“It’s your first time here.” I put on sunglasses so I can see without squinting. “Have at it.”

Smiling wide and joyfully, he takes another survey of the place, then heads for a stall selling fruit and inspects a mango. North keeps an unobtrusive distance away. They warned me that when we went out on the fly like this, North wouldn’t be our friend. He’d be working, constantly scanning for trouble.

“Can I have a sample?” Macon asks the guy manning the stall, a young hipster with a full beard and a tattoo that says “Grow It Green” along his inner forearm.

“Have one on the house, Arasmus.”

Upon hearing the name of his character, Macon does a double take as if he’s gauging how intense this potential fan might be. Then his easy good-ole-boy smile is in place. “Kind of you.”

That smile used to grate on me like nails ambling down a chalkboard. But there is no denying its efficacy. When Macon smiles like that, people react.

“Thanks . . . ?” Macon trails off in question.

“Jed,” the seller replies as he takes a mango and begins to prep it, slicing the fruit along each side of the pit and then scoring a crosshatch along each half.

“Jed, I’ll share it with my girl here.” Macon grasps my elbow and gently tugs me to his side.

His girl? I cut him a glance, but he’s not looking my way—I can only assume it’s intentional.

Jed gives me a quick smile of acknowledgment, but his attention is purely on Macon. “Man, that scene where you chopped off Thieron’s head with one swing of your sword, then gave that war cry and tore his army apart . . . fucking beautiful. You gonna finally marry Princess Nalla?”

“Could be,” Macon says as if he too is speculating. Then he winks. “Or maybe not. You’ll have to watch.”

Jed beams like it’s his birthday. “Knew you wouldn’t give up the goods.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Macon says in good cheer.

Jed asks for a picture with Macon, and I dutifully use his phone to take a couple of shots of them holding up mangos. Then we’re on our way, each of us armed with luscious ripe sections of mango.

“Well, you charmed the hell out of that guy. I’m fairly certain he’ll be singing your praises for the next year, at least.”

Macon huffs out a laugh. “Charm? More like bullshit. I’m the king of bullshit.” He says this without a hint of pride or self-pity, so detached he might as well be talking about someone other than himself.

“You always were,” I murmur, but without any rancor.

Macon’s coffee-dark eyes are thoughtful. “You’re the only one who ever figured that out.”

“I’m teasing, Macon.”

He shakes his head, faintly smiling. “No, you aren’t. I am the bullshit artist, and you’re the one without verbal impulse control.”

I stop short. “Verbal impulse control?”

“Don’t pretend it isn’t true. You blurt out what you’re feeling all the time. It was one of the easiest ways I could get to you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep. All I had to do was push one of your buttons, and I knew you’d give me so much more when you blew.”

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders and gives me a good-natured squeeze. “Aw, come on, Tot. You’re smart as a tack. You knew what I was doing.”

Admittedly, I did. I just hadn’t known he knew how easily he played me. I should have, though. Macon is likely one of the smartest people I’ve met. Strange thing is, I don’t think he’d say that of himself so easily.

“Well, shit,” I mutter.

Macon laughs, his head tilting back with the force of it. A couple walking past glance at him, then do a double take. Macon’s stubble has graduated to a beard, and the hat he wears is low on his brow. But there are those who recognize him anyway.

“Why weren’t we always like this?” he asks, studying my face with genuine curiosity. “Why weren’t we trying to make each other laugh?”

“Because we were too busy trying to kill each other.”

“Time wasted on your part. Clearly, I’m indestructible.” He seems pleased with the idea.

The sun is shining, and the air holds a hint of the sea. He still has his arm around my shoulders, his torso pressed against mine. It feels good, this half embrace. Too good. It creates the unwanted illusion that I could rest against him, and he’d hold me up for as long as I needed it. I can’t understand this feeling. By all accounts, a half hug from Macon should put me on full alarm. In truth, I don’t think we’ve ever willingly touched.

I try to think back to a time when we had any prolonged physical contact as kids and draw a blank. Rattled, I step away from the warmth of his arm. He lets me go easily as if this isn’t a momentous occasion, and instantly I feel foolish.