Her lips quirk. “How ironic, given that when I think back on that day, I realize that I, too, was probably jealous.”

It’s probably bad of me to be so pleased. “Do tell, Ms. Baker.”

The wind whips a strand of her hair over her mouth, and she brushes it aside before she speaks. “You and Sam were always a couple. I had no one. I felt like a third wheel, and it sucked.”

Pressing my lips to her hair, I’m silent for a moment. Sam. Always Sam, lurking like a ghost between us. At this point, I don’t care if I never see her again. “You were the glue that held us all together, and you never knew it.”

Delilah huffs. “Yeah, well, at the time, I’d have preferred a boyfriend. I’d only had one kiss up to that point. And that was only because of that stupid party game The Shed.”

I freeze, my insides seizing up. Then my heart starts to pound with some weird mix of shock and satisfaction. “That was your first kiss?”

“You remember me in school; I wasn’t exactly popular.” Her eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

Hell.

“Macon . . .”

“Okay.” I hold up a hand. “In the spirit of our newfound sharing and honesty, I have to confess that it was me.”

“What was you?” she asks darkly.

“In the shed. With you.” I clear my throat. Hell. “I kissed you.”

“What?” Her hiss carries over the area, and a couple glances our way.

Taking her hand, I help her up, grab our trash, and dump it before walking with her toward the old restaurant. “I drew a number, went in the shed, and waited. A girl came in. About five seconds later, I knew it was you.”

“How?” she whispers, still shocked.

“Delilah, we may have been enemies, but I knew your scent like I knew home.”

“Please. I smelled like any other girl back then.”

“You stumbled or stubbed your toe on the way in and muttered ‘shit sticks’ under your breath.” I chuckle at the memory. “I was shocked as hell. And turned on—as much as a thirteen-year-old kid could be.”

Her pretty mouth falls open. “Oh my God. It was truly you?”

“Yes.”

“You knew it was me, and you kissed me anyway.” She stares up at me like she’s seeing me anew. “Why?”

“I wanted to know how it would feel.” I take a step closer. “I knew it was you, and I was strangely relieved that I wouldn’t have to kiss anyone else.”

Her gaze turns hazy as if she’s remembering. “You were sweet.”

“So were you.” My hand drifts up to cup her jaw. “I liked it.”

A frown wrinkles her brow. “Why did you pretend you kissed Sam?”

Shrugging, I turn and study the restaurant. “I liked it too much. And there you were, glaring daggers at me throughout the party. Seemed safer, easier to ask Xander to switch numbers and pretend it didn’t happen.”

Delilah is silent. A frown works between her brows. “You started dating Sam that night.”

She doesn’t say it, but we both know the truth. Everything changed that night, for the worst. The wedge between Delilah and me grew wider.

“I made a lot of mistakes in my life,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to make more.” Glancing at the restaurant, I take Delilah’s hand in mine. “Do you want me to call Ronan?”

She doesn’t answer immediately but stares at me. “All right,” she says finally. “Yes, please.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Macon.” She startles me with a short amused laugh. “I should be giddy at the thought of meeting Ronan Kelly. But all I can think of is that kiss and how I’m so glad it was you and not that dickhead Xander.”

I tug her into a hug. “Yeah, well, I’d rather you think of kissing me instead of thinking about meeting Ronan, so I’m not complaining.” What I don’t tell her is I’m increasingly convinced I want her to be the last woman I kiss, the only one. The fact that she might not feel the same scares the hell out of me. My history of retreating from situations I can’t control has me holding on to her a little tighter.

Don’t fuck this up. Somehow, I’m afraid I will.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Macon

“I’ve come bearing refreshments.” Delilah stops in front of the double-wide lounger I’m sitting on reading scripts.

We spent the morning apart. I wanted to give Delilah time to get used to being with me. It wasn’t easy. I wanted—needed—to know if she was all right. Maybe I just wanted to see if she’d come find me. Yes, I’m a needy fucker.

I move the pile of scripts to the far side of the lounge to make room for her. “Hand it over, and sit,” I say, making her roll her eyes at my order. “What do you have for me this time?”

Delilah often grumps about me comparing her to luscious foods, but I can’t help it. I can’t think of a time when Delilah hasn’t been taking care of the people in her world by offering them food and drinks. For Delilah food is love. Truth is, that more than anything pushed me to take her up on the offer to be my chef; I wanted to be cared for by Delilah even if I received it in the most circuitous of ways.