceral reaction: annoyance, rage, suspicion,
resentment—anticipation, amusement, attraction, craving.
Today, he looked at me with intent. With lust.
If it were anyone else but him, I’d already have dragged
the man upstairs. But it is Macon. And this . . . lust, this need
for him is weird for me. I don’t know what to think. Sex has
always been about pleasure for me. I have no doubt sex with
Macon would be incredible. But having sex with Macon
would mean opening myself to every vulnerability I have.
Never mind the fact that we have to live together afterward—
with the knowledge that we’ve been thrust together by Sam’s
theft.
Our relationship is based on a mutually uncomfortable deal
and an unexpected attraction. Sexual release is fleeting, while
the awkwardness of regret can linger like a bad odor. Walking
away from him was the right thing to do.
Only it isn’t so easy to shake. It’s as though my insides
have outgrown my skin, leaving me bloated and tight. I’m
twitchy and irritable and wanting to burn off this unstable
energy within me.
Damn that man. Damn his six-foot-two canvas of tightly
packed muscle and unfairly gorgeous obsidian eyes. Damn
him for not staying in the mold of ex-enemy and current
employer but insisting on blurring the lines and upending my
nicely ordered world.
God, I nearly moaned when he wiped his face with the
bottom of his T-shirt, revealing the hard slab of his lower abs.
Lord, but he’s beautiful, nicely defined but big and strong. A
fighter’s body. My mouth went dry at the sight of the V and
those glorious abs, swooping down and disappearing behind
the low line of his sweats.
The weather isn’t helping my mood any. The sun blares
hot overhead. Growing up in the South, the term hot meant
something entirely different than it does in LA. There, hot
meant feeling like you were walking into a sauna whenever
you stepped outside. Here, hot is brighter, intense sun and heat
that makes your skin tight. It’s rare to feel that sort of heat in
Malibu. Usually, the ocean breeze cools a body down. But
today, nothing stirs up on the bluffs.
I close my eyes and try to take my mind off everything. A
shadow blocks out the sun, and I squint one eye open to find
Macon looming over me, his dark gaze traveling over me in
lazy perusal.
The bikini I’m wearing is modest by today’s standards, and
yet I feel utterly naked, all too aware of my nipples still stiff
from our last conversation. Macon’s attention slides down to
my belly and thighs.
God, I hate that I want to squirm. When I put on my bikini,
I liked the way it lifted and cupped my boobs and how the
bottoms covered my butt and cut across my hips at just the
right point to flatter my body. But now, all I can think about is
that my belly has a pooch, and my thighs have little dimples.
But I don’t move. I stare up at Macon with raised brows.
“May I help you?”
“What a question,” he murmurs, still staring at my body.
He’s finally shaved, exposing the smooth, clean lines of his
face. It makes him look younger and reminds me of the boy I
knew before.
 He shakes his head slightly, and a smile tilts his lips. “God
damn, Tot, you look like Honey Ryder in that suit.”
“From Dr. No?” My snort is loud and inelegant. “Hardly.”
Macon’s lazy gaze slides up to meet mine. “Totally. A
softer, lusher Honey.” As if he can’t help himself, he glances
down again, and his teeth catch on his lower lip. “Damn . . .”
I can’t help it; my nipples tighten even more, a pulse of
heat and anticipation going through me. Call it feminine
instinct—call it a moment of insanity—but I arch my back,
just enough to lift my breasts a bit higher. Macon’s eyes
widen, his lips parting. And I flush hot, all the while
pretending that I’m simply moving around to get more
comfortable.
But I don’t think I fool him. He makes a sound low in his
throat, his breath kicking up. I’m pinned to the lounger by his
stare. And despite the little insecurities that plague me, the
avid interest in his stare makes me want to do foolish things,
spread my thighs just enough to draw his attention there, to
stretch again so that the full length of my body is on greater
display. My muscles quiver with that need.
So I frown up at him instead. “Go away. You’re blocking
my sun.”
Unfortunately, he leans in closer. A bead of sweat trickles
down the side of his neck. Normally, I’m not real big on sweat.
I don’t like the smell, and I don’t like the feel of someone
else’s on my skin. But Macon smells of sweat and soap, and
it’s doing something to my hormones because I want to haul
him down, dip my nose into the hollow of his throat, and draw
in a deep breath. All I can think of is how it would be to slip
and slide against that firm skin, my own body fever hot and
dripping.
Jesus.
His deep voice surrounds me, all lush heat and promise.
“Now, I can see you’ve been thinking things through in that
suspicious brain of yours, maybe coming to a few realizations
you didn’t expect, and it’s throwing you for a loop. So I’m
going to ignore the rudeness because I was where you were
earlier, and it’s no picnic.” Grim humor curls his lips before
they soften. He dips closer and speaks just above a whisper.
“Let me know when you’ve figured shit out. I’ll be waiting.”
With that enigmatic statement, he straightens and walks
off, leaving me frowning up at the clear blue sky. I can’t settle
down. His words have kicked up my heart rate, and the
anxious tightening in my belly has returned tenfold. I might
have been able to remain on the lounger, stewing in my
thoughts, only I spot Macon heading toward the rough stone
stairs that lead to the beach.
“Of all the stupid . . .” I grab my T-shirt and put it on
before scrambling off the lounger. He’s a little less than
halfway down when I finally catch up to him. The stairs are
fairly wide and set at a forty-five degree angle along the cliff
face. But they are also roughly carved and have hidden slick
spots where the sea spray has hit them. “What the hell are you
doing?”
Macon glances over his shoulder as he hobbles down
another step. “The Pachanga. What does it look like I’m
doing?”
I hustle down the stairs until I’m behind him. “It looks like
you’re being a complete idiot.”
“You say the sweetest things, Tot. Really.” He keeps
creeping down the stairs, his cane at the edge of the stone. The
sight nearly gives me vertigo.
“Macon, you could fall, and you’re busted up enough as it
is, don’t you think?”
“Hell, the boot comes off tomorrow. I’m just taking a little
walk to get some air.”
“Take it tomorrow, then.”
“I’m not going to fall.” His foot wobbles, and he halts to
shoot me an accusatory look, as if I somehow caused it.
“Unless you’ve come to tell me you figured out what I already
know or have the sudden urge to take a walk with me on the
beach, quit hovering.”
 “Quit speaking in riddles. It’s annoying.”
“Quit being obtuse,” he counters. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Why don’t you quit being stubborn.” At the small
landing, I scramble around him, skirting the edge of the stone,
and hop down on the stair in front of him.
Macon utters a ripe curse. “You call me stubborn. You
could have fallen just then.”
“I needed to get in front of you.” I don’t know how to
explain it without sounding like a mother hen, but the thought
of him toppling down these stairs and becoming more battered
—or, God forbid, breaking his damn neck—makes my blood
run ice cold. Not that I think he’d appreciate the concern.
Storm clouds gather over his face. “And why is that?”
“So I can break your fall if you tumble.”
Wrong thing to say, apparently. His skin goes ruddy, his
mouth working as if he’s lost his voice. But then it booms out.
“Of all the stupid, stubborn, foolhardy—”
“Stop ranting. It’s bad for your blood pressure.” I’m in
front of him now. All is well. At least if we can get safely to
the sand.
His nostrils flare. “You honestly think you could catch me?
Delilah, I’d squish you like a grape if I fell.”
“I’m hearty. I can hold you up.”
“You’re a grape,” he repeats. “A succulent little grape.”
“There you go again, comparing me to food.”
Dark brows snap together as an evil light enters his eyes.
“Yep. And one day I’m going to eat you right up. Now move
your butt. I want off these stairs.”
He dogs my steps the rest of the way down as if somehow
it’s his responsibility to make sure I don’t fall. Typical male.
I’m shaking my head when we finally reach the sand.
“There,” I say, hands on my hips. “You’re down safely.
Now call when you need assistance back up, and I’ll come get
you.”
“Call when I . . . ? Oh, for the love of fuck.” He runs a
hand over his face as if trying to quell his temper.
That’s my cue to go. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
I take one step, and he’s on me. “Oh, no you don’t,” he
says with a dark laugh. “You followed me down here; you’re
damn well keeping me company now.”
“You’re too moody for company.”
“Your fault, Tot.”
I dodge, trying to get around him.
He lurches forward, his hand outstretched as if to grasp my
elbow.
A few things go wrong. His cane, which he’s reliant on,
sinks into the sand—because canes and sand do not mix—and
his step bobbles as he tries to correct his stance. I sidestep in
the wrong direction, and my foot meets with a slimy lump of
seaweed, which causes me to yelp and hop the other way,
colliding with Macon’s teetering form.
We go down like timber.
The sand is soft but not enough, and I let out a hard breath
when I land. Macon’s heavy bulk falls on top of me, our hips
colliding. He reacts quickly, though, catching most of his
weight on his elbows. I’m surrounded by him, his arms
bracketing me, his hips nicely cradled between my spread legs.
I’m so aware of how warm and solid he feels and the way my
body suddenly wakes up that I can’t breathe for a long
moment.
“Shit, Delilah,” he says on a husky chuckle. “Are you
okay?”
His eyes search mine, genuine concern in their dark
depths. I smile despite the growing warmth between my legs
and the increased pace of my heart. “Oh, God, you were
right,” I say with an exaggerated wail. “I’m a grape. You
squished me like a grape!”
 He laughs, a slow, deep rumble of sound, and I try my best
not to notice how that makes certain things push and prod in
areas that are growing more sensitive. But I do. My thighs
clench as my nipples tighten beneath my flimsy shirt and
bikini top.
I don’t know what he sees in my eyes, but his laughter dies
down, his lips parting on an indrawn breath. His gaze grows
slumberous, sliding to my lips and holding there.
The air heats and swells between us. The blunt tip of
Macon’s thumb touches the corner of my mouth, where a hair
clings. He lifts it away before caressing the edge of my lip.
Every nerve in my body fires with pleasure.
I see the knowledge of that in his eyes, the answering
want. His head dips closer, our breath mingling, becoming
one.
“Delilah . . .” He gives me every chance to say no. But I
don’t. I can’t.
His lips brush mine, and then I’m the one surging forward,
meeting his mouth. Or maybe we move together. All I know is
that we’re kissing as if it’s sweetly painful, like we’ve waited
so long it’s almost too much to bear. And it’s so good. So very
good, the feel of his mouth flowing over mine, learning the
shape of me as I learn the shape of him.
He makes a noise deep in his throat, a protracted groan, a
needy request for more. Liquid heat pours over me, my mouth
opening to his. He tilts his head, his tongue sliding in for that
first taste, and I slowly break apart beneath him, my mind
going hazy, my body on fire. God, I need more. I need
everything.
There’s no more hesitation. No more careful touches of
tongue to tongue, lips softly questing. Just base hunger. Macon
kisses me as if he’s parched, his jaw wide, tongue thrusting
deep, so deep. I arch against him, held down by his chest, his
fingers grasping my hair. That small bite of pain drives me
frantic, kicks my lust up.
 We become hot breaths, nips, licks, small wordless sounds.
He’s surging against me, hard cock moving over my sex,
grinding into the tender swell of my clit. And I wrap my leg
around his hips, wanting more. The action shifts our positions,
and the thick crown of his cock notches against my opening. It
feels so damn good I moan into his mouth, my hips pushing up
on him.
He shudders, suckling the plump crest of my bottom lip,
and rocks into me—only the barrier of his sweats and my
bikini keeping him from entering. But it’s enough. Enough that
I feel that fat head pushing and nudging there but leaving me
unfilled, empty.
My muscles clench sweetly, wanting relief, needing more.
I slide the flat of my tongue against his, whimpering,
undulating against him. He groans long and pained, his whole
body moving with his stunted thrusts. We’re going at it like
sweaty teens, dry fucking each other in the sand. And I don’t
care. I want his clothes off. I want mine gone.
A wet slap of water crashes into us—ice cold and briny.
It’s in my eyes, salt in my mouth. A startled cry leaves me.
Macon shouts in surprise. We both scramble to our knees, a
tangle of wet limbs, shock making us clumsy.
For a second, I don’t know what the hell happened, only
that I’m soaked, my hair hanging wet and sandy in my eyes.
Then it dawns on me that we’re on the beach, the sand beneath
me now sodden. I glance back at the ocean. A rogue wave hit
us, leaving behind foamy brine and bits of seaweed. Being on
the bottom, I received the brunt of it.
Macon and I stare at each other as if in a daze, and then he
bursts out laughing. God, he’s gorgeous when he laughs, eyes
like dark stars, mouth wide and happy. I think about how we
must have looked, sprawled on the sand, lost in each other, a
wave crashing over us. From Here to Eternity, it was not. Just
cold, salty, and gritty.
I start to laugh, too, letting it take me over. Better to laugh
than think about how hot I’d been, how damn needy. The
sound soon dies down, and we’re left slightly panting and
staring at each other. Macon’s smile is lopsided. Gently, he
reaches out and tucks a wet strand of my hair back from my
face. “Wave got you good, Tot.”
The tips of his fingers trace my cheek, and I find myself
leaning forward. Good Lord, I think I’ll want him forever.
His hand cups my jaw, holding me. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Upstairs. To his bed. Or mine. And then . . .
The thought of tomorrow has me moving back, fumbling
to my feet.
Macon’s gaze follows my body, a smile still in his eyes.
“Eager. I like it. You know, if I’d have known how agreeable
you’d be after a kiss, I’d have kissed you in high school.”
He sounds so much like the Macon of old, the one who
used to taunt me, that my skin grows cold. “To shut me up,
huh.”
Macon rises more slowly than I did but much more
gracefully. “You gotta admit, kissing is better than fighting.”
It’s so easy for him to brush off the past. I can only assume
it’s because our shared past didn’t leave scars on him like it
did on me. I don’t know how to feel about that. “That was a
mistake.”
He blinks, his body rocking back on his heels. “A
mistake.”
Panic claws up my throat. I was practically humping
Macon on the sand. What the hell was I thinking? “An
aberration—a small flight from reality.”
“I get the picture,” he cuts in irritably. “And that is
bullshit.” He pushes a hand over his wet hair. “It was fucking
perfect. Right up until you decided to run from this.”
Again, he makes it sound so easy. He, who has the least to
lose. Then again, everything has come easily to Macon. He
expects the world to fall right in his lap. I’m just another fool
for him.
 My chest grows tight, and words fly from my mouth. “I
don’t even know what this”—I wave my hand between us
—“is.”
His lips pinch. “About fifteen years in the making by my
count.”
“Fifteen years? Are you saying you liked me back then?
Because I won’t believe that.”
A scowl darkens his features, and he sets his hands low on
his lean hips. “I wasn’t mooning over you, if that’s what
you’re asking. But there was always something, Delilah. I
don’t know what to name it. Not love. Not hate. But
something. Like an itch that wouldn’t abate. You were always
there, under my skin.”
Under my skin. That was the truth of it. “So what, now you
want to scratch that itch with sex?”
He laughs without humor. “You think this is just about
sex? You think if we fuck that this”—he copies me and waves
his hand—“is going to go away? Think again, sweetheart.”
The smarmy tone has me seeing red.
“Oh, you make me so . . . so mad!”
“And why is that?” He takes a step closer. “Why do I make
you mad, Delilah?”
“Because you always do! You always have.”
Oddly, this seems to calm him, but he doesn’t let up, his
tone staying hard and insistent. “Do you hate me now?”
“No.” There’s a weight on my chest, and he’s making it
heavier, agitating my blood.
“Then why do I make you mad?” The bastard’s gaze is
relentless, too calm and practical.
“I don’t know!” But it’s a lie.
And he knows it too. “Maybe it’s because you want me as
much as I want you.”
 I stare back at him, my lips puffy and sore from his kisses,
my sex still slick and tender.
His shoulders set in a line of pure stubbornness. “Because I
do. In case that wasn’t perfectly clear.” He gestures toward his
pants and the impressive bulge that has only gone down
slightly. “I want you. I’ve been wanting you since you walked
into my office with those fuck-off heels and red lips. And I’m
not too proud to admit it.”
Unlike me, his tone implies.
“Wanting and having are two different things. I work for
you. No, scratch that, I’m working off a debt to you—”
“I’ve said that I don’t want this debt between us anymore.”
He throws up his arms in frustration. “I regretted agreeing to it
as soon as the words were out of my mouth. But seeing you
again . . . for the first time in years, I felt something other than
being utterly fucking numb, and I pushed my doubts away.
Because it meant having you around again, even if it was
under shitty circumstances.”
“Are you saying you only agreed because you wanted me
under your thumb?”
He snorts. “Don’t give me that self-righteous look when
that’s exactly how you sold the proposition. Did I take
advantage? Yeah, I did. But it was never about control or
payback. It was the only way I knew I could be close to you.
We parted with so much hate and hurt between us. I wanted a
chance to get to know who you are now. For me to show you
who I am.” Macon leans close, his breath heated, his gaze a
dark challenge. “I’m not lying about my motives or the way I
feel. Question is, why are you?”
I can’t breathe. I’m panicking. I can’t help it. Years of
insecurities don’t just up and go after a few weeks of tentative
friendship and rising lust. I am falling too hard and fast. If I
have sex with Macon, I will be all in, open and vulnerable in
every way. When it comes to this man, I have only ever
experienced disappointment and hurt. Truly letting him in
terrifies me so much I feel light headed, struck mute.
 He shakes his head once like he’s trying to dislodge the
truth. “You keep resisting my offer to dissolve our agreement.
Why? Why did you make it in the first place? Was it really all
about Sam? Or was it something more?”
Macon watches me like a hawk, ready to pounce.
Panic surges. It rings in my ears and turns my lips numb.
I cut a hand through the air. “This discussion is over.” It
has to be.
He narrows his eyes, his chin jutting up. “I don’t agree.”
“Too bad.” I turn on my heel and head for the stairs.
His voice follows, irate and hard. “I never thought you
were a coward.”
The words hurt because he isn’t wrong. “Now you know
better.”
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Macon
I pushed too hard, said too much. Maybe I shouldn’t have
touched her, but in all that happened today, it is the one thing
that didn’t feel wrong. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I
have wanted to know how it would feel to be kissed by Delilah
Baker for as long as I can remember.
To be kissed by her. There’s a distinction in that. It meant
she looked past all the animosity, all the misunderstandings
and fuckups, and wanted me anyway. It meant that she forgave
me. I can only laugh at myself for being a fool. She might
have wanted me in the moment—that heady, mindless moment
of unadulterated lust—but the second her sense returned, she
looked at me in horror.
Not great.
North comes to help me up the stairs. The fact that Delilah
obviously sent him both chafes and amuses me. Neither of us
says a word, and North leaves me once we get inside the
house. I’m grateful for his silence; it can’t have escaped his
notice that both Delilah and I are covered in wet sand.
Alone, I head for my office and take a seat. Delilah needs
space, and I want to give it to her. I could have gone to my
room and showered off, something I desperately need to do,
but we might have run into each other again. Awkward as
fuck.
Maybe she’s right. If we give in to this desire and things go
wrong, we’ll be stuck together in a fresh sort of hell. Stupid
hubris. I should never have taken her offer. It’s trapped us
both. But if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here. Delilah would have
remained a past regret, a break that hadn’t healed right. As it
is, she is more like a Ghost of Christmas Past now, reminding
me of all the ways I’ve fucked up. I should end this. But I
can’t. I fucking can’t.
 With a sigh, I rest my head against the chairback and
wince as pain slices along my spine. Yep. Definitely pulled
something.
The sound of Delilah’s bedroom door slamming shut grabs
my attention. Right then. Stay away from the angry woman.
Fuck it. I don’t need her. I had a life before Delilah. A good
life.
Flipping through my phone, I read a bunch of texts for
work.
Carl, my director, is looking forward to getting back to
work: translation—are you up for this, Macon?
Timothy wants to know if I want another date with Anya.
No thanks, Tim.
A couple of my costars want to know if I’ve heard any
rumors about the new script. Unless a character’s death is
imminent, which affects our contracts, we’re kept in the dark
as to what will happen each season. The producers don’t want
to take any chances that a spoiler will get out. They don’t need
to worry about me; I don’t have anyone to tell.
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t have anyone.
North is my friend. But we are both kind of closed off. It
isn’t the sort of deep connection that makes me feel like I have
an anchor.
I’ve never had someone whom I could turn to in the dark
of night, when the world feels a little too empty and cold, and
find comfort.
Sitting here sticky and wet with sand and ocean muck, I
realize that the one person who might fill that empty space has
just given me the brush-off, convinced we can’t work.
A grim smile pulls at my mouth.
Delilah might be right. We might be a disaster. We might
live to regret it. But she’s completely off her nut if she thinks
I’m going to let this go without a fight. Because if there is one
thing I know to be true, it’s that everything worth having in my
life is worth fighting for.
 And I will fight for Delilah.

