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)
Seriously, you need to shut up.
His gaze narrows on me. “You really want to go down this road?”
Swallowing thickly, I lower my eyes. “No. It’s none of my business.” I lift my hand in a helpless gesture. “I’m mouthy when I’m buzzed.”
“You’re mouthy when you aren’t too.”
I pretend to put on lipstick with my middle finger.
Macon almost smiles, but he’s still pissy about something. His fingers drum an idle rhythm on the chair arm, his gaze turning inward. We’re both silent for a minute.
When he speaks, his words come out measured and slow. “You ever come to a crossroads in your life? When you think you have everything figured out, and then you realize you know nothing? And you have no clue which way to go from there?”
He glances at me as if he truly wants to know. And my heart begins to beat a little harder.
“Yes,” I whisper. Truth is, I’m there now.
“What did you do about it?” he whispers back.
The glass is wet with condensation; my hands are too cold. I grip the glass tighter, feel the skin stretch over my knuckles. “Mama used to say the brain can lie to you, but the heart always knows the truth.” I shrug. “Problem is, most of us would rather believe the lie than face the truth.”
His burning stare licks over my skin, exposes things I don’t want exposed. “What would you rather believe, Delilah? The comfortable lie or an inconvenient truth?”
I don’t like the way he looks at me, angry and resentful, tense and alert, as if he needs my answer but doesn’t want to need it. There is too much riding on my answer, and I don’t even know what the correct response should be.
“I think that if my heart was ready to hear the truth, no lie my brain could come up with would matter.”
Macon draws in a breath and lets it out, his chest moving with the action, but there is nothing relaxed about him. If anything, he’s tighter now, heavy and tense in the chair.
“I think you’re right,” he says dully and then turns to look out the window once more. “Take some aspirin before you go to sleep.”
Dismissed. I feel it as effectively as if he walked out of the room. But I’m the one who gets up and walks away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Macon
I wake up hungry. Let me amend that; I wake up more hungry than usual. I want something sweet and creamy. I want to slide my tongue through honey-slick sweetness and eat until my mouth grows tired and my body becomes laden with satisfaction.
Problem is, it isn’t sweets I’m hungry for. Last night, everything became crystal clear. I want Delilah. No one else will do. Sam, the watch, my broken trust—those things are part of the past. If I want a future, I have to let them go.
Delilah might want me, but she clearly isn’t willing to risk any complications. Which leaves me in a predicament. Ignore this increasingly painful need, or tell her in no uncertain terms how I feel and try to find a way to work it out. My gut tells me to fight for Delilah. My head tells me to proceed with extreme caution. Since I’m not certain of anything anymore, I get up and start my day.
After a grueling workout with North, who doesn’t go easy on me despite my bad leg, I head for the kitchen and the promise of a smoothie Delilah texted that she has waiting for me. She stands there, frosty glass in hand, the sunlight that shines through the windows setting her golden-brown hair and tan skin aglow.
A lot of skin. So much gloriously curvy skin is on display. She’s wearing dark-green boy-short bikini bottoms and a fitted white T-shirt that flirts with the edges of those tiny Lycra shorts, taunting me with potential glimpses of more smooth, dusky skin.
I swear to all that’s holy my knees go weak. I bobble a step and try to play it off as due to exhaustion instead of sheer fucking lust. “Damn, I’m beat.”
Her expression is wry as she hands me the glass. “North going easy on you again?” she teases.
My hand shakes as I take a long drink. Whatever she’s concocted tastes creamy and spicy, like cinnamon oatmeal cookies laced with coffee. It hits my system with a welcome kick and runs icy cold down my parched throat. I set the glass on the island counter with a sigh and then run a hand over my face.
“Easy?” I repeat with a snort. “Yes, that’s exactly what I thought while whimpering like a small child on the floor.”
“At least you admit to crying.”
I flash a quick, tight smile. “I was clinging to his leg, pleading for my life.”
Evilly, she laughs with glee. “What happened to manly stoicism? Sucking it up and all that.”