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.