Delilah
I’m pissed. Pissed at Macon and pissed at myself. This
isn’t a fairy tale; this is real life. I can’t switch gears that
easily. I can’t just slip from a lifetime of thinking of Macon in
terms of ribald hate to . . . what? Lust? Is this simple lust or
something more? And if it’s more, then what is it? A fling?
Forever?
His accusations, the questions he laid forth burn through
my skin and settle like a hot stone over my heart. I considered
the offer I made to Macon a sacrifice for family, a necessary
arrangement to protect my mother. But Macon’s confession
made me wonder. He said he’d been numb until I came back
into his life. I’d been numb too. So . . . dead inside. I cannot
deny that from the moment I realized it was Macon texting
me, something woke up and paid attention.
And I cannot deny that I like his attention. That must make
me some sort of sicko to virtually enslave myself just to get
more of it. I truly don’t know if I refused to end our
arrangement so I wouldn’t be able to leave him, but the fact
that I can’t reject the theory outright is distressing.
“Argh.” I groan into the tiled wall of my shower, the hot
water pounding on my back doing little to ease my stiff body.
“I’m an idiot.”
A great prideful idiot trapped in a net of my own making.
If we didn’t live together, I’d feel safer to explore this new
thing between us. I’d have the ability to go to my own corner
and lick my wounds if things went south. I don’t have that
here. We haven’t even had sex, and it’s awkward as hell.
I hide out in my room for the rest of the day. Damn if I’m
not edgy, wanting to seek out Macon’s company. I feel the pull
of him as if there’s a hook attached to my breastbone that leads
directly to him. I know without being told that he’s in his room
just as I am in mine. The side of my body that faces his room
is cold, and I find myself rubbing my arm in agitation. By the
time the sun sets, I’m downright twitchy.
 It’s almost a relief when he texts.
ConMan: I need you.
My stupid mind takes this the wrong way, and my insides
flip. But I shake myself out of it.
FearTheTater: Clari cation?
You’ll have to come to my room for that ;-)
I bite back a smile. This Macon, the side of the man I
never knew before, does not hold grudges. He disarms me at
every turn. This Macon is fun. I can’t help but have fun with
him.
Don’t winky face me. Answer the question.
Such a hard ass. Fine. I need you to help me.
With?
His voice, sounding oddly hollow, comes from the
direction of his room. “Get your peachy butt in here, Tot!”
I text him a reply.
Seriously???
“Completely serious,” he hollers. “I’m not going to shut up
until you get in here.”
“Juvenile,” I shout back. Why he can’t come into my room
is beyond me. And why it has to be in his room, I don’t know.
But it feels like a trap.
“Nonsense,” I mutter to myself, tossing my e-reader aside
and hauling my “peachy” butt off my bed.
Macon’s room is like mine on steroids. It’s bigger but still
manages to be cozy. He has a fireplace, a glorious affair of cut
white stone reaching up the coffered ceiling and a reclaimed-
wood mantel. The gas hearth is a line of flickering flames over
crushed ceramic coals.
I pointedly ignore the large Mission-style paneled bed,
plump with rumpled linen covers as if he’s just rolled out of it.
Macon leans against the wall by the bathroom. His skin is
ashen, pinched lines framing his mouth and pulling at the
corners of his eyes. He gives me a protracted smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Despite our text exchange a moment before, now that
we’re facing, our awkwardness is at stellar heights. I try not to
think about his mouth, how he tastes, those soft greedy noises
he makes. God, I try, but it’s just there, floating over my skin
and making me hot. His eyes hold the same knowledge, a
flicker of lust going through them. But a shadow of pain
overrides that, and I snap out of my haze.
“What’s wrong?”
A grimace tightens his mouth. “Here’s the thing. And this
in no way makes you right about my going down to the beach
. . .”
“Sure,” I drawl.
His nostrils flare on a shallow breath. “I might have pulled
something when we fell.”
“Might have?” I notice how gingerly he’s holding himself.
“Where?”
“My sides, back, shit . . . I don’t know. My torso. The
whole area is not good.” He swallows thickly and closes his
eyes for a second.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I snap, wanting
to touch him if only to provide comfort but fearing it will hurt
him worse, fearing I won’t stop at one touch.
Macon’s brows knit as he glares. “My mind was on other
things.”
I refrain from blushing. Which is a feat, considering my
mind can’t seem to get away from those “other things.”
Macon makes a noise of stifled pain. “It wasn’t an issue
until I reached over to turn on the taps, and everything seized
up.”
Two years ago, I decided to try one of those boot camp,
“We’ll make you feel the pain until you cry” workouts. I went
home and moved the wrong way while pulling out my house
keys, my back clenched, and I ended up on my floor for an
hour until my mother arrived to help me. The agony was real.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Have you taken anything for the
pain?”
“I’m already on meds for my leg,” he grits out, his
expression slightly sullen as if he doesn’t want to admit it.
“I’ve taken all I can.”
“You should be lying down. On the floor. Really, it’ll
help.”
His lip quirks with tight discomfort. “I need to soak in the
tub first.”
Only then do I realize he’s still sandy, tiny bits of ocean
detritus sticking to his temple and on his neck.
“Jesus, why didn’t you clean off before?”
“Because I couldn’t fucking move?” A small sound leaves
him. “North usually helps with this, but he’s out.”
“Is it wrong that I find that kind of hot?”
Macon cuts me a look as though he can’t decide whether to
laugh or roll his eyes. “Whatever gets you going, Tot.” His
humor wanes. “I’ve been standing here for too long, trying to
shake it off and get my ass in the tub, but it isn’t working.
Would you please, for the love of all that is holy, turn the taps
on for me?”
Right, he needs my help. And I’ve been fantasizing about
hot male shower action. “Sure.”
Macon’s bathroom is . . . wow. As big as my bedroom
back home, it has a copper gentleman’s soaking tub large
enough for two tucked into a windowed alcove to take in the
view. The fireplace in the bedroom is double sided, open to the
bathroom. The flicker of firelight gives the room a golden
glow.
“What?” Macon asks when I stand there gaping.
 “All that’s missing is a bottle of champagne and some
lounge music to make this a perfect seduction cliché.”
He cuts me a sidelong look. “I can barely move, but I’ll
make note of that for later.”
Grumbling, I walk over and turn on the taps that are in the
middle so that a person can comfortably lean their head on
either side of the tub. “How hot do you want it?” I ask over my
shoulder as Macon hobbles in, wincing with each step.
“Just this side of cooking me.” He stops by my side. His
dark eyes suddenly appear a little boyish. “Can you, ah, put
bubbles in?”
I grin wide. “You want a bubble bath?”
“Hey. The bubbles help keep in the heat, and they smell
nice.”
The man is a good ten inches taller than me, with
shoulders twice as wide. The world knows him as a barbarian
warlord king-killer on their favorite show. But he is adorable
just now.
“You don’t have to convince me,” I say lightly. “I love a
good bubble bath.”
“Do you now?” he murmurs under his breath but then
gives me an innocent look when I glance back.
He wasn’t kidding about his love of bubbles. Multiple bath
gels and a nice wide loofah wait on a rack by the tub. I eye it,
and he shifts his weight as if being caught out. Not hiding my
smile, I pour some gel into the water rushing from the faucet.
The scents of bergamot and warm vanilla fill the humid air.
It’s a subtle fragrance but delicious, like sticking your nose
into the warm crook of a well-groomed man’s neck.
I shake my head at my wandering mind. Time for me to
go. Only Macon’s lips are still pinched, and he’s wearing a
sandy, damp shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. That
shirt isn’t going to come off easily.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“Can you lift your arms?” I ask, my voice a little thick.
 “Do I have to?” His expression is one of dread.
“Come on; man up, and let’s do this.”
He smirks, but that quickly fades as he tries to lift his arm.
“Fuck.”
Ordinarily, I might have been flustered pulling off Macon
Saint’s shirt. But it’s such a slow, awful process, with Macon
gritting his teeth, breaking out in a cold sweat of pain, and me
wincing in sympathy, that we both sigh in relief when it’s
finally off.
His broad chest heaves as he leans a hip against the wall.
“Fuck the bath; just put me out of my misery, Tot.”
“Drown you in the tub?” I suggest, turning off the water.
“That will take too long.” He moves to rub his face but
halts and swears under his breath.
Poor guy. I glance at the full tub. The copper sides are
high, swooping up on both ends. A small teak stool is next to
the tub, but that’s about it. Hell. Taking a deep breath, I brace
myself for torture. “You’re going to need help getting in,
aren’t you?”
For a second his expression is totally blank. We stare at
each other, facing the inevitable.
His smile is slow and melting. “How much did it cost you
to ask that?”
“It’s fine.” Lie! “I’ll close my eyes.”
A low chuckle rumbles. “I don’t mind if you look.”
“I bet.” I wouldn’t mind, either, but I’m not going to do it.
Oh, but it’s a challenge to keep my eyes closed. His warm,
hard side presses against mine as he makes small shifts of his
hips to lower his sweatpants. Doesn’t help that when I fumble
around to grip his waist, I get a handful of what must be the
best bubble man-butt I’ve ever touched. And he calls my ass
peachy.
Face flaming, I wrench my hand away, but he laughs all
the same.
 “Copping feels, Ms. Baker?”
“Get in the tub, Con Man.”
He grunts. We bobble once, and I’m terrified we’ll topple
again, but he gets in with a clumsy splash and a muffled oath.
Winded, I rest my hands on my thighs, then straighten.
Macon’s amused voice drifts over me. “You can relax now.
I’m decent.”
Decent. Ha. Nothing about the picture he makes is decent.
Arms resting on the sides of the tub, bubbles frothing over his
tan chest, he looks like sin. His pecs are large and prominent
and lightly furred with dark hair. A bubble dangles from one
of his tiny nipples, and I have the urge to touch it.
A smug smile remains in his eyes as, with a long groan,
Macon relaxes against the tub. His injured leg is propped on
the far side of the tub, exposing a good length of massive
thigh. From beneath lowered lids, he looks at me. “Thank you
for helping.”
So meek. So deceptive. So damn tempting.
A constellation of fragmented shells and sand floats in his
ink-dark hair.
“Damn,” I mutter. “You need to wash your hair.”
A snort escapes him. “Not fucking likely. I’m not moving
a muscle. You’ll have to scoop my cold and pruny body out of
this tub at some point.”
“Well, that sounds fun.”
His grin is quick and wide. Then he sinks a bit deeper.
“It’ll keep.”
It won’t, and we both know it.
“I’ll wash it.” The words are dragged out.
Macon quirks his brow, a frown growing. “No.”
Rejection hits between my ribs. “What? Why not?”
“You looked like you wanted to throw up just offering. I’d
rather not suffer through your martyrdom.” He gives me a
dismissive glance, then closes his eyes, leaving me to gape at
him.
My hands meet my hips. “I am not being a martyr!”
“You’re doing a good job of leading up to it.” He lies
there, not a care in the world, soaking in his damn bubble bath.
But I’m not fooled. His eyes might be closed, but his attention
is on me, baiting like the master he is.
“Do you want me to wash your hair or not?”
Dark eyes snap open and level on me. “Yes, I want you to
wash my hair,” he rasps. “Yes, I want you to touch me. I want
a lot of things from you.”
Well, hell. I find myself sinking to the teak stool by the
tub, my hand curling around the edge.
Macon’s gaze bores into mine. “Question is, what do you
want from me?”
I can’t lie now. Unfortunately, the truth isn’t very helpful.
“I don’t know.”
He nods as if he knew it was coming. “So let’s talk this
over.”
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. Men I’ve known
never want to talk things out. But Macon simply sits there,
king of his tub, patiently looking at me for confirmation. It’s
so disarming all I can say is “Okay.”
He studies me as if trying to think out the best plan of
attack. The air is humid around us, thick with the heady scent
of his bath, the bubbles making a soft hiss as they fizzle. And
Macon lying naked beneath it all.
“Are you pretending to be attracted to me because of our
arrangement?” he asks bluntly.
“What?” I sit straight. “That’s insulting.”
He shrugs a big shoulder. “Do you think if you fail to put
out, I’ll hold it against you?”
Of all the . . . my hand twitches as I imagine pushing his
fat head under the water. “Are you trying to get me to dunk
you?” I grit out.
He grins. “Just getting the bullshit out of the way.”
“Okay, okay, I get the point.” I drag my finger through a
clump of bubbles resting on the rim. “This is new.”
I’m not talking about the tub, and we both know it.
“Not that new.”
“New enough. Up to the time you accidentally texted me, I
thought of you as Macon Ass-Chaps Saint.”
He huffs a laugh. “And you were Delilah Judgy-Eyes
Baker.”
“Judgy-Eyes?”
He smiles, totally pleased. “Asks the woman currently
giving me judgy-eyes.”
I flick the side of his head. Macon chuckles slow and easy.
“Just proves my point.”
Something inside me goes quiet and warm. “I don’t think
you’re an asshat anymore.”
All humor fades from his night-dark eyes. His gaze, hazy
and heated, lowers to my mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about
you.”
My resistance melts like warm butter in a hot pot. “I think
about you too.”
The muscles along his big arms clench as he grips the tub.
“I want to be near you all the time. And when I am near you, it
isn’t enough; I want more.”
We’re leaning into each other, not touching but sharing the
same air.
Macon’s lips part softly. He licks them, then meets my
eyes. “I can’t pretend anymore.”
I want to rest my head on his shoulder, crawl into the tub
with him, clothes and all, and hold him close. It scares the crap
out of me. “No,” I agree. “We can’t go back to how it was
before.”
 Macon stirs, the water sloshing, but he doesn’t touch me.
His lashes are spiky fans, his skin glowing bronze in the
lowered bathroom lights. “I know you think everything comes
easily to me, Delilah. On the surface, it’s true. But when it
comes to here”—he presses a fist to the center of his chest
—“I’m fucking lost. I don’t know about normal relationships;
my parents certainly didn’t have one.”
He wipes a hand over his wet face and then stares out of
the window, where the night sky is black as velvet. Lines of
concentration pull at his mouth. When he finally looks at me,
his expression is drawn tight, frustration darkening his eyes.
“When I’m on location, it eats up hours, days, months. It
isolates me, and I forget to be social. Fuck, half the time, it
messes with my mind, and I start acting like whatever
character I’m playing.”
I nod because I don’t know what to say, and Macon rubs
his face again, water tinkling with the movement. “It can be
lonely as fuck. But I’m used to being lonely.”
The thought makes me ache.
Macon’s eyes hold mine as if he’s willing me to
understand. “I was okay with all of that. And then you came
back . . . Delilah, you are the only person alive who truly
knows me for me. That used to piss me off. But now? It feels
like a lifeline.”
A lifeline. I’ve never been that for anyone. And I tried to
snap that connection with him. Remorse is a cold fist in my
throat. “I’m sorry for how I reacted on the beach. I shouldn’t
have lashed out like that. It’s just . . . it’s a leap of faith for me,
all right? As the person with all the power here, you have the
least to lose.”
“Delilah,” he says with a dry laugh, “if you think you don’t
have power over me, you’re completely deluded. Haven’t you
been paying attention? One word from you has the power to
bring me to my knees.”
As if it is any different for me? He can cut me like a blade
without even half trying.
 A frown works between his thick brows. “I get that it’s
hard to switch gears. We were at each other’s throats for years,
and now we’re not.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper, the urge to trace the waterdrops
along the sharp line of his jaw almost overwhelming.
“I know.”
And I realize that he truly does know. He’s trying too.
“We’re ending the deal,” he says. “It has to end for this to
work.”
Nodding, I lean a little on the tub. “And Sam?”
The corners of his lips pull tight for a second; then he lets
go of another breath, this one resigned. “I stopped looking for
her a while ago.”
“Since when?” I’m more than a little surprised.
“Since the first week you were here. The watch is gone.
Only Sam can bring that back. And I cannot punish her
without hurting you or your mama, which is something I’m no
longer willing to do.”
Goddamn Sam. I don’t want her deeds hovering over us.
The sooner she returns, the freer we’ll be. Macon might have
given up searching, but I won’t. I’ve been too lax with that.
But for now . . .
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For all of it. I hate what Sam did.”
There is kindness in his eyes as his hand edges toward
mine. Our pinkies touch. “I know, honey.”
The small point of contact feels like a caress along my
entire side. “I’d move out and put some distance between us,
but my house has been rented.”
“So stay.” His pinkie strokes the edge of my finger. “I
don’t want distance. But if it really bothers you to live here,
move into the guesthouse. There’s room.” He says this freely,
but his expression is akin to a man sucking on a lemon.
I laugh, the sound husky and raw in the bathroom. “You’re
actually pushing me to live up there alone with North?”
 The sour expression grows. But he shrugs those massive
shoulders, water rippling as he moves. “I’ll do whatever it
takes to earn your trust.”
And right there, he has it.
“I’ll stay here.” It comes out in a whisper. But he hears it
just fine and releases a breath as though he’s been holding it.
“Okay. Good.” With an impish glint, Macon sinks a little
farther into the bath. “Now about us . . .”
“Can we take it slowly?” I blurt out. My body doesn’t
want slow. It wants now. But the shy girl I once was has more
control over me than I realized. And she’s cautious.
“We can do anything you want.” He pauses, rubbing the
corners of his mouth. “Define slowly.”
It’s cute the way he thinks I can’t see him plotting my
sexual downfall.
“As in we don’t immediately have sex.”
Macon frowns. “I don’t like that definition.”
I laugh at his disgruntled look. His answering smile is
small and repentant but just a little wicked as if he enjoys
teasing me. Crazy thing is, I enjoy it too. I try to be stern,
though I’m probably failing at that. “Macon, I just got to the
point where I only want to kill you some of the time instead of
all of the time.”
Macon chuckles. “There is that improvement.”
We share a look, a lifetime of irritations and
misunderstandings, grudging respect and mutual admiration
flowing between us. We’re changing, neither of us knowing
exactly how to do it, but we’re trying.
“We can go at whatever pace you set.” His thumb glides
over the back of my hand in a slow, seductive circle.
“However, I have a proposition.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re leading me into trouble?”
His answering smile is lopsided and growing. “It’s only
trouble if you don’t like it.”
 “Stop giving me those sexy eyes.”
“Sexy eyes?” He chokes on an incredulous laugh.
“You’re looking at me like you . . . you . . .”
His eyes gleam with wicked intent. “Want to stick my head
between your thighs and slowly lick you until we both come?”
A strangled sound leaves me as a pulse of pure lust hits my
sex. I want to touch myself, press against that ache to relieve
it. “Macon . . .”
“Because that’s what I’m thinking half of the time,” he
goes on levelly. “When I’m not thinking about kissing your
soft mouth or easing up your top to finally—fucking finally—
see those gorgeous tits.”
“Macon!”
“Delilah,” he shoots back with cheek.
God, I want him to do all those things and more. I want to
strip him down, lick his warm skin. Lick him up like ice cream
melting off a spoon. Why did I say anything about going
slow?
Whatever he sees in my eyes has the smile slipping off his
face, replaced by something distinctly hot. “I won’t touch you
tonight. Instead, you touch me.”
“Touch you?” My pulse kicks up and starts to strum.
“Yes.” He rests his arms on the sides of the tub. It draws
my attention to the breadth of his shoulders and the carved
definition of his biceps. “Put your hands on me; get
comfortable with being close to me, taking what you want.
Nothing is off limits.”
Oh, God. I want that. He is acres of smooth, slick skin and
rippling muscles. I’d touch him all night and then lose my
ever-loving mind. “How is that not sex?”
“Because it’s only you touching me.” His gaze glides over
me like liquid silk. “Do you want to?”
The breathy “Yes” is out of my mouth before I can think.
 His nostrils flare, the look in his eyes pure temptation.
“Then touch me, Delilah.”
My fingers curl around the tub, holding on. Just holding
on. “It won’t go anywhere. That would be a tease.”
“I want you to tease me.”
Part of me still can’t believe we’re here, talking about this.
That he’s naked and willing. “You do?”
His throat works on a swallow. “Yes, I fucking do.”
“Even if you won’t get anything out of it?”
A shuddery breath leaves him, and his nipples go tight. “If
you’re touching me, I’ll be getting something out of it.” That
dark voice works over my skin like warm honey.
“God . . .”
“I won’t move a muscle,” he promises. “Unless you ask
me to. Now, woman up, and stop stalling.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Woman up?”
“I figured you’d object to ‘man up.’”
“You figured right.”
“You’re still stalling.”
Shaking my head, I soften. Then get up.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
TWO
Delilah
“Where are you going?” The slight alarm in Macon’s voice
is gratifying.
“To get your shampoo.” I grab the bottle out of the
massive walk-in shower, then head back to him, setting the
stool behind him. Macon’s shoulders tense. “You need your
hair washed, remember?”
“All rational thought has left my head at the moment.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t move as I fiddle with the handheld
sprayer by the faucet. Warm water jets out. “Lean forward a
little, if you can,” I tell him, feeling the odd need to speak in
hushed tones.
Macon lets out a little sound of pained protest but rises
enough that the water can flow down his back instead of out of
the tub. It’s a good reminder that as much as I want to touch
him, and as much as he obviously wants me to, he’s also in
pain. As gently as I can, I rinse through his hair, holding a
hand by his forehead to keep the water out of his eyes. I feel
his careful breaths, almost as if he’s afraid to move, and the
heat of him. God, there’s so much heat coming off him.
When his hair is wet, I turn off the taps. “Rest back again.”
He does and then groans when I start massaging the
shampoo into his hair. The sound goes straight to my core. I
work slowly. Slower than I should, but it feels good to have
my hands on him. My fingers glide over the hard curve of his
skull, down to the thick cords of his neck.
“God,” he whispers. “Please don’t stop.”
His muscles are so strong here that it hurts my fingers to
dig in, but his noises of pleasure and the way he leans into my
touch keep me going.
 Foam rises around my hands; water trickles down the tan
column of his neck to wander over the hills and valleys of his
wide-set shoulders. My lips swell with the need to follow
those waterdrops, press against his wet skin. I bite the inside of
my cheek.
Macon sighs, his lids lowering, and I move closer, my
breasts hitting the back of the tub. I push along the rise of his
shoulders. They’re like silk over granite, slippery wet and
warm. He grunts, and I do it again. He leans into my hands,
whimpering softly. I take the moment to rise and turn on the
taps again. We don’t speak as I rinse the shampoo from his
hair.
It’s a strange thing, taking care of him this way. I’m turned
on—more than I thought I could be. It’s a low hum in my
body, the lush swelling of my breasts, of my sex. It’s in the
painful tenderness in my nipples and the sensitive edges of my
lips. I want to savor him like I do fine dark chocolate, letting
each bite melt on my tongue, lingering over the delicious taste
of it.
But that isn’t what I find strange or surprising. It’s that I
like taking care of him. Behind all the bright and searing lust is
warmth and contentment. He is in pain, and I am helping to
take some of the burden off. That lovely homey feeling
tempers everything and makes it possible for me to keep my
focus.
The legs of the stool scrape overloud as I move around to
his side and face him again. Lids half-lowered, he waits, his
breath coming in soft, barely there pants. Everything in me
draws tight. My hand drifts to the hard swells of his pecs.
Macon visibly twitches at the contact, but neither of us says a
word.
Slowly, lightly, I stroke his chest, teasing him. Lord, but
he’s built on a heroic scale, solid and thick. My fingertip
brushes his beaded nipple, and he grunts low and tight. I swirl
around the tip, making him shiver despite the steam coming
off his wet skin.
 He licks his parted lips but stays utterly still, taking my
torture. The trickle of water, the harsh rasp of our agitated
breathing surrounds us. I slide my hand lower, idly feeling all
that smooth, slick skin. And then I see it—the wide, engorged
tip of his cock rising out of the dissipating bubbles to lie hard
and needy on his flat stomach.
We both still. I am looking at Macon Saint’s cock. I go a
little light headed. Macon’s dark eyes shine with both a
question and a dare. He’s coiled so tightly his body hums with
it, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless I ask him to.
I slip my hand beneath the warm water. He’s hot and thick
and fits against my palm just right. A low, tortured groan
leaves him, and his head falls back against the tub edge.
Gently, I work him. And he takes it, his expression almost
pained. He’s panting heavily now, flushed along the cheeks as
his hips begin to rock helplessly in time with my strokes.
The sight is so patently sexual, so insanely hot, that my sex
swells and slicks. I press my legs together to alleviate the
pressure. My hand moves up and down his long length, a
steady rhythm. “Is this what you needed?” I rub my thumb
over his tip on the downstroke. “Me tugging on your big
cock?”
“Oh, shit,” he whispers, his throat working. “Oh, shit.
Delilah . . . I . . .” His wide chest hitches on a caught breath.
The tips of his fingers turn white as he grips the edge of
the tub. He’s tensing, all those finely wrought muscles
clenching. I jerk at his cock, squeezing a bit harder, going a bit
faster.
“You needed it, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he says, panting. “Fuck yes.”
Macon’s eyes close, his brow pinched. He licks his lips as
he moans—whimpers, really. That I’ve reduced this strong,
stoic man to this quivering mass has my head spinning. I want
to crawl in the damn tub with him. Sink down onto this
beautiful dick and take him. But this time is for him.
“Are you going to come for me, Macon?”
 At the sound of my voice, his eyes snap open. The heat in
them sears me. “You want to see me come, Delilah?”
“Yes.”
His lashes flutter. “Then make it hurt, honey.”
The next downstroke has the water frothing. I give him no
mercy, pumping him, pulling on his cock as he grunts and
thrusts. He’s panting, his straight brows knitted in a look of
near pain, but he keeps his gaze on me, silently begging for
more.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, squeezing his shaft. His
nostrils flare as his hips lift, and a long, agonized groan tears
from him. He comes in a fine arc over his chest and sinks back
into the water with a shuddering sigh.
I gentle my hold but stay with him until he is limp and
replete. We fall silent until suddenly Macon moves, grasping
the back of my neck to haul me close. His kiss is quick but
messy, like he’s all wrung out but needs to convey how much
he liked what I did.
The dark fringe of his lashes are clumped and wet from his
bath as he stares into my eyes. “Thank you.”
He kisses me again to punctuate the sentiment.
I smile against his mouth. “You’re thanking me for a hand
job?”
He huffs out a laugh, his lips tickling mine. “I’m thanking
you for trusting me enough to give one.”
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
THREE
Delilah
Make it hurt . . .
With a gasp, I wake up in my bed, flushed and fevered and
wanting him. I’m slick and swollen between my legs, the soft
linen sheets almost coarse against my sensitized skin. I’ve
been dreaming of him. My hand still feels the imprint of his
hard dick, the weight of it, the girth.
“Sweet Jesus,” I mutter, wiping an unsteady hand over my
damp brow.
I actually jerked Macon Saint off in the bath. And it was
glorious, gorgeous, hot as hell. His orgasm was the sexiest
thing I’ve ever witnessed. Logically, I’m glad I asked to take it
a bit slow. Physically? I want to fuck him and forget the world.
Cheeks burning, I take a long cool shower and then pour
myself a glass of juice from the little bar set up in my room.
It’s early, not quite sunup. Part of me wants to go to Macon
now, tell him . . . what? Do me? Can I touch your cock again?
Pretty please.
I laugh at my neediness. A little decorum, Delilah. Just a
little.
But I’m happy. And slightly shy at the prospect of facing
him. I mean, I jerked off Macon. Macon Saint. The world truly
has turned over on its head. Butterflies go to war in my belly,
and my fingers are twitchy with anticipation.
Humming “Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies, I sit back
and watch the sun rise over the Pacific. I’m almost totally
relaxed when my phone rings.
Picturing Macon on the other end, having come up with
some new devilry to tempt me, I answer without looking.
“What now?”
 I’m teasing, and I know he’ll get that. But there’s a
protracted silence, then a soft, feminine laugh. “And here I
thought you’d be happy to hear from me.”
My entire world screeches to a halt. “Sam?”
I almost can’t believe it. I glance at the bedroom door, my
heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. Part of
me wants to run and find Macon, tell him that Sam is on the
phone. But she’d only hang up, and he’d probably blow up.
“The one and only.” Her voice is light with false bravado.
My back teeth clench. “Where are you? Where have you
been? What the hell, Sam?”
“Whoa.” She laughs, but it’s tight with annoyance. “I
didn’t call to get grilled.”
“You had to expect it,” I retort. “I mean, come on!”
Sam sighs expansively. “Yeah, I know. I know, okay. I’m a
shit, and this is bad.”
“Bad? Macon could have been killed. This is beyond bad,
Sam.”
“Hey! I didn’t know that lady was a stalker. She said she
was press and only wanted to get a good picture.”
“And that’s okay? To sell him out to the press?”
There are times I can’t believe we were raised in the same
house. How is it that I’m more like my parents and not of their
blood, and Sam is so very off?
“Oh, please, Dee. Macon is famous. Having his picture
taken is part of the job. They offered me good money for
something he’d have to deal with anyway.” She pauses and has
the grace to sound sheepish. “Or that’s supposed to be how it
went.”
“Well, it didn’t. And as soon as you realized how badly
you messed up, you ran instead of dealing with the
consequences.”
“I never claimed to be perfect,” she says sullenly. “I know
I’m a jerk here. All right?”
 “And the watch?” My heart is thudding, hard and pained.
“I needed money. I panicked.”
Sure. Right. Great.
I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t work. I want to strangle
her. Slowly. “You have to come back.”
“I know.” So very sullen.
“And return the watch. Please tell me you still have his
mama’s watch.”
“I have it. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t sell it, all right.” Her pissy
tone irks. “I’ll come back soon and fix everything.”
Somehow I doubt it. “Soon? Where are you?”
She’s silent for a second. “Stop asking, Dee. I’m not going
to tell you. And that’s not why I called.”
“No?” I want to laugh, but I’m not at all amused. “Then
why the hell did you call?”
“You said you were living with Macon.”
Don’t think of him naked in the tub.
“Because I am. I’m working off your debt.”
Do not think of the damn tub!
She sucks in an audible breath. “What the hell, Dee?”
“What do you mean, ‘What the hell?’ I told you I was
cleaning up your mess. What did you think I meant?” A cold
laugh escapes me. “That I had paid him back for a three-
hundred-thousand-dollar watch? Jesus, even if I had that kind
of cash, do you honestly think it’s okay for me to pay for your
theft?” My voice has risen several octaves, and I find myself
panting.
Sam’s voice is just as sharp. “I didn’t think you paid him,
no. I thought . . . well, hell, Dee. I thought you’d do your thing
and reason with him. Make him back down.”
Good God, that’s just what I tried. She knew I would. I feel
a fool.
 “He didn’t want to be reasoned with,” I hiss. “He was
going to the police. And I had to protect Mama from that
worry. You know how weak her heart is!”
Sam curses under her breath, then speaks more calmly. “I
didn’t think. But you’re right. Mama wouldn’t take it well.”
She sounds almost sorry. Almost.
“No shit, Sam.”
I can practically see her narrowing her eyes in a glare.
“But you didn’t need to work for him. He was bluffing.”
“I was there, Sam. He was ready to make that call.”
“He was bluffing. Macon loves Mama, as much as that
man can love anybody. He wouldn’t do anything to risk her
health.” She snorts. “You forget, I know him. More than
anyone.”
Blanching, I fall back against the chair. My gaze goes
blindly to the ocean beyond as that feeling of foolishness
increases. In the prideful little corners of my mind, I always
thought I knew Macon better than anyone, that I understood
him on some weird, not entirely safe level. But Sam is right;
she hung out with him all the time. Despite what Macon said
about them not truly liking each other, they were partners in
crime for their entire childhoods.
I don’t have that with Macon. I don’t even have that with
Sam.
The shy, lonely, awkward girl I was returns full force. My
lower lip trembles. I bite down hard. I will not cry. I haven’t
all these years. I’m not about to start now. Especially for
something so useless as being jealous of Sam and Macon.
Macon’s voice whispers in my head, “Delilah, you are the
only person alive who truly knows me for me.”
He said it with such conviction.
She’s talking again, more persuasive now that she’s scored
a direct hit. “You cannot trust him, Dee. Do you hear? He’s a
professional actor and a manipulative son of a bitch.”
 “I can’t pretend anymore.”
He was sincere. I’d know it if he wasn’t.
Despite my unsettled thoughts, I scoff. “That’s rich coming
from you.”
“Which means I know what I’m talking about. Do you
know how many times I witnessed him bullshit someone?
He’d tell them exactly what they wanted to hear, and they’d
fall right into his palm.”
He was Sam’s boyfriend for so long. What am I doing
even thinking of taking up with Macon? It violates sister code.
Ex-boyfriends are definitely off limits. Especially Macon. I
was the third wheel in their relationship; most of the time, I
was their enemy, the outlier in their united front of all things
anti-Delilah.
The writhing feeling within takes a nauseating turn, and I
gulp down juice.
A sigh gusts from her end of the phone. “I’m sorry that
you ended up in this position. I truly didn’t realize you’d do
this for me.”
“I did it for Mama,” I say automatically, my voice wooden.
I feel as hollow and brittle as an old log. My lips feel numb.
“Whatever the case,” she says, tossing the distinction
away. “I’m sorry. But you texted that you like Macon. Don’t.
He’s never cared for you. Did you forget about prom?”
I hadn’t forgotten. I just didn’t want to think about that
anymore. But the girl in me? She’s curling in on herself, Sam’s
reminders burning through the skin like so much acid. I don’t
want to believe Sam. I want to believe in Macon.
“If he’s acting kind,” Sam says, “it’s to keep you happy
and in your place.”
Funny thing is, she might as well be talking about herself.
That knowledge depresses me. “He’s not that good of an actor,
Sam. You forget, I know him too. Maybe not as well as you do
. . .” Everything in me screams out that it’s not true; I do know
him better. But is that truth or vanity talking? “I know when
he’s bullshitting and when he’s not.”
“What exactly is going on between you two?” Suspicion
laces her voice.
I don’t tell her about last night, the kissing, the growing
attraction. I don’t tell her about getting closer to Macon or the
way he’s opening up to me. It would feel like a betrayal. At
some point, my loyalties have shifted.
“A working arrangement.” The lie tastes bitter on my
tongue. We’re more than that. More. “Given the
circumstances, Macon has been really good about everything.”
God, if only that point would sink into my head too. Stupid
insecurities. Stupid Sam for stirring them up.
She hits me again, right where I’m most tender. “You
didn’t hear half of the ugly things he’s said about you. He
couldn’t stand you, Dee. You think that just goes away? Hell,
you wouldn’t even watch Dark Castle because the memory of
him was so repugnant to you, and that was only a few months
ago.”
Her words fall over me like hot tar, sticking and burning.
She has to know she’s hurting me. That she’s willing to do it to
get her point across hurts too. “That’s really unfair, Sam.
People grow up. I grew up. Macon did too.”
“This is what I’m talking about! You’re letting your guard
down. Macon will use it to his advantage.”
“Why? To what purpose?” I shake my head and huff out
my exasperation.
“To use you as bait and lure me back home.”
“Then take the bait,” I snap. “Come back, and end this.”
And then we’ll know. A trickle of fear goes down my
spine. What will happen if she returns?
“I will. Soon.”
“That isn’t good enough. I have to tell him you called.”
“No! Don’t you dare!”
 “Why not? He should know.”
I can practically hear her thoughts racing.
“He’ll get in an uproar again, and it’ll be relentless. You
tell him, and I’m not going to come back.”
“Oh, that is low.” I can’t punch Sam, so I punch the
padded arm of the chair. “Really low.”
“Am I wrong? He’ll be back in a black mood, gunning for
me.”
She’s not wrong.
“If you’re unwilling to leave that house . . . ,” Sam begins,
making it sound like a question.
“I’m not leaving. I made a promise.” I don’t tell her the
other truth: I don’t want to leave. Not yet. I’ve grown attached
to this place, to Macon. Is that a weakness? Stupid of me? I
don’t know. Sam’s muddying the waters even more.
“That’s what I thought,” she says. “So don’t rock the boat.
I’ll come back as soon as I can. And I’ll bring Macon his
damn watch. But don’t you dare fall for his act, whatever it
might be.”
Sorry, sis. I’m already falling.
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. And I’ll give you a month. After that, I’m telling
him.”
A month is more than generous. Even though I feel like a
traitor to Macon by keeping this secret.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’ll know if you tell him.”
That’s why I’m agreeing to this. Because he’ll absolutely
start up texting her again. He’ll want her to return
immediately. And like before, his threats and texts won’t bring
Sam back. She has to do that for herself.
I feel small and irritable and suddenly don’t want to hear
the sound of her voice. I can’t believe I’ve been anxious to get
a call from her. “Just get your ass back here with the watch.”
“I will,” she promises with a drawl. “And you remember
your past. Remember who Macon is.”
She hangs up, and I’m left holding the phone in my numb
hands. Remember who Macon is? Or who he was?

