Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
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.