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)
“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.