Sam’s phone call festers. I try to shake it off, but her ugly
words keep playing over in my head. I can’t rid myself of
them. They remain even when I go to my happy place, the
kitchen. They ring around my head like an unfortunate
earworm as I chop onions, my eyes smarting and watering.
“Shake it off,” I mutter, patting at the corner of my
weeping eye with my sleeve. “They’re just words. Doesn’t
mean she’s right.”
“Are you crying?” Macon stands at the entrance to the
kitchen, a frown on his face. For a moment, I simply look at
him, remembering the bronze of his skin, beaded with water,
the way he came in my hand with a groan that seemed ripped
from the deepest part of his wide chest.
My face blazes with heat. He must notice; a slow, lopsided
smile unfurls. Those inky eyes hold tenderness and mischief.
“Onions.” I set the knife down and go to wash my hands
and splash my face with cool water. “This one is particularly
fierce.”
He takes his time walking over to me, that small pleased
smile playing on his lips. And here I am, jumpy as a cat with
fleas. Stopping before me, he reaches out and gently touches
my cheek, catching a water droplet I missed when I dried my
face. I try not to flinch. But I do.
The frown returns. “You all right?”
I know he’s asking about more than the damn onions. “I’m
good.”
The frown remains. “Something is on your mind.”
It isn’t a question. That jumpy, twitchy, ugly feeling grows
nearly intolerable.
 “What is it?” he asks in a low, concerned voice.
It’s Sam. She called and burst my happy, horny bubble. She
cut me off at the knees and reduced me to that insecure
teenager.
Sam called.
I’m not supposed to tell you.
I hate her.
I hate that I wonder.
I hate that I’m doubting you.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“I see those thoughts racing behind those pretty eyes, Tot.
Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Macon . . .” I lick my lips.
His soft gaze shutters. “Are you regretting last night?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” he repeats flatly.
“I’m just having a moment.” I stare down at the counter.
My sister eviscerated my self-confidence. “I’ll be okay in a
bit. Just . . . give me some space.”
That clearly doesn’t sit well with him. His chest lifts on a
breath, and he makes a fist as though he’s trying not to reach
for me. But then he shakes his head once and cups my cheek.
“Let me in, Delilah. Please. I want in so badly.”
Tell him your piece. Get it out, or it will continue to fester.
But the truth hurts and makes me ashamed that I’m not
able to let my past go. Words work like broken glass against
my throat. “I want to be with you. I do. But there are things
. . . my mind . . . sometimes it gets stuck on repeat.”
“Repeat?” A furrow appears between his brows. “What
does that mean?”
I can’t tell him about what Sam said without telling him
about Sam’s call.
 My fingers curl into the folds of his soft cotton shirt. “I
woke up today . . .” Excited. Until Sam. Now I’m . . . “It’s not
logical, okay? And that’s the most frustrating thing about this.
But like it or not, we spent a decade lashing out at each other,
and I still have those scars. For years, whenever I looked in a
mirror and saw flaws, whenever I heard that voice in my head
that said I wasn’t good enough . . . Macon, it was your voice I
heard.”
A sound leaves him, small and pained. He looks utterly
wrecked. “Shit.” His jaw bunches tight as he ducks his head.
“Delilah . . . shit.” He slams his fist against the counter.
“Don’t do that. You’ll hurt your wrist again.” I reach for
him, but he brushes me off.
“You think I care?” He doesn’t yell; his voice is a ghost of
itself, which somehow makes it more horrible. “When you’ve
just torn me wide open? It fucking guts me that I’ve done this
to you.” He lifts his hands in supplication. “I don’t know what
to do. I don’t know how to fix this.”
With another curse, he turns away and glares at the floor as
if it might hold some answers.
“Maybe you can’t. Maybe it’s too late for us.” Clearing the
air hasn’t made anything better. It’s worse. So much worse.
Macon’s head snaps up. “No.” He moves as though he
wants to hold me but halts a few inches away. He doesn’t
touch me but lowers his head until we share the same air. “No,
don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry, Macon. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll get over
it.” I will. I will. “It just hits me sometimes.”
“I don’t want it to hit you.” His voice is sharp and rough.
“I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
“I want that too. Without hesitation or reservation.” A
lump clogs my throat, and my voice comes out in a rasp. “But
sometimes what we want isn’t what we get.”
The corner of his eye twitches. “Delilah, I’ve known that
my whole life. The only difference here is that it hurts more
than I can handle.”
 Macon
I walked away. I couldn’t see that look in her eyes. Regret.
Shame. A mistake.
Every inch of me hurts. There is a crushing weight in my
chest, claws grasping at my throat.
I’m Macon Saint, untouchable, the one everyone wants to
be near. I am nothing. Stupid, disrespectful, lazy boy. That’s
what my father always called me. Though I’ve tried over the
years, I can never fully rid myself of that old hurt. Just a
glimpse of his face, the memory of his voice is enough to yank
me back into that shell of a boy who felt small and helpless.
How can I fault Delilah for having the same knee-jerk reaction
to the things I said to her?
Some things you can never forget. Like the moment I saw
that girl on a red bike coasting along the road, weaving back
and forth in a serpentine pattern. Nut-brown skin and glossy
brown hair streaked with copper and gold spoke of days spent
in the sun. She appeared happy and well fed. Carefree. She
didn’t sit on her seat but balanced on the pedals, humming
some tune off-key as she glided. A butterfly girl in the sun.
Her dark eyes caught sight of me, and a knot of dread
formed beneath my breastbone. I didn’t want her to see me.
My face was hot and throbbed in time to the beat of my heart.
It was probably red and swollen at my cheek where my father
had hit me. But she didn’t heed my warning glare and rode
over.
She had chubby cheeks, a snub nose, and eyes the color of
the butterscotch candies our maid Janet sometimes slipped me
when no one was looking. And she was bigger than me. By at
least a few inches. I knew she’d just moved into the
neighborhood.
I knew the house. It was one of a dozen bungalow-style
houses built sometime during the 1920s. Nothing like the
monstrosity of a mansion I lived in, looming at the end of the
road. I’d seen two girls running around on the lawn while their
father watered the pink rhododendrons and laughed at their
antics.
She was loved.
She looked at me on that first meeting with those strangely
golden eyes surrounded by dark lashes. Looked at me like she
saw it all: the pain, the isolation, the sadness. I couldn’t
breathe from all that looking. This pretty, happy girl on her
bike had everything I wanted: a sister, parents who loved her.
She belonged in the world, and I didn’t.
Rage choked me, thick as grits sliding off a hot spoon.
Stupid boy. Lazy, disrespectful little shit.
She peered at me and seemed to come to some conclusion.
“Maybe you’d like a friend?”
A friend. I didn’t have friends. Didn’t want them. Didn’t
want her. That choking rage took root and found a voice. I spit
it out like bitter blades. “You stupid or something?”
Butterscotch eyes widened in hurt.
Stupid boy.
Stupid.
Stupid . . .
Regret presses in on me. If I could go back to that moment
in time, I would. I would have told that sweet little girl yes.
Yes, I needed a friend. I needed one so badly. Someone to
show me what simple kindness was so I’d know it when I saw
it. So I wouldn’t push it away with both hands.
But I can’t go back. I chose the wrong girl to cling to back
then. I let my father win, became the stupid boy he so often
accused me of being. That boy still lives, grown to a man
everyone calls Saint. The devil with an angel’s name.
Everyone except her.
She thinks we’re a mistake. For her, I am one. I understand
that now. I don’t want it to be true. But I understand it. And
there is only one thing I can think of to fix this. I have to let
her know everything.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
FOUR
Delilah
I flee. To the safest place on earth—my mama’s kitchen.
“Now then,” Mama asks when I’m settled at the battered
round oak table I’ve eaten meals on since childhood. “Why are
you here looking like someone kicked your dog?”
“I don’t have a dog, Mama.”
Her red lips purse. “It’s an expression.”
“It’s a terrible expression. Who would do that? Why would
I want to picture it?”
“Stop evading, Delilah Ann. Out with it.”
I take a deep breath. “I heard from Sam.”
She doesn’t move, but I see the relief in her eyes. “I knew
she’d turn up sooner or later. Though I’d hoped for sooner.”
Says the woman who cried on the phone at two in the
morning.
“She only called. She won’t tell me where she is.”
“No, I don’t suppose she would.” Mama gets up and starts
fussing with the yellow daisies she’s put in a blue-and-white
Chinese vase. “Do you know, when she was five, she broke
Grandma Maeve’s Waterford punch bowl and hid in the attic
all day rather than come out and face the music? Scared the
bejesus out of us until we found her. Lord, but she was defiant,
even then. Not a lick of remorse.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Likely you were too young.” She tucks a daisy farther
into the vase. “I believe we distracted you by putting on The
Lion King.”
 “That movie always made me want to cry,” I whisper,
wanting to cry. But the tears won’t come. At this point, they’d
be a relief.
Mama turns, and her silver brows knit. “Baby, what did
Sam say to upset you?”
Because she knows us too well.
“She reminded me of how Macon used to be. All the ugly
things.”
“And you let it get under your skin.”
Shame washes over me. “Yes.”
“I see.” She sets the vase on the table, then moves off.
“And then I told Macon that I couldn’t get past it.”
“I gather you two squabbled over that.”
Squabbled wasn’t the word. I gutted him.
My head feels too heavy to hold up, so I let it rest on the
table. “I like Macon Saint.” My confession is muffled against
the oak.
“Like him?” my mother asks from somewhere nearby.
“You know . . .” I wave a hand over my head. “Like him.”
I can hear the laughter in her voice. “As in you’re mentally
drawing little hearts around his name?”
I sit up to glare properly.
She smirks. “What was that expression you and Sam used
to use on me when you were kids? Oh, yes . . . well, duh.”
I swear, I might not have come from her womb, but
sometimes it scares me how similar our snark is. “How long
have you been waiting to use it on one of us?”
Mama smiles as she washes a few dishes in the sink. “Too
long.” The light of the sun shines through the window and hits
her soft blonde bob. There is more silver than gold now, but it
only highlights her delicate beauty. Her eyes twinkle with
mischief. “Of course you like him. And he likes you. That
much is obvious.”
 “Is it?” I trace a groove in the table.
“Well, it was at lunch.” She pulls a carafe of her
homemade sweet tea from the refrigerator and pours us both a
glass. “The way that boy looked at you . . .” She trails off,
shaking her head with a bemused smile.
“How did he look at me?” I insist despite myself.
Mama eyes me thoughtfully. “As if he suddenly realized
you were the reason God created sexual pleasure.”
“Mama!” I could have gone my whole life without hearing
my mother say the words sexual pleasure.
She sniffs. “Oh, don’t be such a prude.”
“Prude, huh?” I sit back and drum my fingers on the table.
“That mean you want to hear details about my sex life?”
A little spasm runs over my mother’s face, and she fluffs
her hair, definitely avoiding my gaze. “I suppose if you really
need to get things off your chest, I could . . .”
I burst out laughing. “Relax, Mama. That would
thoroughly scar us both.”
She lets out a breath and holds a hand to her chest. “Thank
the Lord. I still haven’t gotten over the birds-and-the-bees talk
we gave you.”
“You mean when you and Daddy played Cole Porter’s
“Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love,” and I got all confused about
educated fleas doing it?”
She flushes pink. “Probably not the best way to explain;
I’ll grant you that.”
We both laugh, but mine dies down first. “Daddy always
loved the classics.”
“I miss that man,” Mama says wistfully.
It makes my heart hurt. “I do too.”
“There were times when he’d make me hit him over the
head with a pillow, but I loved him something stupid.” She
shakes herself out of her reverie. Sharp blue-gray eyes pin me.
“What is going on between you and Macon?”
“It’s complicated. Macon and I . . . kissed. And he . . . I
. . .” A flush hits me. I can’t talk about this with Mama. But no
one else knows our history. No one except Sam, and she’s
gone. Not that I’d be able to tell her about this.
My mother is silent for a moment, drinking her tea and
frowning slightly. “You’re working for him,” she says finally,
her expression stern. “And living in his house.”
“We decided to end that arrangement.”
“Living together?”
My cheeks heat. “Working for him.”
“Well, that’s good.” She opens her mouth, then closes it,
then opens it again. “He was Samantha’s beau.”
I hate the term beau. It sounds so old fashioned, but there’s
also something so much more to it than boyfriend—a solidity,
a sense of time and history. It makes me cringe. Because I
hadn’t even been thinking of Sam when I kissed Macon. I
rarely do think of her in conjunction with him anymore. I am
now, however. It twists and curls in my belly like an agitated
snake.
I don’t want to tell my mother about how Macon viewed
Sam. It isn’t my place to say. Still, I can’t keep from cringing.
Mama notices and makes a small tsking noise. “Although I
have my doubts over how serious they ever were.”
I grip my glass a little harder, my hands slipping on the
condensation. “And yet you brought up their relationship.”
She does a double take as if she’s just realizing something,
and her lips purse. “Lord, I didn’t even . . . no, honey, I didn’t
mean you should be ashamed or guilty about being drawn to
Macon. I was merely thinking in terms of complications.” She
reaches across the table. Her smooth, cool hand wraps around
mine. “You and Macon make more sense than he and Sam
ever did.”
Shock has my heart tripping. “Why would you say that?”
 “Sam and Macon never sparked the way you do. They
were . . . flat, off in a way. They brought out the worst in each
other. Oh, not how you and Macon would engage in petty
bickering, but something darker. They made each other less
than they could be.”
“I can’t believe it. You never said a word.”
She half shrugs and sips her sweet tea. “Maybe I should
have stepped in and said something to Sam. But she seemed to
need Macon at the time. And he did too.”
I draw a circle through the condensation on my glass. My
head hurts. Everything hurts, really. A constant low throb of
discomfort.
I don’t know how much of my thoughts show on my face,
but Mama watches me with a fond yet distant gaze, as if
remembering another time. “But you and that boy . . .” She
smiles faintly. “Showers of sparks. You light each other up.”
I eye her sidelong. “You used to say we were like gas and
oil. And that was not a good thing.”
She bats that away with a flick of her wrist. “Gas and oil
are combustible. Not ideal when you have two children
fighting. But it’s an entirely different matter when you’re
talking about love.”
Groaning, I rest my head in my hands. “No one said
anything about love.”
“Then what are we talking about?” She sounds
exasperated.
“I don’t know,” I say weakly.
With an audible sigh, Mama touches my arm again,
forcing me to look at her. Empathy lines her eyes. “Darling,
you and Macon . . .” She pauses, wrinkles deepening over her
forehead. “There is no one on this earth I know of who has the
ability to get to you like that boy does.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Her tone is soft and understanding. “It means you care.
You’ve always cared what he thought of you. And while I’d
love to see the two of you finally click, tread lightly, baby. I
don’t want you hurt. And I fear this one will hurt quite a bit if
it doesn’t go the way you hope.”
I know all this. I knew it when I fled Macon’s house.
“Why does my past with him haunt me? I don’t want it to.”
Fisting my hands, I heave a sigh. “Why can’t I fully forgive
him?”
“I don’t know, Dee. It’s easy for those on the outside
looking in to say, ‘Get over a hurt; move on.’ But some
wounds fester no matter how badly we want them to heal.”
“I want to be with Macon free and easy. I was so close to
letting all that old baggage go, Mama. Then Sam calls and
reminds me of the horrible things we’ve said and done to each
other.” I groan again and press the heels of my hands to my
eyes. “The old fear and animosity returned to sit on my skin
like sludge.”
“What does Macon have to say about it?”
“He was crushed.” God, the look in his eyes. I need to go
home, see if he’s all right. When did Macon become my
home?
Her “hmm” has me inwardly cringing. “Did you tell him
exactly how you feel? Or just point out his misdeeds?”
Swallowing, I blink up at the ceiling as though it might
have the answers. “I always fumble when it comes to Macon.”
My mother keeps talking—gently because she truly does
know me. “The fact that you’re willing to even try with Macon
Saint speaks volumes. Don’t beat yourself up for taking your
time getting all the way there.”
“You’re supposed to have a magical solution to make it all
clear and easy,” I mutter.
“Ha.” She slaps a hand on the table, her wedding ring—
which she has never taken off—clinking on the wood. “You
wanted me to give you permission and tell you it was a good
idea to pursue him.”
“Well, duh.”
 Her eyes narrow, but she can’t hide her smile. “When
things come easily, we don’t fully appreciate them.” She
stands and smooths her skirt. “I may not have a clear solution,
but I can offer you a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“God, yes,” I groan. But then I think about how of all the
dishes in Macon’s life he could have mentioned when I asked
him for a good food memory, he picked grilled cheese. Were
we really his best memories?
A leaden ball falls in my belly, and I suddenly don’t want
grilled cheese. But it’s too late. My mother gives me a pleased
nod and heads to the fridge.
Despite myself, the scents of frying bread and butter whet
my appetite. I eat my sandwich slowly, my eyes closing with
each bite because there is nothing else like her grilled cheese
to bring me back to being a young girl, her whole life ahead of
her. I hated being a teenager. I was filled with impatience to
get on with the adventure of living my own life on my terms.
How little I knew then. A fierce longing for those awkward yet
wonderfully ignorant days nearly overwhelms me now. I’d go
back there if I could.
And yet a persistent voice whispers in my head, exposing
the lie for what it is. Because I want something else much
more.

Part of me wants to stay in my mother’s kitchen forever,

that simple place with its florid fruit wallpaper and yellow
cabinets. But when night falls, I return to the perfection of
Macon’s house and find the place oddly quiet.
Come morning, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, running
over menu ideas in an effort to do something productive. I
didn’t sleep well last night. Macon has kept his distance,
texting to say he needs some time to think as well. And though
it’s my own damn fault for opening my mouth, I feel the loss
of his open affection keenly. Why did I have to say anything?
Yes, I have emotional scars. Everyone does. The point is
you don’t run from them; you work through them. I could be
that scared, reactionary, closed-off girl of my childhood, or I
could grow up and take at face value what Macon clearly
wants to give me.
I’m about to get my ass up and go search for him when he
appears. Dressed in a rumpled, faded gray T-shirt and a loose
pair of athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, it’s as though
he just rolled out of bed. He runs a hand over his spiky hair
and peers at me with eyes that are bruised and puffy.
Regret pushes through my middle, a thick ugly knot that
has me pressing a hand to my stomach. I’m the one who put
those lines of strain at the corners of his mouth. It’s because of
me that his shoulders, usually straight and proud, now hang
low.
“Hey.” His voice crackles in the silence.
I clear the lump in my throat. “Hey.”
Macon makes a noise in the back of his throat as he slowly
approaches. He’s holding a slim package in his hand, about the
size of a paperback novel. The brown packing paper is
wrinkled and battered as though it’s endured a particularly
rough time with the postal delivery.
Watching me with wary eyes, he takes a seat. Thick thighs
parted, elbows on his knees, Macon studies the box he holds
loosely in his big hands. His thumb presses into a corner of it
as he begins to speak in a voice like sandpaper. “I know you
didn’t want this before—”
“Wait.” I put a hand to his wrist. “Hold on. What do you
mean, before? What is that?”
He frowns. “You’ve never seen it?”
After a moment, he offers me the box. And I accept it with
all the hesitation of a person accepting a bomb.
My name and childhood address are on the front, and
Macon’s old address is on the top left corner. A big red Return
to Sender stamp covers the label. On the top right corner, those
same words are repeated, written in familiar handwriting, only
I can’t tell if it belongs to Mama or to Sam; their script is too
similar.
 I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I’ve never seen this.”
His frown grows. “You didn’t return it?”
“That’s . . .” My voice breaks, and I try again. “That’s my
mother’s handwriting. Or Sam’s. I can’t be certain which one.”
His lips pinch, and I know he’s thinking this is yet another
instance where Sam might have messed with us. “Well . . .” He
gestures to the package with a lift of his chin. “It’s for you.”
I run my fingers over the label, feeling the old slashes
where Macon’s handwriting all but carved out my name in ink.
The date on the stamp has me pausing. “You sent this to me
the week after . . .”
“After the prom,” he finishes, raw and tight. “Yes.”
I eye the package anew as if it might truly be a bomb. But
Macon is leaning toward me, the lines of his body tense as if
he’s bracing himself. He wants this badly.
With shaking hands, I slowly pull apart the paper.
Macon’s harsh voice cuts through the silence. “I thought
you were the one who returned it.”
Pausing, I lift my eyes to his. “Would it have mattered if
you knew it hadn’t been me?”
“I would like to think I would have delivered it in person,
had I known someone hid it from you. But I was an immature
prick at seventeen. I can’t say for certain what I would have
done.”
My hand smooths over the box.
“Open it,” he says. “Please.”
The old packing paper crackles under my hands. Inside is
an envelope, my name printed on it in big block letters, and a
slim robin’s-egg-blue box. My breath catches because I know
the color of that box. The words Tiffany & Co. are embossed
in black on the front. Curiosity has me itching to open it, see
what’s inside. But the letter calls to me in a stronger voice—in
his voice.
Carefully, I set the box on the table and open the letter.
 Macon’s handwriting isn’t pretty—some letters are
crammed together with frustrated impatience while others pull
wide as if unraveling. The ink is dark, words etched into the
paper with determined force. For a long moment, I simply
hold the ruled paper, so obviously sheared from one of his old
school notebooks.
I’m afraid to read it. But Macon’s dark eyes are upon me,
waiting. His hands curl into fists. I give him a quick, weak
smile as if to say, I’m going in. It’s okay; I won’t run.
And then I turn my attention to the page. Instantly his
voice is in my head, that slow butter-and-honey drawl that
used to work like burrs upon my skin but now sinks into my
heart and makes it beat both harder and stronger.

