Dressed in a tux that fit him to perfection, he looked . . . frankly, like he didn’t belong there. He belonged with the beautiful people, partying on a yacht or walking down a Parisian runway, perhaps. I didn’t know why I hadn’t realized it before: he didn’t fit in our town any more than I did. The difference was, when it came to Macon, no one cared that he was an outsider—they were simply happy to have him around.

I didn’t remember moving, but we ended up face to face, his dark eyes sliding over me, a frown pulling at his mouth. “You came.”

Okay . . . “Was I not supposed to?”

His frown turned into an outright scowl, his gaze roving as if he was unnerved by my appearance. “I didn’t think you would.”

I shrugged, all too aware of my fancy dress, the makeup I wore, my hair styled in loose curls; I didn’t feel like me, but I felt pretty. “Sorry to disappoint.”

When he finally answered, his voice was low, almost a mutter. “I’m not disappointed.”

We both paused, equally shocked and confused. He might not have been disappointed, but he didn’t seem pleased. And neither was I; I didn’t trust Macon Saint. As if by silent agreement, we both turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Insides jittery and my heart beating too fast, I went to the ballroom. Most of the senior class was either dancing or milling around in small groups. A long buffet had been set up along the side of the room, and the line for food had already started.

I didn’t pay it much mind since I was too unsettled to eat, but a ripple started running through the room, an undercurrent of startled laughter. As if feeding on itself, the noise grew, turning less shocked and more malicious.

The source was the buffet table, and when I looked that way, I found dozens of eyes staring back at me. Heat bloomed on my cheeks, and I glanced around. Everyone was looking at me.

Panic clawed at my throat as I found myself slowly walking toward the table. The laughter bubbled up, whispers of “Tater” flowing over the air. And then I knew: the food.

Tater tots in every damn tray. All of it, tater tots.

I couldn’t breathe. Hurt locked my muscles. Someone whistled; a few tater tots were lobbed, one of them hitting my skirt, leaving a streak of grease along the satin. I flinched, my skin burning. Across the way, my sister gaped at me, her eyes wide and panicked, but she didn’t move to stand by me. She seemed frozen.

Somehow I knew Macon had entered the room. He stood a few feet away, staring at the table. His friend Emmet called out to him, “Excellent prank, Saint!”

Everyone laughed. I sucked in a pained breath.

Macon didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to mine. Something unsettling blazed in his eyes, a weird mix of emotions I couldn’t decipher. For one tight second, I thought maybe it was regret, but then he set his shoulders back as if expecting a showdown.

Rage roared in my ears and gave me strength.

The room fell silent as I stalked over to an immobile Macon.

“You . . . asshole,” I hissed. “You might have them all fooled, but I know the truth. You are ugly on the inside. A worthless soul who will never find redemption.”

An answering rage flared over his perfect face, but he didn’t say a word, just bared his teeth as if he was working to keep from lashing back. But it didn’t matter; I was done.

“I truly hate you,” I whispered before I fled the room.

That night, I clung to my mother, unable to cry but shivering with humiliation and anger. An hour later, Sam came home, crying, her makeup running in dark rivers over her cheeks. Macon had dumped her.

“He said he was finished with the Baker sisters,” she sobbed, huddled by my side. “That I wasn’t worth this hassle.”

I wanted to show sympathy, but I couldn’t. I gave her a half-hearted hug. “You’re better off without him.” Truer words I’d never spoken.

Sam had turned to me then, her hug fierce. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I’m so sorry I chose him over you. I’m sorry for everything.”

Macon Saint might have hurt me, but he’d brought the Baker sisters together once more. Our family moved away shortly after that, and I never saw Macon again. But the scars he left on my psyche lingered for far too long.

CHAPTER ONE

Delilah

Grandma Maeve used to say hate will toughen your dough; a good bake is made with love. I don’t know about hate, but my stress seems to be leaking out all over my brioche. The dough has become tacky and warm when it should be smooth and cool. I’ve overkneaded it in my distraction.