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