Delilah,
My mother once told me that if you have
something truly important to say, write it in a
letter. Not an email or text or typed out. But
to put pen to paper. A person’s handwriting,
the places they press harder on the page, the
blots and errors in the ink, show their soul.
Put your thoughts in a letter, and the receiver
has a record of it forever, not just a memory
but something they can pull out and touch
when they need a reminder.
Since my mother rarely gives me any
advice, I’ve decided to heed hers now. Plus,
I’m much better when I can think of things I
want to say instead of spitting out whatever
bullshit nonsense flies from my mouth.
I am sorry for what happened at prom.
Things went too far. I should have
That sounds weak even as I write it. I
don’t know the right words to say. I don’t
know why things always get out of hand
between us. But I do know that I can’t stand
living in my skin when I think of you as you
were that night. That should never have
happened.
I was in the wrong. I’m often in the
wrong—especially when it comes to you.
I don’t expect your forgiveness. I don’t
really need it. I won’t be in your life anymore
and that’s probably a good thing. You
deserve better than what you got from me.
From a lot of people.
So, no, I don’t expect your forgiveness,
but I hope that you won’t hurt anymore.
Maybe you don’t remember, but you once
said that the stars overhead gave you hope
because, even though it took years for their
light to reach us, their starlight still gave us
joy when we looked upon them. And I
sneered at you because I didn’t have any
hope or light in my life. But I could never
shake the thought that if Delilah Baker
remained hopeful that she’d eventually burn
bright, despite all the shit that got thrown
her way, who was I, with all my advantages,
to stop trying? I hated you for that too,
Delilah. I hated that you were the only one
who could ever scratch the scabs that cover
me. You made me bleed when I didn’t want
to.
And now I’ve made you bleed too much.
Why does it feel like it’s my wound too?
Doesn’t matter. I bought you this because
it reminded me of stars. I figure you can
wear these stars around your neck and
always remain hopeful. I understand if they
remind you of me instead and you don’t want
my gift. In that case, sell the damn thing and
use the money for whatever pleases you.
—Macon Saint
 P.S. This is my last piece of dignity and
you are welcome to it. Your face is familiar
to me as my own. Now that I know I won’t
ever see yours again, it feels as though a
part of me has died. Do you really think it is
because you are my enemy?

My breath is caught somewhere between my heart and my

throat. I can’t seem to set it free. Blinking rapidly, I clutch the
letter in my hands and finally face him. There is too much in
his eyes: wariness, yearning, sorrow, regret, but no hope. His
walls are up, though it’s clear he’s fighting through them.
Hearing Macon’s voice from the past has opened both of
us wide. He’s so still he might as well be frozen. When he
speaks, the words crackle like fragile glass. “Are you going to
open the box?”
I haven’t yet touched the box. I’m afraid to. The letter
implies he gave me a necklace, but I fear seeing it might break
my bruised heart. His letter nearly did me in. I want to tell him
things, hold him close, and cry for both of us. He, the proud
and messed-up boy whom I hated so much, and me, the proud
and defensive girl who always seemed to seek him out
whenever she wanted a fight.
I’d long forgotten what I said about the stars. They were
words tossed out in the moment. But they clearly imprinted
upon Macon and meant something to him. Strange how the
knowledge now makes the stars more meaningful to me as
well.
I smooth a hand over the slightly textured surface of the
blue box. “Macon . . .”
“Open it, Tot.” His voice is old velvet. I cannot refuse the
request.
“Oh. Oh, my.” With trembling hands, I lift the necklace
free. The chain is a delicate thread of gold that holds a well-
spaced row of tiny diamonds glinting in the sunlight. He got
me Diamonds by the Yard. “Macon . . .” My breath hitches.
“It’s beautiful.”
 His brows knit together as he looks at the necklace. “I
thought rose gold would complement your skin well.”
A small helpless laugh escapes me. “I’d love this even if it
didn’t.”
He nods as if satisfied. “Okay, then. Good.”
Unable to stop myself, I lift the necklace to the light,
admiring the sparkle of the diamonds and the mellow luster of
the gold. “It’s absolutely beautiful. But why did you keep it?
You could have returned it, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly, still frowning. “But it wasn’t mine
to return. It was yours.”
My mouth falls open. “But . . . you thought I’d sent it
back. It’s been a decade, Macon.”
“I am aware.” His expression is dry. “Doesn’t change the
fact that it is still yours. Whether you accept it or not.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my fingers curling around the thin
chain in protest, even though my mind says I have to let it go.
His lips form a determined line. “Then back in the safe it
goes.”
“Macon . . .”
“Delilah.” He leans closer, his big shoulders bunching.
“You’re not hearing me. The necklace belongs to you or no
one.” Coffee-black eyes peer at me from under the sweep of
thick lashes. “You’re under no obligation to wear it, but don’t
expect me to return the thing either. It’s a decade too late for
that.”
“Stubborn.”
His grin is quick but fond. “Says the most stubborn woman
I know.” The easy expression fades, and he takes a breath. “I
meant every word I wrote. And I know it isn’t enough . . .”
“Words never feel like enough,” I say. He winces, and I
continue in a soft rush. “When you’re the one saying them.
But that doesn’t mean they aren’t. You opened a window to
your heart. You gave me your trust. You didn’t have to do any
of that, but you did. And it means something.”
He seems to consider this but then draws himself upright, a
new, deeper tension moving over his features. “There’s a bit
more.”
“More?”
Macon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle
of folded papers. “I could tell you all this. But it’s the past
that’s haunting us now, so I think it’s better if you hear it from
the me that you used to know. It isn’t exactly pretty, and some
of it I am ashamed of, but these, too, are yours.”
He sets the bundle on the table before me. “Read them. If
you want to end this afterward, it will hurt badly. But I won’t
stop you. We’ve played enough games over the years. I don’t
want what’s between us to be another one.”
Gray edges my vision, and I expel a hard breath. I want to
tell him that it will never be over for me, but he doesn’t wait
for my answer, doesn’t even meet my eyes; he simply nods
toward the papers. “Go on. I have nothing left to hide.”
With another breath, I unfold the pages. The letters are all
clearly written on whatever paper must have been on hand:
stationery, spiral notebooks, a rumpled scrap. The ink is
different on each one: some in black, some in blue. One is
scrawled in smudged pencil lead. The top letter is the oldest,
dated a few months after my family moved to Los Angeles,
the black ink scrawled so hard there are small punctures where
the pen pushed through the paper.

D—
My mother is dead. The doctors say it
was an aneurism. Personally, I think she
simply did not want to be here any longer. I
empathize.
I can’t cry. I keep trying but nothing
happens. There is just this fucking heaviness,
a thick black ball in my throat. But no tears.
You never cried. No matter how badly we
argued, I never saw you shed a tear. Neither
have I. Which makes me wonder why it is
that we can’t cry. Are we some kind of
broken? Or do you cry when no one is
looking? These are things I find myself
wondering at odd times. You know, in those
moments between trying to cry so that I can
grieve. I do grieve, but not in the way I
expected.
Point of fact—and I’ll only confess this
to you, who will never receive this letter—I
am happy too.
She left everything to me. The house, the
money, everything.
It isn’t the money that makes me happy.
It’s the freedom.
Freedom, Delilah. That’s what she’s
given me.
I know you think I always had money. I
had nothing. It was all hers. Her family
money. A small allowance is all I got. He—
my father—wouldn’t allow me to work. No
Saint would be seen laboring for money.
Which is a load of bullshit since he came
from nothing, he just didn’t want anyone to
know it.
That necklace I sent—the one you want
no part of—was the sum of all my savings.
Years of squirreling away my funds. My
ticket out of here. I wanted you to have it: a
penance for all my misdeeds. Melodramatic
on my part, don’t you think?
Doesn’t matter now. You don’t want it.
And I have more money than I need. Obscene
amounts.
 The money allows me to breathe free.
For the first time, I can breathe.
And it’s all because my mom is dead.
My happiness is a twisted thing.
Are we all so fucked up, Delilah? Or is it
just me?
Whatever the case, I’m getting out of
here. Packing up and going to Berkeley—not
my father’s alma mater, Alabama, as he
demanded. Because, fuck him.
Anyway, the funeral is tomorrow. If you
were here, would you hold my hand? I’m
guessing no. But I wonder, if I held yours
would you let go or would politeness keep
your hand in mine. I wish I could find out.
—Macon

“I would have held your hand,” I whisper, my hands

shaking. “If I had been there, I would have done it.”
But Macon is gone. At some point, he left the kitchen. I
hurt for him, for the pain and confusion that is so clear on the
page. I want to cry for him. But he’s right; I never can truly
manage it. I had no idea he couldn’t either.
It’s his voice in my head now, telling me to keep reading. I
pick up the next letter.

Delilah,
I graduated today. Magna cum laude in
classic literature—a degree my father would
have hated. Not that he was here to tell me.
There was no one here to see me graduate. I
did my walk, congratulated my friends, and
went home.
Do you know what I found waiting for
me?
 A letter from D. Baker.
I thought it was from you. I swear, it was
as if your ghost walked up behind me and
licked my neck. Took me forever to open the
damn thing. I thought, maybe she regrets
returning the necklace. Maybe she knows I’m
in California and wants to meet up.
Stupid, huh?
It wasn’t from you, Delilah Baker. It was
from Darrell and Andie Baker. Yes, your
parents sent me a card offering best wishes
upon my graduation. I have no idea how they
knew or how they even found me; I haven’t
talked to a Baker since the night of the prom.
They sent me a card with a hundred
dollar bill inside. Me. The guy who
tormented their eldest and dumped their
youngest. I couldn’t believe it. I sat there,
holding the card with that crisp Benjamin
staring up at me, and laughed.
I inherited three hundred and thirty-one
million dollars from my mother, (Yes, you
read that correctly. I couldn’t believe it either
when I was informed) and your parents,
thinking I was a poor college kid all alone,
sent a little something to start me off in life.
If I was able to cry, I think I would have
done it then.
So here I am writing to you, wanting
nothing more in this world than to be at your
parents’ dinner table, eating your mom’s
famous roast chicken and throwing peas into
your hair when they aren’t looking—just to
see you flip me the finger in new and creative
ways. I want that so badly, my chest fucking
hurts.
 Maybe it’s your graduation day too. If so,
I hope life gives you everything you want,
that you find someone who loves you, that
you live each day to the fullest. That maybe,
in the darkest corners of your mind, you
think of me just a little bit.
—M. A. S.

A smile wobbles on my lips. I want to seek out my mother,

give her a big hug for caring about a boy she hadn’t seen in
years. She was right; he needed us. And I hadn’t seen it.
Pressing a fist to my lips, I force myself to go on.

Hey Tot,
You probably hate that name, don’t you?
Thinking it’s an insult, a commentary about
your appearance. Maybe it started out that
way, me trying to put you down, put you in
your place—somewhere far from me, where
you couldn’t make me feel like I was bleeding
from the inside out. But I don’t think of it that
way anymore. It makes me think of you as a
hot little bite I want to sink my teeth into.
Truth? I’d wanted to do that even when I
said the words. I always wanted to sink into
you. Didn’t matter if you drove me crazy, I
wanted it so much it made my teeth hurt.
Would it shock you to know that? Piss you
off? Probably both.
I miss you, Tot. Can you believe it? Yours
is the voice in my head, haunting my dreams,
pushing me forward.
I’m in a casting office now. Sweating my
balls off, waiting for them to call my name.
I’m reaching for the stars, Delilah.
I hear you smirking, that sugar and
arsenic-laced voice of yours saying, “Of
course you’d have to try to become famous,
Macon Saint. You always did like attention
on you.”
How well you knew me. And how little
you knew me.
I did want attention. But only yours. I
have no idea why since, whenever I
eventually got it, I’d act like a foolish shit.
Truth is, I’d rather be someone other
than me. I want the fantasy instead of reality.
So I’ll act. I’ll say words that are not mine
and breathe easier while living in someone
else’s skin.
How can I not want it? “We are such
stuff as dreams are made on” and all that
crap.
I’m shaking now, Tot. Nearly sick with
anticipation and worry that they’ll see right
through me, straight into my rotten core. But
I have you to bolster me. I’ll go in there and
pretend it’s you I’m talking to. It will be easy
then, thumbing my nose at your skepticism,
proving to myself and you that I’m not a
worthless soul as you once so aptly put.
Your hate gives me strength.
I’m probably a selfish fuck for feeling
that. No, I know I am. But it’s true.
Fuck, I miss you. Why? Why do I miss
you so much?
You’ll never answer because there’s no
way in hell I’m sending this.
But I do.
I
Miss
 You
Delilah
Ann
Baker
My little
Hot
Tater
Tot—

I choke out a laugh. Irritating and boorish man. Oddly

sweet man. His hastily scrawled words send tingling warmth
over my breasts and up my thighs. Shaking my head, I spy the
bold slashes of his next letter, the handwriting bigger than
usual, taking up more space on the page.

Behold! I am Arasmus, bastard son of

Jon’ash, brother of King Ulser of the
Braxtons.
I have been exiled to the Sorrow Lands,
forced to fight for my food, my shelter, my
existence. Until . . .
Well, production hasn’t let me in on the
rest. I’m sure it will be epic and angst-filled,
and if my character manages to live through
this season it will be a fucking miracle. If
you’ve read any of the Dark Castle books,
you’ll notice heads have a way of separating
from key characters’ necks. We’re not
following the books to the letter, so I’m not
certain of Arsamus’s fate.
Makes my neck hurt just thinking about
it, though.
But for now? I party.
Or I will tonight.
 At the moment, I’m in my car, writing in
this damn notebook I still have in the glove
compartment.
Writing to tell you that I hate you once
more.
I hate you, Delilah Ann Baker, cold and
cruel Tater Tot.
I hate that I just got the call from my
agent, telling me that, yes, I . . . Macon
Saint, a virtual nobody in Hollywood, landed
the coveted role of Arasmus in Dark Castle
. . . the most anticipated series to come to
cable in decades, and who do I immediately
want to tell?
You.
Fucking you.
Why? Why is it always—
YOU?

The impact of his words hits me like a blow, and I sit back
in my chair and stare out of the window. It’s almost too bright
in here, the sunlight bouncing off the walls, making my eyes
burn. For a moment, I was in that car with him, huddled down
in the seat, feeling his frustration, his rage. The way he
thought of me was so similar to my reactions to him—it’s
eerie.
I’m afraid to read the last, knowing that he hates me in it,
and I am the ghost he wants to be rid of. Oh, how I regret my
words to him earlier. Ghosts, I realize, are just that: long dead.
They can’t hurt us unless we let them. But I owe it to both of
us to finish.

Hey Tot,
I won an Emmy.
 It’s heavy and cold. And the best thing
I’ve ever received. And the worst. Because it
feels like a lie. Why didn’t they see I was full
of shit? Why did they think I deserved it
above the others? Those fine and true actors
who know what they’re doing. Who are real.
I never feel real.
Do you? What do you dream of now? Is
it of being a famous chef?
A friend handed me your catering card.
Said your food was incredible. As if I needed
telling. It always was.
I carry the card in my wallet, but I don’t
look at it much. I’ll be tempted to call if I do.
What would I even say? We’re strangers
now. Nothing to each other but an ugly past.
At least I am to you. To me, you are
something different.
You have no idea that tonight, when I
stood at that podium and said,
“I thank the stars for leading me here.
Nothing is possible without them.”
I was speaking of you.
Anyway, I just thought you should know.
Or the “you” that is in my head.
Always yours,
—Macon

“Oh, God,” I whisper in the empty silence. My eyes burn

hot when I press my cold fingers to them. “God.”
The diamond necklace on the table winks at me, and I pick
it up. It’s so fine and light I barely feel it against my skin, and
yet it’s the most substantial and real gift I’ve ever received.
Macon gave me everything he had when he bought me this,
even though he had little hope of my forgiveness or friendship.
There are eleven tiny diamonds on the chain. Eleven. The
age I was when I met Macon. The number on Macon’s high
school football jersey. Come May, it will be eleven years since
we fought at prom.
He’s still giving me everything he has.
It takes me two tries to get the necklace on. It settles like
gossamer upon my skin. Then I’m rising.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Macon
There’s something cathartic about doing the thing I most
feared. Even if I don’t know how Delilah will react to my
letters, she has them now. She’ll read them and know all those
secret thoughts I never expected to tell anyone. I’m glad she
has them. They belong to her.
Doesn’t stop me from feeling agitated as hell. I can’t seem
to settle. I pace my office, then my room. I don’t want to be in
my room. I can see the bath from here, and I cannot look at
that damn bath without thinking of her slim, capable hand on
my cock . . .
“Shit.”
I push open the balcony doors and step out. The sun is hot
and bright. I turn my face into a breeze and breathe deep. The
air smells of salt and sea and sweetgrass. I let it calm me as
much as I can, but nothing truly helps. I’ll only settle when I
can face her again.
I’m sitting in the chair I once cuddled Delilah in, my knee
bouncing, my gaze on the horizon, when I hear a noise and
look up.
She stands a few feet away, her big eyes glassy. Is she
upset? Happy? I’m too worked up to get a proper read on her.
I stay completely still as she walks my way, those rounded
hips swaying. God, I love the way she walks. I love the way
the sun gilds her skin golden brown. I love the way her
butterscotch eyes always seem to see right through me. I love
...
“Hey,” she says, stopping before me.
I scramble to my feet, then regret it because I’m looming.
She doesn’t back away, though, but tilts her head back and
stares at me as though she’s seeing me anew. Her slim hands
cup the rough scruff of my cheeks, and she kisses me, gentle
explorations of her mouth. I draw in a sharp breath before
letting it out slowly as I stroke the delicate line of her jaw, the
warm curve of her neck.
Delilah touches me as though I might soon fade away. She
kisses the bridge of my nose, the skin at the edges of my eyes.
I rest my forehead against her, my breathing growing deeper,
faster. I brush my lips against her with every other kiss she
places upon my skin because I need that contact, however
brief.
“Delilah,” I whisper, my thumbs caressing paths over her
temples. “All the things I’ve said—”
“Are in the past.” Her lips press to my cheek. “I wish I was
there. I wish I had known.”
“You were there. You were always with me.” She has to
understand this. I sit down and pull her onto my lap. “That’s
what kills me, Tot. When I thought of you, it drove me on. I
didn’t feel alone. You say I’m the voice in your head, telling
you what you aren’t. I want to be the voice telling you all the
things that you are. Talented and funny and fearless as hell.”
It’s then that I notice she’s wearing the necklace. I trace the
chain, stopping at a glinting diamond. “That you are beautiful
to me in the way of stars.”
“Macon . . .” Her fingers comb through my hair. “I
shouldn’t admit this, but even when you were at your worst,
when I’d be dreaming of tarring and feathering you and
leaving your carcass out for the birds to pick over”—I laugh at
that—“I admired your arrogance.”
“Did you?”
As if to steady me, she rests her palm on my chest, surely
feeling the hard beat of my heart. “I used to channel that
arrogance. If I ever became intimidated or felt less than, I used
to think, ‘What would Macon Saint do?’”
My smile grows wide, and she returns it.
“So you see. It wasn’t all bad. You were there with me,
too, giving me strength, forcing me to be better than I thought
I could.” Her touch is warm and steady along my jaw. “I made
a deal to stay here, expecting the worst, but I found the best
man I’ve ever known.”
Her words punch into me. It’s sweet pain. A small voice in
me wants to say I’m not good; I’m not remotely the best. But
if she has to believe in how I see her, I have to do the same.
Her gaze searches my face in wonder. “I’d told myself I
made that deal with you for my family, but when I walked into
your office, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t for ten years. I know
now that I made that deal for me too. I’m here for you, Macon.
That’s the honest truth.”
Expelling a long breath, I grip the nape of her neck,
holding on. “We going to do this, Delilah?”
“Yes, we’re going to do this.”
Weirdly, it feels as though I’ve been waiting my whole life
to hear that.

