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)
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.