By silent agreement, Delilah and I spend the day together,

simply soaking each other in. We hang out like we did as kids,
only this time, it’s Delilah who is curled up against my side
when we watch movies. It’s Delilah whose hair I stroke. I’m
content to stay that way all night. That is until the sound of
Delilah’s stomach growling loud and insistent rings out. She
turns bright red.
I burst out laughing but quickly quell it when she glares.
“I’m sorry. But you are so fucking adorable.”
Delilah makes a face and slaps the side of my arm. “Ass.”
I laugh again and quickly kiss her cheek. “I’m hungry too.
Let’s get some dinner.”
The sun has sunk entirely, and the sky is purple in the
twilight. I hadn’t noticed. Rising, I offer to cook. Delilah raises
a brow.
“What? I can cook,” I protest. “It’s nothing close to what
you do, but I can manage simple meals.”
“I believe you.” Delilah rises from the couch, distracting
me with her body. “I was just thinking maybe we could go
out.”
Go out. For normal people this wouldn’t be a problem. For
me, it’s something different. Call me selfish, but I don’t want
to share Delilah right now. Out there, I will have to because
people inevitably notice.
She clearly sees my hesitation. “Nothing fancy, totally
casual. We can even eat in the car if you want,” she adds with
a brow wiggle like she’s enticing me to sin.
“Now I’m intrigued.”
“You’ll love it,” she says as we go to change. “Besides, I
want to show you something.”
It strikes me just how dangerous it is to live with Delilah
because getting ready for dinner feels like we’re something
more than just starting out. It’s comfortable in a way I’ve
never experienced. Real in a way I only allow myself to dream
about in the darkest corner of my mind.
All this time, I worried about hurting Delilah, but now I
wonder if I’m the one who will be left stripped bare and
empty. I shrug the worry aside. We said we’d try. That’s all
anyone can do.
Delilah takes me to a small taco stand down the coast,
tucked between the highway and the sea. The rocky inlet has
enough room for the cars, a parking lot, and another cottage-
size restaurant that’s closed for business.
The taco stand, however, has a long line. No one looks at
us as we wait, huddled in our hoodies against the wind that’s
blowing over the sand. The rich scent of grilled meats and
frying vegetables has my stomach grumbling.
“See?” I say, looking down at my stomach. “He’s just as
noisy.”
“Ass,” she mutters.
“That’s Mr. Asshat,” I remind her with a nudge of my
elbow.
Delilah smirks and then rests her shoulder against mine.
I’m inordinately pleased.
 At the stand, I let her order, insisting that since she knows
the menu, she can pick what’s best. Taking our beers, I secure
a seat at one of the picnic tables set under multicolored string
lights.
Delilah returns with two boxes and sits at my side. The
selection is simple: a pork, a fish, and a beef for each of us. It’s
how they’re made that makes me groan.
“Damn,” I say around my bite. “That’s good.”
“So good.” She licks a drop of aioli at the corner of her lip
as juices run along her fingers and drip into the box.
We eat in relative silence, enjoying the food and our beers.
Around us, families, couples, and groups of singles chatter and
laugh. Contentment steals over me. I don’t have a lot of
experience with happiness. But I soak it in.
“You see that place over there,” Delilah says, breaking our
easy silence.
“The blue shack of a restaurant?” I squint at the faded sign.
“An old crab house?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her fingers with a napkin. “Apparently,
they weren’t any good, and you can’t expect to stay open
serving crap. Especially next to this place.”
Delilah stares at the old place, her expression thoughtful
like maybe she’s seeing it in a way I can’t. Tension visibly
creeps along her shoulders when she turns back to me. “I’ve
been thinking about opening a restaurant there.”
Carefully I set down my beer. This place is ten minutes
from my house. She’ll be near me. I want that. Fiercely. I want
her happiness more. “Would it be a good idea to open next to
such a popular place?”
“I wouldn’t be serving tacos, so it isn’t direct competition.
It would benefit both, I think, because people who love good
food would be drawn here.” Her hands start to move as she
talks, getting more excited. “I’d strip that awful blue paint off,
bring it back to an old beach-cottage look. I’m not certain
about the menu, but it’s starting to take shape in my head.
Comfort food, but not heavy. Quality ingredients, a mix
between simple and complex—” She stops, and her lips quirk.
“I’m boring you.”
“Hardly. I like hearing you talk.” I take her hand and
thread our fingers. Because I can. Finally. “It’ll work, Tot.”
She shrugs but can’t hide her smile. “Well, there’s a lot of
stops between an idea and reality. I don’t have the money or a
backer—”
“I’ll do it. I’ll back you. Hell, I’ll buy the place if you
want.”
“No. Macon, no.” She softens her rejection by leaning
against me. “It’s a generous, lovely offer, but I don’t want that
between us. Business has to stay business.”
“And we’re not business.” We started off that way. Until
now, I didn’t truly comprehend how much I wanted that
arrangement behind us. It does funny things to my insides to
hear her say she’s here because she wants me, not what I could
do for her, not because of that damn deal.
“No,” she says happily. “We’re not.”
“Okay.” I take another look at the restaurant. “But I can
still help. I know a guy—”
Delilah bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Please don’t say
he’s in the mob.”
I tweak her earlobe. “No, smart-ass. He’s a restaurateur
who happens to be looking to new expansion.”
That gets her attention. “Who?”
“Ronan Kelly.”
“You know Kelly?” She makes a sound of amusement.
“What am I saying? Of course you do. Hot successful men run
in packs.”
My chin rests against the top of her head. “Hold on a
second. What’s this about hot?”
“Ronan Kelly is hot. Insanely hot. It would be hard not to
notice that.”
 I grunt. “I’m not sure I like that you notice.”
“I have eyes, don’t I?” She runs a finger along the top of
my thigh. The muscle tightens in response. Her hum is
pleased. “Macon Saint, jealous. Who would have thought?”
“It’s not the first time with you,” I admit in a low voice.
But she hears. And grins. Because Delilah is evil.
“North?” She huffs out a laugh. “We have zero chemistry.
If you were thinking clearly, you would have seen—”
“Not North,” I cut in. “Although, yes, I was a touch
irritated.”
Delilah snorts but then stops and looks up at me. “Who,
then?”
It’s my turn to grin. “Matty Hayes.”
“Matty Hayes? From high school? Seriously?”
“The way you used to stare at him like he was a god?” I
roll my eyes, fighting a laugh. “Annoyed the hell out of me.”
Her lips quirk. “How ironic, given that when I think back
on that day, I realize that I, too, was probably jealous.”
It’s probably bad of me to be so pleased. “Do tell, Ms.
Baker.”
The wind whips a strand of her hair over her mouth, and
she brushes it aside before she speaks. “You and Sam were
always a couple. I had no one. I felt like a third wheel, and it
sucked.”
Pressing my lips to her hair, I’m silent for a moment. Sam.
Always Sam, lurking like a ghost between us. At this point, I
don’t care if I never see her again. “You were the glue that
held us all together, and you never knew it.”
Delilah huffs. “Yeah, well, at the time, I’d have preferred a
boyfriend. I’d only had one kiss up to that point. And that was
only because of that stupid party game The Shed.”
I freeze, my insides seizing up. Then my heart starts to
pound with some weird mix of shock and satisfaction. “That
was your first kiss?”
“You remember me in school; I wasn’t exactly popular.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”
Hell.
“Macon . . .”
“Okay.” I hold up a hand. “In the spirit of our newfound
sharing and honesty, I have to confess that it was me.”
“What was you?” she asks darkly.
“In the shed. With you.” I clear my throat. Hell. “I kissed
you.”
“What?” Her hiss carries over the area, and a couple
glances our way.
Taking her hand, I help her up, grab our trash, and dump it
before walking with her toward the old restaurant. “I drew a
number, went in the shed, and waited. A girl came in. About
five seconds later, I knew it was you.”
“How?” she whispers, still shocked.
“Delilah, we may have been enemies, but I knew your
scent like I knew home.”
“Please. I smelled like any other girl back then.”
“You stumbled or stubbed your toe on the way in and
muttered ‘shit sticks’ under your breath.” I chuckle at the
memory. “I was shocked as hell. And turned on—as much as a
thirteen-year-old kid could be.”
Her pretty mouth falls open. “Oh my God. It was truly
you?”
“Yes.”
“You knew it was me, and you kissed me anyway.” She
stares up at me like she’s seeing me anew. “Why?”
“I wanted to know how it would feel.” I take a step closer.
“I knew it was you, and I was strangely relieved that I
wouldn’t have to kiss anyone else.”
 Her gaze turns hazy as if she’s remembering. “You were
sweet.”
“So were you.” My hand drifts up to cup her jaw. “I liked
it.”
A frown wrinkles her brow. “Why did you pretend you
kissed Sam?”
Shrugging, I turn and study the restaurant. “I liked it too
much. And there you were, glaring daggers at me throughout
the party. Seemed safer, easier to ask Xander to switch
numbers and pretend it didn’t happen.”
Delilah is silent. A frown works between her brows. “You
started dating Sam that night.”
She doesn’t say it, but we both know the truth. Everything
changed that night, for the worst. The wedge between Delilah
and me grew wider.
“I made a lot of mistakes in my life,” I say quietly. “I don’t
want to make more.” Glancing at the restaurant, I take
Delilah’s hand in mine. “Do you want me to call Ronan?”
She doesn’t answer immediately but stares at me. “All
right,” she says finally. “Yes, please.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you, Macon.” She startles me with a short amused
laugh. “I should be giddy at the thought of meeting Ronan
Kelly. But all I can think of is that kiss and how I’m so glad it
was you and not that dickhead Xander.”
I tug her into a hug. “Yeah, well, I’d rather you think of
kissing me instead of thinking about meeting Ronan, so I’m
not complaining.” What I don’t tell her is I’m increasingly
convinced I want her to be the last woman I kiss, the only one.
The fact that she might not feel the same scares the hell out of
me. My history of retreating from situations I can’t control has
me holding on to her a little tighter.
Don’t fuck this up. Somehow, I’m afraid I will.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Macon
“I’ve come bearing refreshments.” Delilah stops in front of
the double-wide lounger I’m sitting on reading scripts.
We spent the morning apart. I wanted to give Delilah time
to get used to being with me. It wasn’t easy. I wanted—needed
—to know if she was all right. Maybe I just wanted to see if
she’d come find me. Yes, I’m a needy fucker.
I move the pile of scripts to the far side of the lounge to
make room for her. “Hand it over, and sit,” I say, making her
roll her eyes at my order. “What do you have for me this
time?”
Delilah often grumps about me comparing her to luscious
foods, but I can’t help it. I can’t think of a time when Delilah
hasn’t been taking care of the people in her world by offering
them food and drinks. For Delilah food is love. Truth is, that
more than anything pushed me to take her up on the offer to be
my chef; I wanted to be cared for by Delilah even if I received
it in the most circuitous of ways.
“Pimm’s cup.” Delilah gets comfortable, bending her tan
legs as she leans back. “My favorite lazy-day afternoon drink.”
I take a long drink and let the taste of Delilah’s lazy day
slide down. It’s crisp, sweet, a burst of freshness. Kind of like
Delilah.
“How’s the leg?” She sits forward and peers at my calf.
Earlier, I went with North to the doctor’s to get my cast
off. The first sight of my emaciated leg wasn’t heartening. I
wiggle my toes, and the weakened muscles along my leg shift
beneath my pasty skin. “Looks like hell, but it feels good. No
pain or twinges.”
“And your back?” Her lips twitch as she carefully keeps
her eyes on my leg. Is she remembering the spectacular
attention she gave my dick as I soaked away my aches? I hope
so.
“Good as new. You must have magic fingers.”
A furious blush graces her cheeks, but Delilah doesn’t say
anything as she picks up a script and starts reading it.
Chuckling, I relax and drink my Pimm’s, enjoying every damn
icy-cold sip. The sun is low in the sky, getting ready to set, and
the sea goes quiet as if waiting for that final kiss of light.
“Are you thinking about doing this movie?” she asks, the
ice cubes in her glass clinking as she drinks and reads.
“I am.” I lean over and glance at the script. She’s reading
the superhero one. It’s supposed to be top secret, reveal on
pain of death. But I trust Delilah. “Why? I thought you liked
comic book heroes.”
When we were kids, we used to camp out on her family
room couch and watch the X-Men animated series. Delilah
wanted to be Rogue, despite the fact that the character could
never touch another person without risk of killing them.
She meets my gaze for the first time today. “I love them.
Seeing you in this would be . . . I don’t even have the words.
Surreal. Awesome.”
“I like those words,” I tease. “But? What?”
She bites her bottom lip, clearly considering her words. “I
guess it depends on what you want out of this career. You’re
basically playing a superhero now, only with swords and
leathers. If you play one again . . .”
“I run the risk of being typecast,” I finish, understanding
dawning.
“Then again, these movies are insanely popular.” She
smooths a hand over the script. “You can easily become a
superstar.”
“Who will quickly fade when he gets too old and beat up
to play those roles anymore.”
She chuckles but shakes her head. “Not necessarily.”
 With a sigh, I lean my head back and stare at the sea. “I
need to diversify, take on different roles. But all these”—I
gesture to the pile of scripts—“are basically for action films.”
“Nothing wrong with being an action star.” She copies my
pose, stretching her curvy legs out. Her little toes are painted
bubblegum pink now. Why I find that cute as hell is a mystery.
“Look at Harrison Ford. He’s one of the biggest stars of all
time. The majority of his movies are action films.”
“Yes,” I agree, deadpan. “All I have to do is somehow land
roles in movies as epic as Star Wars and Indiana Jones, and
I’m all set.”
She gives me a nudge. “If anyone can own this town, you
can.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
My confession has her turning on her side to face me. “Are
you happy?”
Something deep inside my gut tightens uncomfortably.
“What a question,” I quip with a huff of laughter.
Her gaze is steady and serious. “It’s a hard one, isn’t it?
Sometimes, I’ll ask myself, and I have no idea what the
answer is. Which probably means I’m not.”
I set my glass and hers on the pavers and then turn to lie on
my side so that we’re face to face. “Maybe we’re not meant to
be completely happy at all times,” I say. “I’m happy on the set,
when things are flowing. Good conversation with good friends
makes me happy.” I move closer, resting fully on the lounger.
She’s close enough that all I’d have to do to kiss her is lean
over. “I’m happy when I’m with you.”
Her gaze goes slumberous as she studies my face like she’s
taking in the details and committing them to memory. “Would
it surprise you to learn that I’m happy when I’m with you
too?”
“Yes,” I say truthfully, my heart thudding in my throat.
“But I’m damn glad you are, Tot.”
 Her smile is small but pleased. Neither of us says anything
more. I’m content to lie here and simply be—because she’s
here, and that’s all I need right now. Slowly, creeping like
she’s afraid I’ll bolt, Delilah edges closer. I wait it out, pulse
thrumming. Her warm leg collides with mine. I let out a
breath, and my leg slides between hers.
The sun sinks, hot orange on the cool-blue ocean. We
could be watching the sunset. We’re watching each other
instead. Curled up close, our limbs intertwining. The evening
light turns Delilah’s skin caramel, and her eyes gleam like old
gold. She’s so beautiful she makes my heart hurt.
I press a kiss to her cheek and am rewarded with the sound
of her breath hitching. I want to explore her mouth for hours,
days. I’m beginning to think I’ll want it for endless years. For
now, I’ll do as she wishes and go slow, starting with chaste,
relatively innocent touches. My reward is her hand smoothing
along my neck to rest there, warm and lazy. I feel that soft
touch down to the bone, a throb of warm happiness that
lingers.
She snuggles closer, her calf sliding along mine. It feels so
good I’m momentarily distracted. My arm wraps around her
waist, securing her against me. Her body is all curves and
warmth. I’m trying my best not to get distracted by her breasts
or the way they tease along my chest with her breathing. But
damn, I want to touch them.
“Macon?”
“Hmm?” I stroke her arm, touch her fingers. If I’d known
on that fateful prom night that wrapping myself up in Delilah
would be this good, I’d have hunted her down, thrown myself
at her feet, and begged.
“Have you been avoiding me today?”
My hand pauses at her waist. “I wanted to give you time to
get used to this.” Us. We were an us. Fucking unbelievable.
She worries the inside of her lip with her teeth as her
thumb brushes my jaw. “I thought as much.” Her gaze lowers
to my mouth. She has my total attention now. “Thing is, I
missed you.”
I can’t help myself. I lean in and kiss her like I’ve wanted
to all day, deep and sweet. She makes a small pleased sound
that licks along my skin, and then her mouth opens to mine,
the gentle touch of her hand turning into a desperate grip.
I’m not going anywhere. I tilt my head, drawing her
halfway under me, knowing she has no idea how much I relish
the freedom to touch her, taste her. “This okay?” I whisper
before suckling her plump lower lip. “Kissing you like this?”
It feels okay. More than that. And she’s responsive. But I
want the words. I need to know she’s as into it as I am. Delilah
hums into my mouth, tickling my lips. Her body arcs into
mine, pressing those glorious tits against my chest.
“Yes,” she says.
Yes. My new favorite word.
A grin slips free. Then I lose myself in Delilah. I’ve never
kissed like this, kissing because it feels so damn good my
body throbs with lust. I swallow down her soft sounds, learn
the contours of her mouth. The simple slide of her tongue
along mine has my dick so hard it hurts.
Delilah kisses like she does everything else—all in. She
kisses me like I’m an indulgence, a secret treat. And it turns
me on so badly my movements become clumsy, fumbling and
uncoordinated. I want to touch her everywhere, and my hands
can’t decide where to start.
I’ve never felt like this.
By the time we part for air, we’re both panting slightly, and
my hand is halfway up her shirt. A little closer, and I’m in
heaven. But she pulls back, a pretty blush spreading over her
cheeks.
“Damn,” she murmurs, glancing at me with a wry smile.
“Damn?” Leaden with lust, I can only lie there, trying to
control myself so I don’t reach for her again.
 Blushing, she shakes her head as if to pull herself out of a
fog. I want to pull her back into it.
“I never thought I’d be making out with you on a lounger,”
she says. “I never thought . . . realized it would be so . . .” She
takes an unsteady breath. “So good.”
Her confession sends another bolt of heat through me. I
cup the back of her neck and kiss her again. Harder, maybe a
little fucking desperate. Because she’s killing me here.
Delilah’s leg climbs up my side, her body curling around
mine. Her hands fist my shirt, the short strands of my hair.
Aggressive, greedy. A grunt leaves me, and I roll to press her
into the lounger, when she makes a sound of protest, and she
breaks off.
Her lips are swollen and parted as she gasps. “I . . .” I
suckle her lower lip. She murmurs a sound of approval, licking
into my mouth before trying to talk again. “I think we should
. . .”
“Stop?” I’m hard as wood; my abs actually ache with need.
Take it slow. She wants slow. I’ll give her anything she wants.
“Okay. Give me a minute—”
She touches my cheek and gently turns my head to meet
her gaze. There’s so much heat in her toffee eyes that my mind
goes blank. “Forget what I said about taking it slow. I want
you now.”
It takes me a second to catch up. But my dick immediately
pushes at the base of my shorts, trying its best to get out. This
is probably the moment I should try to reassure her, tell her
I’m fine with waiting. That there’s no rush. That’s not what
comes out of my mouth.
“Oh, bless you.”
She laughs, the sound muffled against my lips as we
tumble back, and I kiss her like I need air. “I was never any
good at waiting,” she says.
I kiss along the smooth, fragrant skin of her neck, my
hands filling with her sweet ass. “Never fucking change.”
 She nips my earlobe. The tips of her fingers tickle my
waist as she gathers up the edge of my shirt. “Take this off.
Take it all off.”
So demanding. I swear, I nearly come from that alone:
Delilah Baker ordering me to get naked. Jesus.
“Yes, ma’am.” I pause. “Wait. Here?”
There’s a reason I’m protesting the location; I just can’t
focus enough to remember what the hell it might be.
“Yes. Here.” She lifts her head. Hair mussed, golden eyes
dazed, she smirks, and it is damn sexy. “Unless you have some
objection—”
“Here’s good. Kiss me.” I groan when she does. “That
sassy mouth.” I delve into it, taste her flavor. “God, Delilah.
Give me another taste of that tart mouth.”
She hums, and her hand slides down to cup my dick. Ah,
sweet relief.
“No, wait. Shit. Condom.” A breath shudders out of me.
“We need a condom.”
A whimper of protest sounds in her throat as she leans her
head on my chest. I take the moment to clutch her close, grind
my hard-on against her heat. She whimpers again, and I clear
my throat. “Upstairs. Now.”
We both scramble off the lounger.
The trip to my room is a clumsy dance, broken up by
frequent stops because I keep pushing her up against any
available surface to kiss her mouth, eat at it like it’s my last
damn meal. I’m starving for Delilah.
She’s just as hungry, tearing my shirt off in the hall. It
drops somewhere in our wake. Her strong, deft fingers trace
along my abs as we struggle to find the bed.
“God, Macon. You are so fucking . . .” Her pink tongue
flicks my nipple. I’m not ashamed to admit I whimper. She
smiles. “Gorgeous.”
 I’ve been called that in some form or other my entire life.
It’s never meant anything. Until now. Because she doesn’t
look at my body when she says it. She looks straight into my
eyes. She looks at me like I’m hers. I’m damn close to begging
her for mercy. And she isn’t even naked. I need to fix that.
With a grunt, I haul her close, wrap my arm under her
plump ass, and pick her up. She makes some protest about my
leg, but she doesn’t know how strong of a motivation I have. I
carry her the last few steps into my room, my lips never
leaving the haven of hers.
When I finally put her down, everything changes. We fall
quiet, staring at each other. I’d say she is shy, but that’s not it.
Lips parted and swollen with my kisses, Delilah meets my
gaze. She’s soaking this moment in the same way I am. I want
to remember this, the way the light caresses her burnished skin
and sets the flyaway strands of her hair aglow, the way her
eyes are wide and wondering. I draw in the scent of her skin
and lean closer, needing her warmth.
Smiling a little, she grabs the bottom of her shirt and tugs
it off.
“I wanted to do that.” I barely recognize my voice it’s so
rough. Because she’s standing there, those glorious tits
encased in a pale-pink lace bra.
Her smile grows. “You can do it next time.”
“There’s going to be a next time?”
“I guess that depends on how good you are this time.”
Cheeky. Stepping closer, I trace the strap of her bra,
gratified to see little goose bumps lift on her skin. She sways
toward me, her palm resting on my chest. I hold her gaze as I
reach behind her and release the hook. Her bra slides onto the
floor.
No, this is what I’ll remember for the rest of my life. The
first sight of Delilah’s breasts. I’ve dreamed about them for far
too long. My first wet dreams were about them, how they
might look, feel, taste. I knew nothing.
 She is full and ripe, the skin paler here, delicately capped
with dusky-honey tips. It gets me so hot I’m shaking. My hand
cups their soft, plump weight, and she shivers too. I want to
say something like “Finally” or “What took us so long?” but
all that comes out is the most important thing. “You’re
beautiful.”
Her lids flutter, her breath hitching when I rub the tips of
my thumbs over her silky nipples. Those sweet buds tighten,
and it’s all I can do not to swoop down and suck them hard. As
it is, I tweak them, and she keens. The sound goes straight to
my dick. “Get in my bed, Delilah. And get comfortable,
because you aren’t leaving it anytime soon.”
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
SEVEN
Delilah
It’s almost surreal, stripping down in front of Macon, like
I’m watching it happen from outside myself. That we’re
finally in this place. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I’m
as nervous as an inexperienced teen. But then our gazes
collide, and I forget to be shy or wonder how we got here.
Because there is only him and the way he makes me feel.
Like I’m a newly minted version of myself, re-created into
something glorious, something essential. He does that to me
with just one glance. I want to shine for him. Only him.
He doesn’t look away as he shoves his shorts off and
stands before me, naked and hard. I’ve seen pieces of him in
the bath; now I have the whole picture. I’ve never seen a more
beautiful sight. And then he’s on me, wrapping me up in his
arms. His body is hot and solid and so much bigger than mine
that I’m enveloped.
The bedding sinks beneath me as he presses me down,
dragging openmouthed kisses along my neck. “Anything you
don’t like, honey. Anything you need, tell me.” Big hands,
rough with calluses from sword fighting, skim down my sides.
“Anything.”
With a noise of want, he cups my breast, then leans over it.
His mouth is hot and wet, and I groan, arching into him as he
sucks my nipple in deep. He releases me with a long satisfied
lick and then does it all over again.
“Macon . . .” It’s a plea. For more, for it everywhere.
He seems to know this because he looks up at me from
beneath the fan of his lashes as his wicked tongue flicks over
my other nipple. “It’s my turn to play.”
Play he does, suckling my nipples until they’re swollen
and stiff and gleaming, then rubbing the flat of his fingers over
the sensitive tips—a slow, heavy circle. The action is so lewd,
so basely sexual, that I writhe and moan against him, my leg
hooking over his trim hips in an attempt to bring him over me.
But he resists, his focus all on me. He makes his way over
my body, learning every curve and hollow—gentle little kisses
of shuddering pleasure, slow wet kisses of greed. When he
gets to the rise of my hip bone, he pauses. His big hands settle
over my thighs, gripping them lightly. His gaze, dark and hot,
meets mine.
“Spread these thighs, Tot, and show me what I’ve been
dreaming about for far too long.”
Slowly, I open to him. I feel the exposure in the soft stretch
of my inner thigh muscles, the cool rush of air against my wet
sex. My breasts jiggle with every shuddering breath I take.
Macon’s attention is rapt. He licks his lower lip, and I clench
deep within me.
With a groan, he lowers his head and kisses my pussy like
a man deprived of air. Pleasure jolts through me, hot and
sharp. I writhe against that slowly questing mouth of his. He
fucking feasts, and I can’t help but put my hand on the back of
his head to hold him there, urge him to take more.
God, the feel of his tongue sliding and searching; my clit
becomes so swollen and sensitive I’m half trying to get away.
But he won’t let me. The sight of his broad shoulders between
my legs, the fan of his lashes shadowing an expression of
sheer greed, has me teetering on an orgasm. He stops to place
a soft, firm kiss right on my clit like it’s something he has to
do, this bit of utter affection at the height of his lust, and I fall.
Arching against the bed, I come and come. Macon kisses
me again, his hand soothing my quivering belly in gentle
circles, then rises to hover over me. “Of all the flavors you’ve
given me,” he says roughly. “That was my favorite.”
God. I lick my dry lips, my breath catching. “You can have
a taste anytime you like.”
His expression is one of male satisfaction and pure heat as
he slides his palm down my belly and over my poor, teased
sex. I’m so slick and ready two of his thick fingers slide right
in. We both groan, his forehead resting on mine. “You need me
in here, don’t you, Tot?”
“Yes.” I’m panting now, my body flush and shivering.
He keeps fingering me, downright dirty about it. “How do
you want it?”
I cup the back of his head, gripping the damp strands of his
short hair. I tug him down until we share the same air. “Macon,
do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed about that thick
cock of yours pushing into me?”
He shudders, a hard breath punching from his lips. “Shit.
Tell me.”
“So many frustrated nights.” I lick his upper lip. “I want it
deep and hard.”
All sense of play evaporates. He gets a condom, but his
hands are shaking so hard, and he drops it. He huffs out a
laugh. “Hell, I’m too worked up.” His hot gaze collides with
mine. “Put it on me?”
I try, but I’m shaking too. Softly laughing, we put it on
together. His abs clench as I brush a hand over his balls, his
dick flexing with impatience. There’s no more smiling. His
expression is almost fierce as he cradles my cheeks and kisses
me. I feel it in my knees, down my back, in my heart.
Then he’s sliding over me, making room between my
thighs. Every bit of him is big and strong. Hard biceps bunch
and strain as he holds himself over me, his erection pressed
hot against my belly.
He cants his hips just enough to slide through my wetness,
but he doesn’t enter me. Not yet. Dark eyes peer down at me. I
forget to breathe because what I see there isn’t just lust.
Gently, as though I’m a dream, he ducks his head and places a
feather-soft kiss on my swollen lips.
“Delilah.”
That’s all. Only my name.
It’s everything.
 My arms wrap around the thick column of his neck. I’m
surrounded by his heat, the fresh scent of his skin, the
unsteady rush of his breathing. I take a small sip from his lips,
then tell him what he needs to hear. “Yes, Macon. Yes.”
A breath shudders from him. He holds my gaze, those
expressive eyes shining black in the light. The first push
spreads me wide. My chest hitches. He fills me in a steady
invasion. So thick. So perfect.
And all the time he watches me.
He’s too big for ease. He has to work for it, a little in, a
little out, each time sinking deeper.
And still he watches me.
Pleasure pulls tight. And then he’s all in. He holds there,
throbbing and shaking.
“Oh, fuck,” he rasps. His kiss is hot and demanding,
almost desperate, as if he can’t get enough. “What you do to
me . . . you have no idea, do you? How you make me feel.”
“Yes, I do. You think it’s any different for me? Feel my
heart.” I put his hand between my breasts. “It’s racing. For
you.”
There are no more words. Macon moves, the power of his
body undulating over me. We move together as though we’ve
been doing this forever, like we already know each other
perfectly. Maybe we do.
He isn’t a selfish lover. He gives me everything, touches
and caresses with such dedication and attention that I feel
cherished. And he fucks with such greedy relish—sucking at
my skin, thrusting into me with deep grunts of pleasure—that I
feel adored.
But in the end, he rolls onto his back, taking me with him.
Stretching his arms overhead, he grasps the headboard. “Ride
me, Delilah. Take what you need.”
All that power laid out before me. The high crests of his
cheeks are flushed. Sweat trickles down his temples. Every
inch of him is hard and tight with lust. I sink down onto his
cock, and we both groan. I take my pleasure, luxuriating in his
body. I don’t let up until he’s groaning and crying out my
name.
We come together, falling into each other, wrecked.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
EIGHT
Delilah
I’m hosting a dinner for Ronan Kelly, one of the most
powerful restaurateurs in the business. I know this to be true,
but part of me has a hard time believing it. For all his fame and
business savvy, Ronan is a hard man to pin down. Much like
Macon he’s rumored to be both a social recluse yet is adored
by many. He is in his midthirties, is the son of Irish
immigrants, and has the Midas touch when it comes to
restaurants.
And he’s coming to dinner. All because Macon asked him
to. I could kiss Macon for that. For a lot of things. I knew sex
with him would be good, intense. What I didn’t realize was
how close I’d feel to him. Sex is something I understand. It’s
pleasure and release. Intimacy is different. I thought I
understood it. I’ve had boyfriends. But I knew nothing.
Because this thing between Macon and me is changing the
very makeup of who I am.
He’s not getting under my skin; he’s becoming part of it. I
don’t think I can walk away from him now without tearing a
good chunk of myself apart. It’s both frightening and
comforting. If tonight goes as planned, my life will change yet
again. I’ll be one step closer to my dream. And it’s all due to a
text that wasn’t even meant for me.
I’m ashamed to say I haven’t wanted to think of Sam. At
all. Sam now equates to guilt. Guilt for not telling Macon
about her call. Guilt about sleeping with Sam’s childhood
boyfriend. Guilt for even feeling guilty about that. What a
mess.
A small, childish part of me is glad she’s gone. Out of
sight, out of mind, and all that. But pushing something away
won’t fix anything. My sister is flawed. But she’s family, and
she owes it to all of us to return.
 Sitting heavily on the bed, I reach for my phone and send a
text before I can think better of it.
DeeLight to SammyBaker: Everything has
changed. I just wish you were here. I have so
much to tell you.
I give her a good twenty minutes. She doesn’t answer. I
have to resign myself to the fact that she’s not ready to come
back. Swallowing down a lump of disappointment, I get
dressed and focus on tonight.
I’m so damn nervous I can hardly keep my hands from
shaking as I smooth out my hair and apply my makeup. The
Delilah in the mirror has round cheeks that are too flushed and
amber-brown eyes that are too big and shiny—scared. I leave
off the blush, since I’m clearly not going to need it, and dab on
some red lipstick.
Despite my jitters, I have confidence in my menu. It had
taken two weeks to come up with it, searching through old
cookbooks for inspiration, remembering childhood recipes,
experimenting with taste combinations that bring me joy. Each
dish feels deeply personal, even though I can’t fully express
why. I created them without thinking too hard about it, letting
my memory of food, knowledge of taste combinations, and
basic skills guide me. It was worth it. I had to figure out who I
was and tell my story through the food I made. It’s all there in
this menu. All of what means the most to me. Whether it
works, I don’t know. But I’m about to find out.

Macon
The morning after Delilah told me her dreams, she woke
up with a wide smile and said, “I want to cook.” That was that.
She disappeared into the kitchen and began to whip up dishes
that made my knees weak and my mouth water. My diet went
out the window; production orders be damned. I’d rather
spend my days as her willing taste tester.
She’s become a woman fueled by a creative drive that
lights her up. She cooks; I eat; we make love. Over and over.
For two weeks. I don’t fully believe in karma, but somewhere,
at some point, I must have done something right.
Now I have a chance to return the favor for the woman
who’s become my everything. But first, there’s something I
have to do for both of us. I pull out my phone and find Sam’s
number.
Saint to Sam Baker: I was set to hate you. But
I can’t anymore because you brought Delilah
back into my life.
I’m not going to forgive you for the watch; I’m
not that magnanimous. But I’m no longer going
to look for you. Stay gone if that’s your wish. Or
come back and ease your family’s worries.
Either way, you and I are done. Pax, Saint.
I have no idea if Samantha will get the texts. I’m not
certain I care. But officially letting Sam go releases something
in me as well. I feel lighter. I want that lightness for Delilah,
too, and remind myself to tell her about the texts. Right now,
she’s downstairs cooking and giving her staff instructions.
The doorbell rings just as I’m sliding a shirt on. I hustle to
the door, buttoning my shirt as I go. Kelly is waiting on the
other side. “Ronan, good to see you.”
“Hey, Saint.” He steps into the hall. “You’re looking better.
Well, for an overgrown mountain.”
I top him by five inches, and he likes to give me shit for it.
“Thanks, pretty boy.”
I’ve known Ronan for years. He has several restaurants, all
of them with monthlong wait lists and endless accolades. His
singular talent is identifying top chef talent and creating
restaurants that perfectly highlight that chef’s food. A
partnership with Ronan is like finding a golden ticket.
I’m nervous. I never get nervous anymore. At least, not
when it comes to my career. After the first year working, I
finally realized things either happen, or they don’t. No use
worrying over shit you can’t control. But this is for Delilah. I
know how much this means to her, and I cannot control one
single thing about this dinner. I want Ronan to see the genius
in her cooking. But if he can’t, then he’s a dumb ass, and we’ll
find someone else. And then I’ll kick Ronan’s ass.
With that in mind, I lead Ronan into the living room,
where North and his date are waiting to join us for dinner.
Then I head to the kitchen.
Delilah is giving some instructions to her staff. I was
intending to offer a few words of encouragement; I’m
temporarily struck mute by the sight of her.
Half-bent over the counter, she’s wearing a tan dress that
hugs every delectable curve. Her ass is a thing of beauty. I
want to run my hand over it, give that peachy butt a firm slap.
It would jiggle so nicely. And she’d probably kick my ass.
Then again, maybe she’d be into some light spanking. I want
to know this. I need to concentrate.
“Hey,” I say, coming up to stand alongside her. “You doing
all right?”
She brushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “I got this.”
“I know you do.” I bend down to kiss her cheek and feel
the tension in her.
Delilah grabs hold of my forearm. “Macon . . .” She
pauses, hesitating, then takes a breath. “Thank you for this.”
I’m not certain that’s what she really wanted to say, but
I’m not going to push it. “There’s nothing to thank.” Caressing
the curve of her cheek, I give her a smile of encouragement.
“He’s going to love you.”
My throat closes on the words, emotion throwing me off
for a second. But she doesn’t notice. Bracing her shoulders,
she walks with me to meet our guests.
I shouldn’t have worried. Delilah handles Ronan with a
cool confidence that totally belies the case of nerves she
showed me. I try to keep track of the conversation, but then
one of Delilah’s former catering waitstaff brings out a round of
drinks and a tray of little spheres the size of a large marble.
 “Gin blackberry bramble and peanut brittle spheres,”
Delilah tells us.
I take a sip of the drink. Instantly, I’m back in the South on
a summer’s day, eating plump blackberries straight from the
bush. The peanut brittle sphere melts in my mouth, reminding
me of the cookies Delilah’s mom used to make for us, more
savory than sweet. It’s such a strong childhood moment that I
swear I can practically feel the sun on my back.
After our drinks, she has us sit, and our first course arrives.
“Oysters topped with watermelon-and-habanero brunoise,”
the server says, setting a plate before me. It’s a little work of
art.
“The menu tonight,” Delilah tells us, “is a take on what
I’m thinking about offering. It’s a compilation of the things I
love and hold dear. However, I’d be creating dishes based on
the best produce available for the week.”
“As long as you don’t call it farm to table,” Ronan says.
“That catchphrase has died a swift death.”
She smiles easily. “I’ll leave you to come up with the new
catchphrase. For me, a dish is only as good as its ingredients.
It’s my job to start with the best and make them shine in a way
that you never expected.”
He’s charmed. Of course he is; she’s brilliant. “That’s the
trick, isn’t it?”
“It’s no trick, Mr. Kelly. It’s love. Love of food and the
desire to show people how much they can love it too.”
They start to talk business, but again I’m distracted by
Delilah’s food. With the oysters, I’m at the shore, swimming
in the heat of the day. She serves us baby cream biscuits and
smoked peach butter that taste exactly like those we’d eat
around her mother’s table during a Sunday dinner, only better,
tweaked in a way that makes me want to taste it again and
again. Buttermilk panna cotta with spot prawns and spring
vegetables pulls me right into lazy picnics in Delilah’s
backyard, when we’d gorge on plump peas, sweet tomatoes,
crisp cucumbers. The tender shrimp and tart buttermilk—all of
this is our childhood on a plate.
I never wanted to look too closely at that time, but it’s
slapping me right in the face. Oddly, it doesn’t hurt. Not this
version. It feels fragile and rare, like I should be protecting it,
like I should be proud of where we come from and who we
are.
And then the menu changes on me. The servers bring out
what Delilah says is butter-poached cod with potato galette
and shellfish emulsion dotted with petals of mango and peach.
It is the clean taste of the sea; it is buttery velvet along my
tongue, bright bursts of juicy fruit. Underneath it all is a crisp,
airy version of what is essentially a gourmet tater tot.
The taste is erotic. Heat and lust wash over me in a wave
that has my balls clenching and my cock stiffening. I can’t
figure out why. Then it hits me like a kick to the chest. This
dish is us. Frantic kissing on the beach, eating juicy mangos at
the market, peaches and tater tots. She’s created us. A
compilation of all she holds dear.
A laugh bursts out of me, and everyone glances my way.
North looks at me like I’m nuts. Delilah quirks a brow but
doesn’t say a word. I have no idea what was said while I was
lost in her food. Hell.
“Sorry. Spontaneous laughter.” I clear my throat, feeling
like a grade A ass. “I do that when I’m enjoying my food.”
The silence is deafening. Ronan smothers a laugh with a
cough. Delilah’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit. I stare back,
all innocence. But in my head, I’m thinking about what she’s
done. And all that lust and need rise up again, hard, needy, but
tempered with something I don’t want to name just yet. But it
is real, and it’s demanding.
I don’t know what she sees in my eyes, but she shakes her
head and laughs lightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” I want to kiss her. Right here. Pull her onto
the table and taste her mouth, tell her everything. “This is the
best meal of my life.”
 North glances away as though he’s fighting not to laugh at
me too. But Ronan, who I’m liking more and more, sits back
and nods. “I have to agree with Macon. I am honestly stunned
here. This menu isn’t pretentious or showy, but that’s the
point. I’m not trying to figure out what I’m eating but simply
enjoying every bite and wondering how it is that I never
realized how good these simple ingredients were.”
She blushes prettily. For him. “Thank you. There’s
dessert.”
With that, they bring out individual pies. Banana cream pie
with bitter chocolate. I manage one bite of what is the best pie
I’ve ever had, all lush cream and sweetness, a bite of Delilah
incarnate, the intense, hot richness of the chocolate pushing its
way almost rudely into all that, just like I did. Sex and
salvation on a plate. I can’t take it anymore.
My fork hits the plate with a clatter, my breath unsteady.
Blood rushes through my ears, and I push back from the table.
“Excuse us for a moment.” I take hold of Delilah’s hand and
pull her up with me. “We’ll be right back.”
Then I get us the hell out of the room before I make a
greater fool of myself.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-
NINE
Delilah
“Macon,” I hiss as soon as we’re out of the dining room.
“What in the great hell is wrong with you?”
He’s been acting strange the entire meal, unfocused and
not saying a damn word to anyone. Frankly, it has pissed me
off and hurt in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
He doesn’t answer but tugs me along with brisk steps,
forcing me to clatter after him in my high heels. I follow
willingly because I’m not about to make a scene. Too bad he’s
already done that. Another burst of rage hits hot as fire. How
dare he act like this now of all times? It was the ultimate bait
and switch.
“Are you high?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice down.
“Seriously, did you take some sort of drug before dinner?”
He stops and backs me into the shadowed alcove at the end
of the hall stairs. “I know I’m out of line. I . . .” He runs a
hand through his hair hard enough for the dark ends to stick up
wildly. “I had to talk . . . I couldn’t sit there anymore and not
say something . . . fuck.”
I realize what a good actor Macon can be. Until now he’s
appeared so placid, a cool lake with hardly a ripple of emotion
showing. He isn’t placid now. And he isn’t cool and collected.
He’s weirdly unhinged.
“Okay,” I say calmly because now he’s freaking me out.
“We’re alone. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Macon’s dark gaze searches my face. “That meal. You
were telling the story of us.”
My heart flips within my chest, and I suck in a breath,
stunned into silence.
 “It was us,” he says. “Every bite. It was our childhood. It
was you, me. Mangoes in the market, kissing on the beach,
banana cream pie . . .” He steps closer, his chin lifting as
though he’s in for a fight. But there’s so much heat and
emotion in his eyes that my mouth goes dry. “Tell me I’m
wrong.”
“I hadn’t thought . . .” I trail off, pressing my palm to my
overwarm forehead. Yes, I was telling my story through the
meal, but he’s right; it was about Macon too. About us.
Because he is part of my story. Always. My gaze collides with
his. “You understood that? Just by tasting?”
His nostrils flare as he gives a short nod. “With every bite.
You made me remember. You pulled me into those memories.”
Macon’s head dips, his breath brushing against my lips. “You
made me love it.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m exposed. Utterly. Both to
him and to myself.
“Did you mean it?” he asks, peering down at me with tense
eyes. “All that emotion you put into the food. Did you mean
it?”
But he knows. He tasted it, after all. Good food is
evocative. I unknowingly put my heart on my freaking sleeve,
and I’m not certain how I feel about that. Being this open is
new to me.
“Macon—”
His mouth is on mine, his hands tunneling into my hair. He
goes all in, taking my mouth like he owns it. Devouring me
just as thoroughly as any meal. And I let him. For all my fears,
I feel it too, this desperate need, that maybe I won’t get
another chance to touch him.
And then it changes, becomes soft and melting. I melt right
with it, falling into him. He makes me weak in my knees, in
my heart. Maybe I do that to him as well, because he stumbles
a bit, his back bumping into the wall, his hands still holding
me close.
 He pulls away to catch his breath. And I’m the one
following, my hand on the column of his neck, my mouth
seeking his. I need more. Another taste. The feel of him. With
a groan, he dips his head, giving me what I need.
“You’re killing me, Tot. I don’t know whether I’m coming
or going with you.” Hot words against my skin. I swallow
them down, lick them up. Savor him. And he lets me, pressing
his body against mine as if he can’t get close enough.
Because he can’t. Somehow, it’s never enough when it
comes to us. There must always be more. Another touch.
Another taste. Deeper, harder, longer. He is the rich sweet so
long denied me. And I am his. I feel it in every touch that
lingers, every breath that catches, the hot stroke of his tongue,
the greedy movement of his lips along mine.
His grip on me tightens for a second, and then both of his
hands slide up to cup my jaw. When he speaks, his voice is
rough and earnest, his words flowing over my lips. “I adore
you.” Another hot, greedy kiss. “I fucking adore you, Delilah
Baker. Every. Damn. Inch.” Each word punctuated by mouth
meeting mouth. “That’s what I pulled you out here to say.
Because I couldn’t take another minute of you not knowing
that.”
Giddiness bubbles up within me, and I find myself
laughing softly as I keep kissing him. “I adore you too, Macon
Saint.” Because I do. Every bit of him, even the dark corners
where he fears to tread.
“Shit,” he groans, spinning so I’m pressed to the wall. His
thick thigh slips between mine and grinds against my sex. I
whimper, and he does it harder, slower.
“Let’s go upstairs.” I’m panting now, my hands stealing
under his shirt to find the hot, smooth skin of his waist.
From down the hall comes the sound of laughter. North
says something, and there’s another round of laughter. Macon
pauses, our lips brushing with each ragged breath. “Fuck. We
need to get back.”
 That I forgot where we are is disconcerting, and I nod but
can’t seem to make myself move. “Do we have to?” I’m
swollen and slick. My breasts ache where they press into the
hard wall of his chest.
Macon huffs out a sound that’s close to a whimper. “It’s
your dinner party. Behave, because I’m holding on to a thread
here.”
With a regretful sigh, I push him away. “Then don’t kiss
me again. All rational thought flies from my brain when you
kiss me.”
His eyes crinkle. “That is not an incentive for me to stop
kissing you.”
“If you do, I’m taking you upstairs.” I can’t stop myself
from tracing the swollen line of his lower lip. He nips my
finger, and I yelp even though it doesn’t hurt. “Evil man.”
Macon laughs, more carefree than I’ve ever seen him. And
it takes my breath. He takes my hand in his and tugs me back
toward our guests. “When everyone leaves, I will be.”
“Promises, promises.” But I know he will deliver. So I
follow him willingly, happiness flowing through my veins like
sunshine. This is happiness. It’s so pure and fragile I feel the
need to treat it with the delicacy of soufflé, fearful that the
slightest mishandling will deflate the whole thing.
When dinner is over and our guests are leaving, Ronan
Kelly pulls me aside and says he’d like to work with me. “We
can discuss terms, but you’d be head chef, full creative control
with the menu. I’ll be responsible for the capital and
promotion.”
“I have a place in mind,” I tell him, trying to hold in the
urge to jump around and squeal. I tell him about the location
and my idea for it.
“We can go take a look next week,” he promises.
And like that, my dreams are all falling into place. I’ve
never been more terrified. Because when you truly want
something, it will hurt that much more if it gets taken away.
 CHAPTER THIRTY
Delilah
“I want to move.” Delicately shaking, slickly sweating, I
strain against Macon’s bulk. It’s no use; he has me pinned to
the chair, his cock thick and pulsing deep inside. And not
fucking moving.
He grins down at me, a drop of sweat trickling down the
side of his flushed face. “Not yet.”
Slowly, too damn slowly, he circles his hips, stretching me,
making me ache.
“I need to come,” I whisper. Whine. Plead. It’s all the
same. Every inch of me throbs. Pleasure is a tightly drawn
bow within, and I need that snap of release.
His grin fades, replaced by intention. “You will. When I’m
ready.”
“Sadist.”
He nips my earlobe. “You love it.”
I shudder as that glorious dick of his eases out, making me
feel every hard inch, only to slowly push back in. Too fucking
slowly. I’m writhing on him, and he loves it. Dark eyes glint as
he works me.
Naked in the sun and sprawled on an armchair that barely
holds us, he’s been fucking me with a steady deliberation
designed to drive me out of my mind. And though I’m a
pleading, panting mess, I love it too.
God, he’s gorgeous. Endless muscle and tan skin beaded
with sweat, flush from exertion. His expression is slack, hazy
with lust. It sends licks of pleasure along my skin. Panting, I
reach up and touch his jaw, trying to draw him near. He
complies, dipping his head. Our mouths meet in a lazy, deep
kiss, an exchange of air, messy exploration of lips and
tongues.
 He groans, shivering. Not unaffected. Just so very good at
torturing me.
In. Out. Pull. Push.
“Macon,” I whisper into his mouth. “Please. Fuck me.”
He freezes, and then with another groan, all that power and
need breaks free. I can only hold on as he goes hard and deep.
The chair scrapes along the floor as he pounds into me. Every
thrust impacts my swollen, sensitive sex. Pleasure builds and
builds until I’m keening, my eyes closed as though I can
somehow hang on to the feeling forever. But it breaks over me
in a shimmering wave.
Macon’s teeth clamp down on the meaty curve of my neck,
not hard but holding me there as his thrusts turn rapid, a
greedy chase of his own pleasure. It’s so animalistic and
unexpected that another orgasm slams into me with
unexpected power.
I lose track of myself, of him. My fingers claw at his back,
thread through his hair. I’m struggling to get closer, get more.
He comes with a great shout, his big strong body straining
against mine.
Light headed from release, I go limp with a sigh. Macon
lies panting and replete on top of me, but he holds most of his
weight on his knees. Our breaths slow, and he stirs enough to
press a hot but weak kiss to my neck. “Delilah, I . . .”
The front door flings open, startling us both. North always
knocks, and no one else knows the key code. Or so I thought.
Until I hear a voice that I know as well as my own. Cold shock
and disbelief slam into me as it rings out.
“Helloooo? Saint, babe, you home—oh my God!”
Sam’s cry is shrill, horrified, and enough to have Macon
and me snapping out of our frozen surprise. I scramble to get
up, but I have two hundred pounds of muscled man on me.
Macon snarls a curse and reaches for a throw to cover me,
even as he’s turning to glare over his shoulder at a gaping
Sam.
“Get the hell out,” he practically shouts.
 She doesn’t move. Tanned and styled as though she’s just
come from the salon, my sister stands in the living room
entryway, glaring as if this is her house, and I’m some
interloper she’s found with her man.
“What the hell? You’re fucking Delilah?” she shouts at
Macon. “Are you serious?”
Given that he’s still half on me, blocking my body with
his, I feel the surge of anger that punches through Macon.
Naked, he rises in one swift move and turns on Sam as I
frantically wrap the throw around me.
“Get out.” He points to the door. “Now!”
The intensity of his shout makes both Sam and me jump.
She blanches, but her gaze travels south, and her lips part.
Oh, hell no.
I finally find my feet and step in front of Macon. I’m not
tall enough to cover all of him, but the essential bits are
blocked. Sam gaping at Macon’s nakedness has made me
surprisingly territorial. I have to bite back a snarl of “Mine!”
Macon’s hand comes down on my shoulder. For a second,
I fear he might tug me behind him, but he gives me a quick
comforting squeeze instead.
Sam’s eyes narrow in on the gesture, and her lips purse in a
tight line of hot-pink gloss. “You’re together now?” The shock
and disgust at the prospect rings loud and clear.
Macon makes a noise, his hand on my shoulder twitching,
and I know he’s about to blow again.
“Sam,” I say before he can talk. “Focus. You’ve just
walked into Macon’s house without invitation. He’s asked you
to leave.”
I swear to all the cooking gods, now she shows up? Now?
And like this? I expected a call of warning. A “Hey, I’m
back!” text. Not for her to waltz into Macon’s house as though
she owns it.
Her blonde brow wings up. “Leave? When he’s been
calling and texting me to come back to him for weeks?” She
snorts in amusement. “I’m not leaving.”
Behind me, Macon curses. “Did we enter the twilight
zone? Tell me this is the fucking twilight zone, because I
swear to God that is the only explanation for your utter batshit
behavior, Sam.”
Sam flushes red, and I know a shouting match is imminent.
“Sam,” I say calmly, even though I’m anything but. “Go
into the kitchen, and make yourself some coffee. Now.”
I use the tone Mama does when she’s about to lay down
the law. And it works. Sam gives me and Macon one long look
of loathing but then lifts her chin and saunters toward the
kitchen.
My heart is going like a metronome, slamming too fast
against my ribs. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s here. I asked her
to return. But the reality of it and seeing her outraged face
when she realized I was with Macon has rattled me so much
I’ve gone oddly numb.
With a sigh, I turn to Macon. Dull red paints his cheeks,
and he looks about a second away from blowing. But when I
place my palm to his chest, he glances down at me with eyes
that are a little lost and worried.
“I didn’t ask her to come back,” he says. “I texted that I
wasn’t going to look for her anymore.”
“What? When?”
He runs a hand through his damp hair. “Right before
dinner with Ronan. I wanted this thing with Sam and us to be
over. For us to move on.” Trepidation darkens his gaze. “I was
going to tell you, but I got distracted.”
Since I know exactly how he got distracted, I can’t exactly
blame him. I stroke his sweat-slicked chest, now cool in the
open air. “I want that too. Let’s get dressed and deal with this.”
I’m not looking forward to it at all.
Our clothes are upstairs. We were slowly screwing our way
around the house all day—all week, really. Reveling in each
other, learning what turns the other on, shutting the world out.
Every second of it, I fell deeper, needed him more.
Sam’s return feels like a blade slicing through all that.
Inside I’m shaking. If Macon’s expression is anything to go
by, he’s just as unsettled. With a short nod and a long glare in
the direction of the kitchen, he gently puts his hand on the
small of my back and guides me upstairs.
“I can’t believe she’s back,” he grumps, stomping along as
if to show his ire.
“I can’t believe she has the house code,” I mutter. It’s
nonsensical that I even care, but I’m not thinking clearly. All I
can think is that my sister is back, and like a virus she’s going
to infect everything.
“I didn’t think to change it,” Macon says, scowling. “It
never crossed my mind that she’d have the nerve to waltz into
my house. Hell, I thought there was a good chance she’d never
come back.”
Dread swells up within. I knew she’d return. I knew for a
while and didn’t tell him. Shit. I need to, but that conversation
is too complicated to have with Sam hanging out downstairs.
And I’m a chicken. A complete and utter chicken.
“Well, she has.” It’s all I can say.
“Fucking Sam” is all Macon can say.
Despite the fact that my long-lost scheming, thieving sister
has returned and is currently in the kitchen, Macon insists on
leading us into the shower. He stays silent as he carefully
washes me and then himself. His dark gaze is a mixture of
anxiety and anger. I empathize. It’s as though we’ve been
pulled out of a dream and don’t know what to do with reality.
Clean and dressed, we descend the stairs together,
marching along as though gearing up to face a firing squad.
Sam is curled up on the kitchen banquette, a glass of sweet
tea in her hand. “Your handiwork, I’m guessing,” she says by
way of greeting. Glaring at me from over the glass, she takes a
slow sip. “Not as good as Mama’s, but it will do.”
 I roll my eyes. If she’s going to try to insult me, she’ll have
to try harder than that. “I’m wounded. Truly.”
Macon crosses his arms over his chest. “Cut the shit, Sam,
and explain yourself.”
The glass lands on the table with a clink. “You’re not my
man, and you’re certainly not my daddy. So don’t talk to me as
if you are.”
He doesn’t blink. “You told fucking stalkers where I’d be.
And while I sat there in a hospital in part because of your
actions, you riffled through my stuff, stole my mother’s watch,
then cut and ran.”
Silence rings out. Because what can she say to all that?
Not a thing, and we all know it.
Macon’s nostrils flare as he stares her down. “Yeah, I’ll
speak to you however the hell I want.”
Sam laughs, a light trill that works like nails on my skin. “I
didn’t steal it. I was only borrowing the damn thing.” The
silver bangles on her slim wrist chime as she reaches over and
opens her purse to root around in it.
The diamond watch glitters in the sun as she holds it aloft.
“See? All better.”
Macon’s snort is eloquent, but he doesn’t move to take it.
He merely stares her down as she sets it carefully on the table,
then gives him an innocent smile.
“Where have you been, Sam?” My voice is thick and
unsteady. I’m so ashamed of her right now I can barely stand
being in the room.
“Here and there.” She takes another sip of tea. “I had some
things I needed to take care of.”
“Like pawning my mother’s watch?” Macon supplies.
“You see it here, don’t you?”
“I’m guessing you had a harder time getting rid of it than
you expected,” he deadpans.
 Sam flicks a lock of golden hair over her shoulder but
doesn’t answer.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pull in my temper.
“Enough. Samantha, Macon’s right. Cut the shit. I don’t know
why you’re acting like this, but it isn’t funny. I expected you to
return and apologize, not antagonize him. God, do you have
any remorse?”
All pretense of casual, carefree Sam melts away, and she
surges to her feet. “You got some nerve, Dee.”
“What?” Macon and I both say at the same time with
different levels of outrage.
She ignores him. “Acting all high and mighty when you’re
fucking my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend?” Macon repeats, incredulous.
But I know exactly what she means. She zeroes in on me.
“He was mine. For years! My first man. Mine. That makes
him off limits.”
“I don’t believe this,” Macon says, cutting in. “What are
you, thirteen? We’ve been ancient history for a decade.”
“Shut up,” Sam says, not looking his way. She only has
eyes for me. “You’re my sister,” she cries, tearing up. “My
best friend. And you had to go there? With him? I get that he’s
hot and famous, but you are way out of your depth here, Dee.”
A flutter of guilt tickles my conscience because there is a
sister code. I’ve broken it. But I shove that guilt away. On the
surface, I am guilty, true. And if it had been any other man, I’d
feel ashamed. But our tangled history with Macon makes it
more complicated.
“First off, he’s not a toy. Shouting ‘mine’ doesn’t make it
so. And I’ve had it with the insults. You want to be upset about
this, fine. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you to
watch your mouth. You don’t get to make me feel like shit
anymore.”
Sam’s eyes narrow to slits. “If the truth hurts, Dee, that’s
on you.”
 At my side, Macon makes an aggravated movement like
he’s going to say something. I touch his wrist, and he stills,
holding his tongue.
“It’s not just sex. It’s serious.”
She snorts. “Which only makes it worse. I’ve told you time
and again not to believe a word he says. He’s an actor.”
Finally, she looks at Macon. “And you. What bullshit are you
filling her head with?”
Macon cocks his head, his brows lifting high. “Bullshit?
What the hell?”
“Sam,” I cut in. “You’re totally out of line here.”
“See? He’s trying to turn you against me,” Sam says with
an air of hysteria.
I swear Macon is going to burst out of his skin. My hand
finds his and holds on.
“Macon’s right. We aren’t kids anymore. We’ve made our
peace and moved on. Perhaps you should too. The only anger
he’s displayed toward you is entirely justifiable.”
She makes a stubborn face and won’t meet my gaze.
“Now you show up with this self-righteous territorial act
when you should be offering up apologies. To me as well.”
At this Sam straightens. “I knew it. What’s he been
saying? I suppose he told you about prom—”
“Sam,” Macon snaps, so fast and angry that I jump.
He’s gone pale, his jaw bunching.
Sam ignores him. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Prom?” I parrot, my gaze darting between them.
“Sam.” Macon takes a step in her direction. “I mean it.
Shut. Up.”
“That’s how he got you to forgive him, isn’t it?” She
laughs, short and unhinged. “He told you.”
“Sam!” Macon’s voice carries a hint of desperation.
 I hold up a hand. “No, let her talk.”
She’s tearing up again; Sam always did cry quickly. “Okay,
fine. I did it. I thought it would be funny. It was just a stupid
joke, a mistake. But he”—she points at Macon—“promised
he’d never tell. He lied.”
A joke? And then it hits me. The prom. Tater tots in trays.
The mocking laughter. Sam staring at me as though she’d seen
a ghost. And Macon standing there looking furious, looking
horrified. I thought it was guilt. I called him worthless.
It was the final straw in our crumbling relationship and
cemented the hate I felt for him.
A joke.
And it was Sam’s doing. My sister. Oh, how she cried that
night. She told me how sorry she was. I thought she’d meant
for Macon’s bad deed. But it was her. I’ve spent my entire life
protecting her in any small way I could, and she did that?
Blood rushes from my head and pools at my feet. Dimly, I
hear Macon swear. My ears are ringing. Sam stares at me with
tears in her eyes and a hopeful expression on her face.
For the first time in my life, I act without thinking. My
hand snaps out and connects with Sam’s cheek. The slap
echoes in the kitchen. My palm tingles as I turn and walk
away.

Macon
Delilah walks out of the kitchen with quiet dignity, leaving
me alone with Sam.
“You selfish little fool. You had to tell her, didn’t you?” I
want to go to Delilah so badly my heart hurts, but I know my
girl needs her space for a moment. Sam needs to be dealt with.
Sam stares in the direction Delilah took, holding a hand to
her reddened cheek as though she can’t believe Delilah
actually slapped her. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Why would I? I kept it secret all these years.” Something
that I hated doing. Especially when I started to fall for Delilah.
The truth sat like a brittle stone under my ribs every time
Delilah mentioned the incident. “Do you honestly think I
agreed to take the fall for your stunt all because I was trying to
protect you? I did it for her. Because I knew, even back then,
that it would devastate Delilah if she learned her own sister
humiliated her as a cruel joke.”
Sam blanches. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“Bull. You did it because you were jealous.” I’m beginning
to think Sam always was. That the only reason she held on to
me so tightly when we were children was because she knew it
hurt Delilah.
“Why are you here?” I ask Sam when she says nothing.
“Why now? And don’t give me that shit about borrowing the
watch. You knew I was looking for you and wanted it back. So
why now?”
Sam lifts her chin in defiance. “I saw a picture of you two
at that gala. You had a look on your face. I know that look.
You were either screwing her or wanted to.”
She isn’t wrong there. I had wanted to.
“And so you had to return and ruin any chance of
happiness she might have?” I shake my head in
disappointment.
Sam’s gray eyes ice over. “Despite what you think, Saint, I
do love my sister. You never liked her. Hell, you two hated
each other. I’m supposed to believe you’re what, suddenly in
love?”
“You know what I think? You couldn’t stand the idea of
Delilah and I together. Why is that? And don’t give me any
crap about being attached to me. We’ve been over for years.”
“You were still my boyfriend. Sisters do not poach old
flames.”
“Oh, bullshit. You simply hate the idea that Delilah and I
might be happy.” When she looks away and lifts her chin in
defiance, I push on. “What did you say to her? That I was
yours?” I snort in disgust. “Here’s a bit of news. I was never
yours.”
 Sam flinches. It’s slight, but I see it, and regret pings in my
chest.
“Be cruel if you want,” she says, flipping her hair in a
move I know is self-protective. “I don’t care anymore. But
don’t pretend that we were nothing. We were together
practically our whole childhood. No matter how much you
deny it, you can’t erase that.”
The fight goes out of me with a sigh. I feel battered, and
the greater half of me is still pulling toward Delilah, wanting
to comfort her. Just hold her. Leaning against the counter, I
regard the woman who was my partner in pettiness for years.
She’s right. We have a history. And not all of it was bad.
There were times when we had fun, when she was the only
person I could turn to. I both cared for her and loathed her. For
better or worse, she was part of me for a long time.
“I don’t want to erase it because it’s part of my history.
You were a friend when I didn’t have any. In all honesty,
hanging out with you probably saved my life in more ways
than one.”
Sam’s look of surprise is tentative but pleased.
I hold her gaze with my own. “But we brought out an
ugliness in each other that was unhealthy and petty. And any
nostalgic fondness died when you sold me out, stole the watch,
and went into hiding.”
To her credit, she flinches. “I’m sorry about that. Truly. I
know it was horrible. But I didn’t think that woman would
hurt you. I thought she was a reporter. Okay, yes, it was stupid.
And the watch . . . I was desperate.” For a moment, she
appears frightened before she retreats under her mask. “But I
brought it back. Doesn’t that count for something?”
The watch lying on the table sparkles in the sun like a
living thing. Seeing it brings a familiar pang of longing for my
mother, but it’s muted now, a ghost of feeling whispering
along my heart. I’m happy to have the watch back, but now
that it’s returned, I know that it was never about the watch.
Not when it came to Delilah.
 I’d have just as happily never seen it again if it meant I
could keep Delilah in my life.
“Do you know why Delilah got in touch with me?” I ask
Sam.
She hesitates for a beat, but then her nose wrinkles, and I
know it’s out of annoyance. “I got her texts. I know she was
smoothing things over for me.”
Anger pulls tight along my neck and shoulders. “She was
working off your debt, Sam.”
“I know.” She sighs. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
If she wasn’t a woman and ten times weaker than me, I’d
be tempted to wring her neck. As it is, I can barely look at her.
“A year’s worth of work instead of touring Asia like she’d
planned. All so that I wouldn’t call the police to report your
crime, and your mother could rest easy. And you knew?”
She shakes her head like I’m slow, and she’s trying really
hard to be patient with me. “Saint, you and I both know you
wouldn’t have called the police.”
The urge to shout pushes at my skin. “Do we?”
“Once Delilah told you about Mama’s health and how me
being arrested might affect her health, you wouldn’t have
risked it.”
I fucking hate that she’s right. When it came down to the
wire, I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. The fact
that Sam understood this about me before I did really irks. I
snort without humor. “You are some piece of work. Delilah
has always covered for you, protected you, and in return you
shit on her every chance you get. If that’s what you call love,
you might want to rethink your priorities.”
Having nothing more to say, I go to find the woman who
taught me what love truly means.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Macon
Delilah is huddled on her bed. As soon as I walk in, she
lifts her head. There are tears in her eyes. I’ve never seen her
cry. It rips into my heart.
“Honey . . .” Crawling onto the bed, I gather her in my
arms, half-afraid she’ll slap me away. But she doesn’t.
With a sob, she curls into me and burrows her face into the
crook of my neck. I hold her close, rocking us and murmuring
nonsense words into her hair.
“I can’t believe it,” she says, her voice muffled on my skin.
“How could she do that?”
“I don’t know.” I kiss her head, stroke her back. “I’m
sorry. For everything.”
“That bitch made me cry,” she sobs. “I never cry.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
Delilah cries harder, and it isn’t pretty. It wracks her body
and wets the side of my neck. All I can do is cuddle her and
wait it out. When she settles, I reach over and grab a tissue.
“Blow.”
She obliges, and I use another tissue to wipe her tears.
Delilah sits back, leaning on the headboard. Her face is red
and swollen. And I love her. I don’t know when it truly hit me,
but I feel it now with every breath I take. I want to tell her, but
it isn’t the time. Truth is, I don’t know what to do to make it
better.
Delilah crumples her tissue and tosses it aside. “All this
time, it was Sam who did that stupid prank.” Red-rimmed eyes
meet mine. “You never said a word. Never defended yourself.”
“To what purpose? You hated me and loved Sam. It was
better for everyone if you kept on assuming it was me.”
 She huffs, her blunt nose wrinkling. “You hated me. By all
accounts, you could have easily torn me apart by telling on
Sam.”
Wincing, I take her hand. It lies limp in my grip. “I never
truly hated you, Delilah. That night, you walked in wearing
that killer dress, and it occurred to me that I’d been an utter
fool when it came to you. I wanted to say something that
night. Call a truce, apologize, something. But then those
fucking tater tots showed up, and it was too late.”
Her pink lips wobble, and she shakes her head. “You know
what’s strange? When I saw you that night, it finally hit me
that we were both outsiders there.”
Because Delilah is the only one who ever truly saw me for
me. I don’t want to lose that. I hold her hand a little tighter. “It
wasn’t our time yet.”
Biting her lip, she ducks her head. “Would you have ever
told me?”
“Delilah, I’d have taken it to my grave if it meant sparing
you pain. The fact that you were able to forgive me despite
thinking I’d done that to you was a rare gift. How could I
selfishly hurt you just so I could look better in your eyes?”
“Instead I was left thinking my sister was someone I could
trust.”
My throat clogs, and I clear it. “I’m sorry. I thought I was
protecting you.”
She laughs bitterly. “And I thought I was protecting Mama
and Sam. You called me a martyr for it.”
Shit. “I was wrong. Stupid.”
Her lips twist in a sad smirk. “You always got so pissed
when I tried to defend Sam. You said she wasn’t worth it. Now
I know why.”
My fingers curl into the comforter by her hip. “You
weren’t wrong to try.”
Delilah blows a raspberry and then tilts her head back to
blink up at the ceiling. Tears trail down her cheeks. “I was a
fool. And you know it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to help the people you
love. That’s what I know now.”
It’s all but a confession, but Delilah doesn’t seem to hear
it. She’s scowling at the door. “I hit her.”
“Pretty soundly,” I agree. Is it wrong that I silently cheered
her? Probably. But I couldn’t help feeling proud of her for
standing up to Sam.
“I want to hit her again.”
She sounds so fierce I have to smile. As if she can’t
contain her fury, she rises and starts to pace.
“And when she called me . . . not only did she convince
me to keep quiet, she infected our relationship again, feeding
me doubts, telling me that you were just manipulating me, that
you’d always hated me.”
Alarm bells begin to clang. I find myself standing too.
“What do you mean when she called you?”
Delilah halts and pales, her eyes going wide. For the first
time in our lives, she actually looks guilty. She licks her lips
quickly. “She called me.”
“When?” My ears are beginning to ring. I’m not sure what
I’m feeling, but it isn’t good.
Her gaze slides away, and she grips the bottom of her shirt.
“Before the letters.”
Icy-hot prickles explode over my skin as though she
slapped me. “All this time we’ve been together, you’ve been in
contact with Sam?”
My damn heart hurts. I thought we were a unit when it
came to the wrongness of what Sam did. And she kept this
from me?
Delilah puffs out a breath but then rallies. “It was one
phone call.”
“One call is enough.” I run a shaking hand through my hair
and grip the ends. “Jesus. Here I am feeling like a heel because
I didn’t tell you about Sam’s prank. And you talked to her
while you were with me? I don’t like being lied to either.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s a thin whisper. Because she knows she’s
in the wrong.
“Why?” I snap. “Why would you keep this from me? After
all she’d done?”
“Sam begged me not to—”
“Yeah, I just bet she did.” I take a hard step toward her but
stop, unable to close the distance. “Did it occur to you that I’d
want to know she’d called?”
“It did . . .” She bites her lip. “She said she wouldn’t come
back if I told you. So I held my tongue. I’m sorry, Macon.”
The fact that she’s not fighting me ticks me off. I want that
spark, a better explanation. I want to be told I’m getting this
all wrong, that she didn’t put Sam before me. She’s known
since the letters. A thought hits me, and I rock back on my
heels. My skin feels cold as I force the words out.
“When I found you in the kitchen . . .” I swallow thickly,
anger rising. “And you tried to pull away from us because you
couldn’t get past how I’d treated you when we were kids . . .”
She winces, not meeting my eyes. “It was because of Sam,
wasn’t it? What did you say just now? That she made you
think I was manipulating you?”
Her eyes squeeze shut for a second. When she opens them,
they are overbright and pained. “Yes. It was because of Sam.
She played on my insecurities.”
I nod, quick and hard. “Right. And instead of talking to me
about it and telling me what really happened, you tried to pull
away.”
It hurts. In ways I wasn’t prepared for. I can handle Delilah
not telling me about Sam if she thought it would get the brat to
return. But this? I rub a hand over my chest.
Her lower lip trembles, but she presses them together
before answering. “I’m not perfect. Some things are so
ingrained it’s hard to break free of them. When Sam said—”
 “Sam,” I sneer. “Always fucking Sam. She shits all over
you, and you still let her lead you around. When are you going
to learn?”
Delilah’s eyes flash. “You just told me it wasn’t wrong to
try helping the people you love.”
“That’s when I thought you were talking about protecting
your mother. Not this . . . bullshit. What about me, Delilah? I
laid myself open, showed you every dark corner I had. I
trusted you with all of me.” With my damn heart. “And you
didn’t trust me enough to tell the truth about why you had
doubts.”
“I’m sorry, Macon.” She visibly deflates. And it pisses me
off that I want to hug her. I’m too angry right now. I feel like
the damn rug has been pulled out from under my feet. How
can she understand me so well and not get this?
“When we were kids, all I had was my pride,” I say tightly.
“I thought protecting my pride was the most important thing in
the world. But I grew up and realized that trust meant more. I
let you in because I thought I had that—”
“Macon . . .”
“If we can’t trust each other with the worst parts of
ourselves, what’s the point?” I throw my arms wide.
“I do trust you. Aside from Sam, I have never lied to you.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the lie I’m stuck on.”
We stare at each other in silence. And I wait for her to tell
me something to make it better. That she loves me, that I
won’t have to wonder if she’ll always put Sam over me.
Something.
She doesn’t speak. For once in our relationship, she’s
silent.
I let out a long breath. “This is getting us nowhere. I need
to clear my head. I can’t do that with you around.”
I might as well have slapped her. She visibly recoils. But
then she pulls her shoulders back. “All right. I’ll just get my
things. I can stay with my mother.”
 Get her things? “You’re leaving?”
A little wrinkle forms between her brows. “You said you
need space. I’m giving it to you. What did you expect me to
do?”
I expected her to leave me alone for a while until I calmed
down, not move out. I expected her to fight, not walk away. To
pick me—us.
“Besides,” she says, walking toward the bedroom door.
“There are things that I need to discuss with my sister.”
I see red. Admittedly, Sam has become a trigger for me.
“You’re going with her?”
Delilah pauses long enough to catch sight of my
expression. “I just found out that my sister was responsible for
the worst humiliation of my life. I’ve hated you for years for
something you didn’t do. I lied for her and caused you pain.
You want space. Yes, Macon, I’m going to talk to my sister.”
It’s a sucker punch to the gut. “So go, then.”
She’s looking through me the way she used to, like I’m
nothing other than a painful reminder of things best left in the
past. Like I’m the enemy. I hate that look. My temper snaps.
“What are you waiting for? Go!”
Delilah’s chin lifts, and that spark I’ve been waiting for
lights in her eyes. But I see the pain there too. When she
speaks, her voice is stiff. “I never wanted to hurt you. I know I
lied, but it was only—”
“One more lie between us?”
Delilah blinks once before answering. “Yeah. I guess it
was.”
She leaves then. And that hurts most of all.

Delilah
Everything is crumbling beneath my feet. Sam’s
confession has taken a jackhammer to my solid foundation.
But the fight with Macon was worse. Inside, I’m shaking.
 We both lied. We both let each other down in our own
ways.
A lie is still a lie. We were supposed to be pushing past all
that, starting anew with everything laid out on the table. Yet I
kept Sam’s call a secret. And he planned to keep the
knowledge of the prank secret forever if he had his way.
The thought of him and Sam sharing this knowledge of my
worst humiliation turns my stomach. I know he feels much the
same about me keeping Sam’s call from him.
He’s right. If we can’t fully trust each other, what’s the
point?
Tears blur my vision. He kicked me out. That hurt most of
all. I’d gotten out of his room as fast as I could so he wouldn’t
see me fall apart.
Sam isn’t in the house. I have no idea where she’s gone,
and if I’m honest, part of me doesn’t care. I told Macon I
wanted to talk to my sister—something I know pisses him off
—but I’m so disgusted in her, in myself, I don’t know what I’d
do right now.
I head to my mother’s because short of a hotel, I don’t
have anywhere else to go. A sob breaks free as soon as I leave
Macon’s property. It’s become my home. I know he’s angry
and wants his space, but leaving him behind feels like a
betrayal. Part of me wants to turn around and tell him, “Fuck
no, I’m not going anywhere.” But I hurt him, and if he wants
space, I’ll give it to him.
My mother takes me in without question, though I know
she can tell I’ve been crying. Quietly, she hand washes the
dishes, affording me a moment of privacy.
I sit at my customary spot at the table, feeling all of twelve
years old. I’m half-tempted to ask for peanut butter cookies.
But it’s soothing here as well, with the familiar sounds of my
mother cleaning and the faint scent of lemon Pledge rising
from the oak table.
“Well,” I say with a wobble in my voice. “Here I am
again.”
 “Now then,” she says, setting down the dishrag. “What’s
this all about?”
“Macon . . .” It’s all I can get out before losing it.
When tears well up in my eyes, she gasps and sits by my
side to grab my hand with her cool one. “Did he hurt you?”
She asks it mildly, but there’s a promise in her voice that tells
me that she will, in fact, tan Macon’s hide if he did.
My smile is wobbly and brief. “No. Not at all. He’s been
. . .” A revelation. “Wonderful. We started up, and it was
wonderful. Perfect. And then Sam showed up.”
One silvery-blonde brow lifts delicately. “Sam? Has she
finally returned, then? What has that girl gotten herself into
this time?”
“Oh, Mama . . .” I press my hands against my hot face.
“Everything.”
My confession comes in a great purge of words, quickly
spilled so I don’t have to feel the full impact of them. I tell her
everything, starting with the texts and ending with Sam
showing up at Macon’s house. I keep out the details of exactly
how she found Macon and me, but I don’t hide my culpability.
When I’m finished, I drop my hands from my eyes and
face my mother.
“Well, fuck,” she says. I choke out a laugh, and she quirks
a brow. “Some things need cursing. And this is one.”
“You’re right about that.” I let out a shuddery breath and
attempt to rein in my tears. I’m a damn leaky faucet now. A
lifetime of not crying undone in a single night. “Macon was so
hurt that I didn’t tell him about Sam calling. And he’s pissed
that I always try to cover for her.”
Mama rests her hand on mine. “Delilah, honey, he has a
point. Why did you offer to work off her debt? You didn’t
have to do that.”
“He said he’d call the police. If she went to jail . . . your
heart . . .”
 Her face darkens, thunderclouds gathering in her eyes.
“Delilah Ann, are you telling me you thought I am so delicate
that I cannot handle my own daughter’s bad behavior?”
“Yes?”
That silver brow wings up again. This time it’s a warning.
My shoulders sag. “I was afraid. I don’t want to lose you
or see you upset.”
“Honey.” Her hand returns to mine. “What’s this really
about? Why do you really feel this need to protect us?”
“You and Daddy chose me. You didn’t have to, but you
did.” Tears well up again. “How can I not pay you back by
trying my best to protect our family?”
“Pay me back . . . ,” she repeats faintly before hot color
rises to her cheeks, and she hauls me close, her thin arms
wrapping around me like steel bands. “Baby girl. No, no. Tell
me you don’t believe that.”
I’m sobbing now, a complete mess. My words come out
hot and muffled against her shoulder. “I was such an awkward
kid, a real mess most of the time. I wanted you to be proud
. . .”
“I am proud.” She grasps my shoulders and pulls me back
to look in my eyes. Hers are filled with tears. “Hear me well,
Delilah Ann. You chose us. I fully believe that. And the
second I set eyes on you, you were my daughter in every
way.”
“Mama . . .”
She gives me a little shake. “In every way. Do you hear?”
“Yes.” I rub at my leaking eyes, feeling drained.
Mama grabs a napkin and hands it to me, but she doesn’t
let me go. She tucks me against her side and rocks me like she
did when I was a girl. “You have a protective streak a mile
wide, baby. You always have. There’s nothing wrong with that.
But don’t let Sam take advantage of your loving nature. She
won’t learn anything that way. Frankly, she’s too manipulative
by far.”
 “Mama, she’s your daughter.”
She shrugs. “I love my girls, but I see you both clearly,
faults and all.”
“She had a fit when she found out Macon and I were
together.”
“Do you care?”
I pull away from my mother and sit up, wiping my cheeks.
A small defiant smile tickles my lips. “No, not really.”
“Good. And she’ll get over it.” Mama gives my arms a
quick squeeze. “She’ll have to because I have the suspicion
neither you or Macon will get over each other.”
I suck in a breath and stare down at the table. “He told me
to go. Said he needed to clear his head.”
When my mother speaks, her voice is soft and hesitant.
“Do you love him?”
Love. My heart gives a great big thump. I have avoided
love all of my life. Logically, I shouldn’t have. I knew what a
happy relationship looked like; my parents’ marriage was
ideal. And yet whenever I thought of falling in love, I’d feel
slightly ill and unsettled. Love is risk. For me, opening myself
up to certain risks meant opening myself up to pain.
“You don’t have to tell me how you feel about Macon. You
have to tell him. You fight for everyone you love. Maybe it’s
time to show Macon that you’ll fight for him too.”
Fight for Macon. I hadn’t thought about our relationship in
those terms. Is that what he wanted from me? I remember the
look in his eyes when I said I was going. He was shocked.
Disappointed, even.
I settle down in the guest bed for the night, and the ache in
my heart grows so wide and deep I can barely breathe through
it. One thing is certain; Mama was right when she said I’d
never get over Macon.
 CHAPTER THIRTY-T WO
Macon
The light of the screen flickers over the dark media room. I
stare at the footage playing with unseeing eyes. I only came in
here to get away. The door opens, spilling light into the
darkness. My chest clenches tight, expecting to see Delilah,
but disappointment quickly follows as North steps into the
room.
“What are you doing?” he asks, taking a seat next to me.
“Watching a movie. Obviously.”
“Seems to me like you’re brooding.”
I snort without enthusiasm. “How’d you guess?”
“You always come in here to brood.” He grins when I give
him the finger. “Is this a southern thing?”
Rolling my head to the side, I meet his gaze. “Yes. We
southern gents brood in dark theaters when the mood so strikes
us. Later, I shall be performing all my favorite Tennessee
Williams monologues.”
North smirks. “Fucking lit majors.”
With a grunt, I roll my head back to face the screen. We
fall silent. That is, until North ruins it by talking again.
“About a Boy? I expected you to be watching some film
noir.”
“I like this movie.” It reminds me of Delilah. Shit. I all but
kicked her out of my house. At least that’s how she took it. Is
it any wonder she fled?
I need to talk to her. I need . . . her.
His mouth opens; then he closes it. “Right.”
“I’m in love with Delilah.” My confession, blurted out,
sounds overloud and makes me wince. I didn’t mean to say
that, but now that I have, I feel worse. Because if this is love,
it isn’t the fluffy-clouds, walking-on-air shit they claim it to
be. And North is here to witness my misery. Hell. Confiding in
people is overrated.
North snorts and shakes his head as though I’m being
ridiculous. Truthfully, I feel a bit ridiculous at the moment.
“I’m pretty sure everyone who sees you two together
knows that,” he says. “I knew you were a goner the second
you agreed to her crazy deal.”
“I’m that obvious?”
“Don’t look so horrified,” he says. “I don’t think it’s
obvious to Delilah. And clearly you were blind to it.”
“Not anymore.”
His blond brow wings up. “You told her?”
“No.” I pinch the aching space between my eyes. “I was
going to. But then Sam showed up, and it all went to hell.”
Briefly, I explain, the words just as bitter on the tongue as they
were when Delilah and I fought.
“Shit,” he says when I finish.
“Pretty much.”
He rolls his shoulders, then sits back. “So now what?”
The question is a leaden weight on my chest. “I don’t
know. Hell, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never . . .
fallen.”
I glance his way, but he shakes his head and chokes out a
short laugh. “Don’t look at me. I’m the last person who could
give you good advice about women.”
He frowns at the screen like it’s his job.
“You fall for Sam?”
I regret asking because he flinches, his entire body
recoiling like he’s taken a punch to the gut. But he shrugs
lightly. “Fell far enough for it to hurt when I landed. But
love?” He looks like he’s tasting something foul. “It was never
love with Sam. Just . . . blindly stupid. It quickly became clear
she was using me as a distraction and a way to fuck you over.”
“I was afraid of that,” I murmur.
The couch creaks as he turns my way. “You aren’t pissed?”
“Yeah, I’m pissed.” I glare at the screen. “She shit all over
you.”
A protracted noise from North has me looking his way. He
stares back as though he doesn’t understand. “I meant pissed at
me,” he says.
“Why would I be pissed at you?”
“Because Sam was your high school girlfriend. Hell, Saint,
you warned me off her.”
“I warned you off her because I knew how she operates
and didn’t want you getting caught up in her antics.”
“You warned me off Delilah too.”
My laugh is short and flat. “We both know I did that out of
petty jealousy.”
“You said it, not me.”
We’re both quiet for a moment before North speaks again.
“I actually came in here for a reason.”
“Aside from all this awkward-ass talk of our feelings and
women who stomp on them?”
He laughs. “Not that this hasn’t been fun.” He sobers.
“Lisa Brown is dead.”
Blood rushes from my head so quickly my hands prickle.
Lisa Brown. The woman who ran me off the road and took
pictures of the aftermath. In the darkest shadows of my heart, I
can admit that she scared the hell out of me. “How?”
“I don’t know if you’d call it irony, but she was struck by a
car crossing Sunset last week. I only just heard from Martin
about it today.”
My breath expels with an audible whoosh. She’s dead.
 The numbness crawls along my fingers, and I flex my
hand. “And Michelle Fredericks?” The friend who was with
her. “What’s going on with her?”
“From what Martin has gathered, Fredericks is heading
back to her hometown in Arizona. Apparently that was in the
works for a couple of months.”
It’s over. I close my eyes and take a couple of deep
breaths. When I can talk, my words come out in a rasp. “I’m a
horrible person, North.”
“Why?”
I can’t look at him. “Because I’m relieved. A woman is
dead, and my first emotion is relief.”
“You’re human, Saint. She stalked you. You were
physically injured. A lot of stalkers never give up. Of course
you’re going to feel relief when that threat is gone.”
“Because she’s dead.”
North nudges my arm with a fist. His expression is
resolute. “I was relieved, too, okay? Not because I wanted her
dead. But because it was over. Don’t feel guilty for being
human, man.”
Dully, I nod. I’m tired. All I want to do is curl up around
Delilah and sleep. But she’s gone. When faced with the notion
of actual death, my jealousy and hurt pride becomes
meaningless. She made a mistake. I’ve made far worse ones
when it comes to Delilah, and she’s forgiven me at every turn.
“Shit,” I mutter, resting my face in my palms. “I shouldn’t
have been so hard on Delilah.”
North doesn’t say anything. It’s gone so quiet that I
wonder if he’s left the room. But when I lift my head, I find
him looking back with a thoughtful expression.
“What?”
He shakes out of whatever fog he was in. “I was just
thinking how alike you two were. In the most basic ways, that
is. I still like Delilah better.”
 “As you should.”
He stands, stretching out a kink in his back. “You’ve been
given a gift, Macon. Sometimes that’s all you need to know.”
He heads for the door.
“North?”
He stops and turns back my way.
“Lisa Brown? Did she have any family? Maybe I should
. . . I don’t know. Should I offer condolences?”
The faint lines around North’s eyes deepen as he looks at
me. “No family.”
“Then it’s truly over.” I think of Lisa Brown. A woman
who, for whatever reason, fixated on me as her one chance of
happiness. She died alone in the world. I used to relish my
solitude.
I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Delilah
I can’t sleep. Macon is out there, hurting and upset, and
I’m tucked up in a bed. The wrongness of that scrapes against
my skin, and I fling the covers back. I can’t stay here another
second. I get dressed in the dark and grab my purse and keys.
But when I wrench the kitchen door open to leave, I come face
to face with the last person I expected to see: Sam.
Neither of us says a word as Sam and I retreat into the
kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water and take a huge gulp
that burns its way down my throat. As much as I want to go to
Macon right now, there are things I need to say to my sister.
“That fucking joke with the tater tots. Why would you do
that to me? You had everything: beauty, popularity, a
boyfriend. I had none of those things. All I asked for of prom
was to have fun. And you took that away from me.”
Clearly she wasn’t expecting that word vomit, and it takes
her a moment to react. She has the grace to duck her head. “I
don’t know.”
 “Oh, bullshit. You have a good reason for everything.
Because everything in life is a game, right?”
“Because I was jealous!”
The shout hits me like a slap. I gape at her. “Of what?
Being a loner? Getting teased by the entire school? Of being
plump and plain and overlooked? Which one of those things
did you covet, Sam?”
Sam wipes at her eyes. “You think you were plain? You
were pretty.”
“Oh, for the love of . . . compared to you, I was average at
best. Something you made certain to remind me of at every
turn.”
Sam frowns but then laughs as if I’m deluded. “And yet he
never looked at me the way he looked at you. He never talked
to me as though he truly wanted to know what I was thinking.
He gave you a nickname, not me.”
“Macon?” I can’t believe this. “He hated me. He was
dating you.”
“He was wasting time with me.” Her lips pinch sourly.
“And there’s a fine line between love and hate. At best I got
apathy. You got his attention. God, no one even calls him
Macon but you.”
Her jealousy is so foreign to me that I can only gape. It
takes effort to find my voice. “So this was all about Macon?”
Sam shrugs and hugs her arms to her chest. “No. Not all of
it.”
“Then what?”
“You were their favorite,” she whispers. “Mama and
Daddy. They were always so proud of you.” Her voice takes
on Mama’s tone. “Our Delilah got straight As again. Did you
taste Delilah’s casserole; I declare it’s the best in five counties.
Delilah is such a special child.”
I’m poleaxed. Unable to breathe for a long moment. “They
had to say all that. Because I was fucking miserable, and they
knew it!”
 Her silvery-blue eyes, so like my mother’s, flash in
outrage. “They said it because they meant it, Dee. You can’t be
that clueless. They loved you best.”
“I wasn’t even their child!” My shout comes out of
nowhere, hurting my chest, my throat.
“What?” Sam asks, bewildered. “What are you talking
about?”
“I’m adopted.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, given that she
knows this.
Sam swallows hard, then takes a hesitant step closer. Her
voice softens. “Do you honestly think they loved you less?”
“Not anymore.” My conversation with Mama eased the
last strands of those worries. “But back then? It was always on
my mind. Oddball Delilah, sticking out like a sore thumb amid
the rest of you.”
Sam shakes her head. “Hell, Dee. They picked you. I was
an unexpected arrival; they had to love me.”
My laugh is unhinged. “I can’t believe this. All this time
you were jealous of our parents’ love for me, and I was jealous
of the same?”
In our mother’s cheery kitchen, Sam and I stare at each
other, and then she starts to snicker. “I guess we were.”
We both laugh; it isn’t really in amusement. I’m too
battered, but it feels good to let it go. Sam finishes with a
shaking breath and then sobers. Tentatively, she reaches out,
and I accept her hug. She smells of Chanel and cigarettes that I
know she still smokes on the sly. “I’m sorry, Dee. So sorry.”
“You hurt me.” I still hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. I know she means it. But it
doesn’t feel like enough.
“And you let Macon take the fall.”
Her nose wrinkles. Red faced and teary eyed, she’s still
beautiful. Still guarded. “He insisted. The night he dumped
me, he said he’d do that for me because of all we’d been
through together, but he was done with the Baker sisters.”
It wasn’t exactly what Macon said to me. In Sam’s version,
Macon was protecting her, not me. This again. The same old
manipulations and twisted truths. I pull out of her embrace.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.” Sam worries her bottom lip.
“What’s done is done.”
She brightens at that. “And hey, I returned and brought the
watch back as promised.”
Does she want a cookie for doing the right thing? Inside, I
grow a bit more numb. She’s my sister. But the person she’s
become is the absolute worst version of her.
She won’t meet my eyes. “It was stupid taking the watch.
No one would touch it . . .” She trails off with a strangled
sound, realizing what she’s said.
I stare at her, disappointment so keen that I can’t seem to
move. She tried to sell the watch. “What’s going on with you,
Sam? Why did you need that much money?”
The gentle sweep of her jaw lifts. “I just did.”
“Three hundred thousand worth? Why?”
When she finally turns my way, her eyes are hard. “I have
a bit of a gambling addiction. Sometimes I run low on funds.”
She could have knocked me over with a feather. Sam
smirks. “You should see your face, Dee. So shocked.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No,” she snaps. “It’s not. At any rate, I had a good run
and no longer need money.”
A good run? My sister is a gambler, and I never noticed.
What the hell has she gotten herself into? “Sammy . . .”
“It’s my business, so don’t go getting all Saint Delilah and
try to fix it.”
 My impulse is to snap back, tell her off. But I’m suddenly
weary. I don’t want to fight her. I just want to get on with my
life in peace. “Don’t worry, Sam. I learned my lesson. You
fight your own battles now. I’m officially done.”
The clock on the wall ticks loud and clear as she stares at
me. Some emotion passes over her face—regret or worry, I
can’t tell—then she pulls in a breath and straightens her
shoulders. “I’ve learned my lesson too. No more stealing for
me.”
She says it like a joke that I’m expected to laugh at. I can’t.
It worries me that she’s being so glib about her problem. It
worries me that despite her claims of this good run, she might
still owe someone an ungodly amount of cash. How did she
pay it off without using Macon’s watch? But I hold my tongue.
If I’m going to stick to my word and stay out of her business, I
have to start now.
“Delilah,” Sam begins after a moment. “This thing with
Saint—tell me it isn’t serious.”
I move to the end of the counter and wipe away a water
ring. “I know he was your boyfriend during school. And I
wouldn’t have gone there with him if it wasn’t . . .” I take a
deep breath and face her. “Yes, this is serious. I care about
him.”
Pity fills her eyes. “Oh, Dee, you should know better. Saint
isn’t capable of love.”
“That’s not true . . .”
“Did he tell you he loves you?” Her tone implies she
already knows he didn’t.
I adore you. Every. Damn. Inch.
“We haven’t said those words yet . . .”
“And he never will.” She walks toward me, that damn pity
all over her damn face. “Because he is playing you for a fool. I
know you don’t believe me, but he did watch you all those
years ago. Saint would have loved to get into your pants, if
only to have the experience of catching you.”
 “Why are you like this?” I rasp. “Why are you so hateful to
anything good that comes into my life? This goes beyond
jealousy. It’s cruel.”
Sam halts. “I’m trying to help you.”
“This isn’t help. This is an attempt to tear into my
insecurities.”
“Dee,” she intones as if I’m a child. “If you have those
fears, you have to ask yourself why.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore.”
Sam snags my wrist, and her tears are back. “He used me.
For years he used me because he was bored. He’ll use you,
too, because you’re safe and familiar.”
She knows me so well. Knows all the soft spots and ways
to place a direct hit. She always has. I want to laugh until I
howl. Bile fills my mouth. I swallow it back down, and it
burns.
Sam stands there, smug but trying her best to look sad.
“Think what you want. But ask yourself if you’re really
willing to risk our relationship on someone as emotionally
empty as Macon Saint. The boy who made your life a misery.”
When I don’t answer, Sam shrugs and turns to grab a glass
from the cabinet as if she hasn’t just tried to cut my legs out
from under me. While she hums and pours herself a glass of
white wine from the fridge, I think about Macon. Every word
he said. Every word I said. The way he touched me. The
tenderness and need in his eyes when he looked at me. The
way he laughed with me, held my hand, told me about his
pain. The letters he wrote.
He lied. Sam lied. I lied.
Everyone lies sometimes.
Sam keeps humming. A stupid tune.
I gather my keys in hand. “Samantha?”
She raises an expectant brow.
“I love you very much.”
 “I love you too, Dee. I’m glad we got that settled—”
“I love you,” I cut in. “But you’ve been a crap sister. Call
me when you decide to grow the fuck up.”
I leave her and her ranting protests behind.

Macon
She’s gone. I pushed her away, and she left. I tell myself
she’ll come back eventually. It’s not as though I’m just going
to let her go without any further discussion. I’m not giving up.
But I can’t control the outcome of everything. Which means I
could lose her.
Did I truly have her? Here in the dark, it all feels like a
strange dream. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’m
still trapped in that wreckage of a car.
“Hell,” I say, disgusted at my own drama. I’ve been
reading too many scripts. Rolling onto my side, I try to get
comfortable. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I can wake up and
see her.
The sound of the front door opening has me sitting up so
fast my head spins. The house is too damn big to hear
anything. It could be Delilah. Then again, it might not be. I
ease out of bed, grab my discarded cane as a weapon, and
move toward the bedroom door.
I hear the familiar sound of her footsteps a second before
she enters the room. She sees me just as I’m lowering the
cane, and she screeches.
“Jesus,” she shouts, holding her chest. “You scared the hell
out of me.”
Heart pounding with released adrenaline, I slump against
the wall. “I’m not the one creeping into bedrooms at two in the
morning.”
Her shadowed face is a picture of indignant outrage. “I’m
not creeping; I live here!”
Those words crack the tension that’s held my body
prisoner for the past few hours.
 “You’re back,” I say. Don’t leave me again. Don’t leave.
Delilah relaxes too. She’s barefoot and still wearing the
jeans and pink T-shirt she left in. It’s too dark to see her
properly, but she seems . . . not happy but calm.
“I’m back.” There’s hesitation in her tone as though she’s
unsure if she should be here. The fact that she doesn’t know is
a tragedy. “Is that okay?”
“Okay?” I blow out a breath. “We were in a fight, Delilah.
It’s going to happen now and then.”
A slow smile blooms. “Probably a lot.”
I smile too. It feels fragile but good. “Hopefully not too
much.”
Her teeth snag on her lower lip, and she bites down, eyeing
me from under her thick lashes. “But then we can make up?”
God, I want to make up. And then make up some more.
Spend the entire week making up.
“Come to bed?” I’m this close to begging.
Delilah walks to the bed, slipping into a band of moonlight
that slants through the bank of bedroom windows. But she sits
instead of crawling under the covers. “I should have waited
until morning and let you sleep.”
Fat chance of that.
“But I wanted to talk to you,” she goes on.
I don’t like the way she’s holding herself so stiffly. My
guard comes up, and the tension in my neck returns. I sit
beside her on the bed. “Delilah, you can say anything to me.”
Her teeth snag her lower lip. “I talked things out with
Sam.”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but the sadness in
her eyes hurts to witness. “You don’t sound happy about it.”
She makes a face. “Nothing is ever easy when it comes to
Sam.”
Truer words.
 “You all right?” I ask.
“I will be.” Which means she isn’t now. I can’t hold back
from taking her hands and holding them between mine.
She threads her fingers through mine. “I’m so sorry I
didn’t tell you about the call.”
“It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t.” Now that I’ve
calmed down and faced a few dark, lonely hours without her, I
understand a lot of things.
Her gaze searches my face with a tenderness that I feel
along my skin. “But most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you
exactly why I was feeling vulnerable. I may get things wrong
when it comes to you, Macon, but I trust you more than
anyone. No one see me the way you do. It’s a gift I never saw
coming, but I treasure it with my whole heart.”
“Oh, hell, Delilah . . .” I reach for her, gently squeezing the
nape of her neck. But she doesn’t let me draw her in.
Her hand lands on my chest, not pushing me away but
resting there like she needs to feel me as much as I need to feel
her. “Let me say this.”
When I nod, she seems to steel herself. “I’ve realized a few
things. First, my sister is an asshole.”
I choke on a laugh, shocked as hell.
But Delilah doesn’t notice; her lips purse in disapproval. “I
don’t know why she is how she is. We essentially had identical
upbringings. And yet she ended up selfish and petty. She finds
a person’s weakness and exploits it. That she did it to me for
so long hurts, and yet I feel sorry for her because she could be
so much more—even if I want to punch her in the tit for all
that she’s done. Despite all that, I still love her. I can’t help it. I
do, and I always will.”
“She’s your sister. Of course you will.” My thumb sweeps
across her cheek. “I’m sorry I tried to make you feel guilty
about helping her. I was jealous, and I shouldn’t be—”
Delilah touches my chin, instantly making me quiet. “I’m
not finished.” She takes an unsteady breath. “I realized that
when my mother said she would always hold out hope for
Sam, it was out of love, not because she had blinders on. I
can’t protect my mama against Sam’s antics because she’s
always seen them clearly. She simply loves her anyway.”
“She sees the good in everyone. I always admired her for
that.”
Delilah hums in vague agreement. Then she fidgets,
smoothing a wrinkle in the covers, tucking a lock of her hair
back, looking everywhere but at me. “That brings me to my
last point.”
“All right,” I say because she falls silent.
She blows out a hard breath as if bracing herself. “If Sam
had it her way, you and I would be back to square one. I’d hate
you forever, and we’d part as enemies. She actually begged me
to leave you. She implied our relationship would drive a
wedge between her and me that would never heal.”
I want to protest. Rant a little myself. But that won’t get
me anywhere. Even so, my chest is tight and pained as Delilah
continues. “She might be right about that wedge.”
No, no, no. She can’t.
“While she ranted and cried, I stood there and thought
about never seeing you again . . .”
“Delilah . . .”
“The utter futility of that . . .” She shakes her head in
distraction. “As if I could turn away from you and it not feel
like the loss of a limb. It was that moment when I realized,
without doubt, that I loved you.”
“I . . .” My breath leaves in a whoosh when her words truly
hit me. “What?”
Her smile is gentle, shy even. “I love you, Macon Saint. So
much.”
Lips numb, I stare at her, unable to say a word, much less
think. A loud thud is pounding hard and fast, and I realize it’s
my heart.
 “Macon?” Delilah starts to frown, raising her hand to
touch my bloodless cheek. I’m cold, I know. Then my breath
releases, and heat rushes along my tingling limbs.
“No one has ever said that to me. No one.” Not my mother
—certainly not my shit father. Not a single person. I’ve never
heard those words directed at me. Until now.
Until her.
Delilah.
Delilah loves me.
Shaking, I tug her close, awkward and bumbling as I crush
her against my chest and hold on tight, my nose buried in her
hair. “I love you too. I love you too.”
With a sigh, she rests against me, her cheek pressed to my
heart. “It’s been a long road getting here.”
“We were always on it, Delilah.” I ease my grip, let my
hands smooth down the curve of her back. I press my lips to
her temple, rest them there, and breathe her in. “Loving you
was inevitable. You got under my skin at age eleven and never
left.”
Smiling, she pulls back enough to look up at me. God, it’s
all there in her eyes. She really does love me. As if she knows
that I can’t get over that truth, she cups the back of my neck
with warm, kneading fingers. “I’m going to love you, Macon
Saint. So long and so hard you’re not going to remember what
it feels like to be without love.”
And that’s when it finally happens. The prickling heat
building behind my lids turns to a blur and slips over. I don’t
hide it. It’s a relief. “I don’t know a lot about love other than
what I feel for you. I might make mistakes, but I know this
much—you are utterly precious to me. I’ll honor you every
damn day of my life, if you let me.”
I frame her face with my hands as the words come out
thick, unsteady, but directly from my heart. “And what’s
between us, Delilah? It’s forever.”
 EPILOGUE
Delilah
“Look what my mother found in the attic.” I hold aloft the
battered red leather book in question as Macon enters the
trailer dressed in full Arasmus gear.
Good Lord, but the man is sex in leather wearing those
clothes. How I did not appreciate the glory that was the
Warrior King up until now, I’ll never know.
He sets down his ax and is about to unbuckle the leather
baldric that holds his sword when his gaze clashes with mine.
A slow, sweet smile spreads over his dirt-smudged face. “Stop
giving me those sexy eyes, Ms. Delilah.”
I recognize that order. I gave it to him once before. Licking
my lower lip, I continue to look him over. “Sexy eyes?”
Macon slowly stalks forward, grinning with intent. “Yes,
sexy eyes. Making eyes at me like you . . .”
“Want to stick my head between your thighs and slowly
suck you until we both come?” I offer.
With a low growl that goes straight to all my happy places,
he scoops me up and brings us both back down onto the small
couch, this time with me straddling his lap. “Nice trick,” I
murmur.
He brushes the hair back from my face and kisses me deep
and long. “Mmm . . . you taste like honey.” His tongue slides
over mine in a languid glide. “Speaking of tricks, you were
saying something about sucking.”
I’m already unlacing his leather pants. He slides free, hot
and heavy. All hail the king.
Two orgasms later, we’re slumped in a sweaty tangle, and
Macon toys with the ends of my fluffed-up hair. From outside
comes the occasional shouts or calls from various crew
members, but in our trailer it’s cozy and quiet.
 When Macon had to go back to work, he encouraged me to
go on my trip through Asia, that he’d always be there, waiting
for me. I was ready to go, but somehow, I found myself on a
plane to Iceland, where Macon is filming this season of Dark
Castle. I no longer wanted to take a trip of a lifetime if he
wasn’t there to share it with me. So we’re going in the fall.
The restaurant, which we’re calling Black Delilah, is in the
process of being renovated. I Skype with Ronan daily, and we
hope to open the following year.
Beneath me, Macon shifts a bit to get more comfortable.
But he doesn’t let me go. “Did you say something about a
book?”
My laugh is weak and lazy. “When you distracted me with
your sexy pecs? Yes.”
He snorts.
Slowly, I ease off him and pick up the book that ended up
on the floor. “It’s my childhood diary.”
Macon’s dark brow quirks high. “Do I want to know?”
Grinning, I crawl back onto his lap and rest my head on his
big shoulder. “It’s probably just as you suspect. But I read
through it now, and all I feel is a happy fondness. Here, take a
look.”
“You sure?” He’s eyeing the diary like it might bite.
“Baby, there is nothing between us now but love. Besides,
I added to it, and everything is as it should be.”

Delilah’s Diary
Dear Diary (age 11),
I still do not have a dog. Mama claims I
am allergic, and Daddy won’t listen to
reason. It’s a conspirisy conpr It’s a sham!
In other news, today I called Macon
Saint an ass canal, the most vile and
disgusting thing I could think of. I am sorry
to say, Mama agreed. Had I known she was
behind me, I would have waited until later to
call Macon that.
Now my fingers are pruny and smelly
because I spent the day polishing all the
silver—including old Grandma Belle’s
holiday service ware. The only justice is that
Macon had to polish it too because Mama
heard him call me a fuck-munch.
But it’s still not fair because Sam—who
started the whole thing by blabbing to
Macon that Mama’s oyster soup gave me
diarit diarrhea—got away free as a bird.
SHE had a clear view of the den’s doorway
and shut her big mouth as soon as she saw
Mama coming.
I don’t know who I hate worse, Sam or
Macon.
Sam.
Macon.
Both.
No, definitely Macon.

Dear Diary,
Today was the day I planned to enter my
first pie in the summer church bake off. I’ve
been waiting forever to be thirteen—the
official minimum age for entrants. Mama
convinced me to wear the sky-blue eyelet
sundress that has been hanging in my closet
since spring, and I had to admit that it
looked quite pretty on me.
I soon came to regret my decision. Upon
seeing me, Macon Saint, shithead and ass
face, asked (in a loud voice) if I was
smuggling baby bananas under my top.
Right in front of Jonas Hardy—Macon knew
I had a crush on him. Stupid Sam tells him
everything.
Jonas laughed, and Macon started
calling me Banana Boobs. And I . . . I got so
mad that I threw my beloved Bountiful
Banana Cream Pie (oh, why did it have to be
banana cream???) at Macon’s fat face. Only
the rat turd ducked, and my beautiful pie hit
mean old Mrs. Lynch square in the face.
The humiliation! I am now grounded for
the remainder of the summer and banned
from entering any pies in any of the church
bake offs.
I hate Macon Saint. Hate. Him!!!

Dear Diary,
Last night, I kissed a boy. First kiss. It
was nice. Until it wasn’t. All and all, I am
greatly disappointed.
I only went to Geoff Martin’s birthday
party because Mama said it would be rude to
ignore the invitation. I didn’t feel like telling
her that I’d likely been invited because Geoff
was desperate for Sam to show up.
As suspected, the party was horrible. We
had to play a stupid game called The Shed.
Basically, everyone took a numbered paper
and, when your number came up, you’d go in
the dark garden shed and kiss the person
who had the matching number. The idea
being you never knew who you kissed until
the end of the night when you held up your
number and found out who had the same
one.
I wanted to throw up. Run. I don’t know.
Sam called me a chicken, so I stayed.
 I never saw the boy’s face. All I know is
that his breath smelled like peppermint, and
his lips were soft and sweet. I was so
shocked by the contact, and the way it made
my insides warmly flip, that I ran out of the
shed as if it were on fire. Like a chicken. And
that was that. Surprising, but ultimately a
letdown of my own making.
It was no surprise to me, however, when
Macon and Sam both revealed they had the
number six. Macon has shot up several
inches and has become the most sighed over
boy in school. Yuck. Every girl except me had
wanted to draw his number. I don’t know
how she did it, but I know Sam cheated to get
that number. She was Miss Smug Socks the
entire night.
My night got worse. We were about to
leave when I found out I kissed Xander
Dubois, one of Macon’s friends, who winked
at me and said I could feel free to slip him
the tongue any time I’d like as long as he got
to feel my boobs in return. Gross. I went
home disappointed, and Sam ended the night
as Macon’s girlfriend. Lord help us all.
I hate kissing.

Dear Diary, (age 16)

There are far better words than hate.
Loathe is one. Loathing. I love how it rolls
off the tongue . . . lah-oo-thing. Or detest. So
nice and crisp. “I detest him.” Abhor? No,
that’s too light. You can’t really get a good
sneer with “abhor.” Although it does have a
certain snobby quality about it. “I simply
abhor him, dahling.”
I’m hiding out in my room because
Macon Saint is here. He arrived shortly after
the school baseball game—a game he lost
when he failed to catch a high ball, resulting
in Greenfield High taking the lead. Not that I
said anything; I am a lady, after all.
Although I may have complimented the
athletic prowess of the Greenfield team. Sam
called me a turncoat—she has to show
school loyalty, she’s a cheerleader.
Anyway, he has been hanging around like
a bad smell ever since. I’d asked if he
planned to pay rent here any time soon,
earning a reprimand from Mama, while
Macon got cookies and the best seat in the
family room. Bah. He played it up something
good, ever so subtly wincing when he walked
back into the kitchen to put his plate in the
dishwasher.
Mama instantly began to fuss, asking if
he’d hurt himself during the game. Macon
laughed it off, insisting that he was fine and
just a little tight from stretching too much.
Oh, but he’s a good actor, letting us see just
the tiniest bit of pain in his eyes, letting
Mama think he’s trying to hide that wince.
Worked like a charm. Now he’s invited to
dinner.
I hate loathe when Macon has dinner
with us. The rat always makes faces at me
that no one else ever catches. Either that, or
he’s kicking me under the table, or trying to
squish my toes with his big, stupid foot.
Tonight, I’m going to wear my steel-toed
boots that Mama hates and get him good.
—Delilah Ann

Dear Diary,
They say there’s a fine line between love
and hate. I don’t know if that’s true for every
 situation, but for me? Well, you be the judge.
Because I love Macon Saint. So many words
I have for Macon: love, lust, tenderness, joy,
hope, and love. Always love. Somewhere
along the way, he and I became part of each
other. All we needed was to flip the switch.
Are you surprised? Given that this entire
book was dedicated to all things Macon,
somehow I doubt anyone would be. It was
always about Macon. And it always will be.

Delilah’s Dinner Menu

Gin blackberry bramble and peanut brittle spheres

Oysters topped with watermelon-and-habanero
brunoise
Baby cream biscuits and smoked peach butter
Buttermilk panna cotta with spot prawns and spring
vegetables
Cod with potato galette and shellfish emulsion and
stone fruit
Banana cream pie with bitter chocolate
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my delightful agent, Kimberly Brower; to
the wonderful and hardworking team at Montlake publishing;
and a special thank-you to my editor, Lauren Plude. I’m so
glad we finally got to work together again. You are a joy.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kristen Callihan is an author because there’s nothing else
she’d rather be. She is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal,
and USA Today bestseller. Her novels have garnered starred
reviews from Publishers Weekly and Library Journal. Her
debut book, Firelight, received RT magazine’s Seal of
Excellence and was named a best book of the year by Library
Journal, best book of spring 2012 by Publishers Weekly, and
best romance book of 2012 by ALA RUSA. When she’s not
writing, she’s reading.