“She is completely unprofessional with that little stunt.”

“And I’m sure it wasn’t at all instigated,” I add dryly.

“What are you suggesting, Macon?”

“I know Delilah. She doesn’t act out so much as she reacts. What did you do?”

A huff comes over the phone. “Not a thing. I was going about my workday—a day that includes making your career shine, I might add—when I heard her god-awful caterwauling.”

Caterwauling is a good word for Delilah’s singing. My lips twitch, the urge to lose it once more rising up. I swallow it down and take a bite of my lunch instead. Jesus, the woman can cook. I take a bigger bite, practically shoving the salad in my mouth, suddenly starving.

“You cannot be serious about keeping her around,” Karen says. “Even without her poor behavior, she’s an utter embarrassment to you.”

I freeze, fork laden with food halfway to my mouth. “Karen,” I say calmly. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but that’s the last time you speak about Delilah that way.”

She’s silent for a beat. “You’re taking her side?”

“There aren’t any sides—”

“After all these years of working together, all I’ve done for you?”

“Cut it out, Karen. You were a shit to her at lunch. And—”

“So was she!”

“This is beneath you,” I say in a low voice. “Making comments about her weight or appearance isn’t what I hired you to do. I know you are better than that.”

I want off this phone. I want to eat my lunch. Actually, I really want to see Delilah and tease her about the video. Yes, I’m a little bit childish when it comes to Delilah.

Karen sniffs, collecting her dignity. “All right. I concede; that wasn’t well done of me.”

I don’t say a thing.

“I don’t know why she irritates me,” Karen mutters.

But I do. Delilah sees right past people’s bullshit. Even if she doesn’t call a person on it, they somehow know she sees them. It chafes if the person doesn’t like who they are on the inside.

“She’s an acquired taste,” I say, reaching for my salad again.

“What’s going on with you two?” Karen asks, sharper now.

“Aside from being employee and employer?” I quip. “Nothing.”

“Defend the woman all you want, Macon, but she clearly isn’t a professional assistant.”

No, she really isn’t. “She’s a hell of a chef.”

“Macon,” Karen begins, then hesitates before rushing on. “Does she have something on you? Is that it?”

I start laughing again. Hard.

“This isn’t funny,” Karen says. “Something is not right between you two.”

Where to begin with that?

She takes on the tone of a worried mother. “If I need to handle this . . .”

“There’s nothing to handle,” I cut in. “I’m hanging up now. My salad is getting cold.”

“Salad is already cold!”

“So you see my problem. Bye, Karen.”

“What problem? Macon—”

It is far too satisfying hanging up on her. I’ve done it before. She’s hung up on me before as well; it’s the relationship we have. But this is the first time I’ve been irritated on behalf of someone else.

I text North again.

Don’t tell D that I know about the video.

North answers a few seconds later.

If I told her, I’d have to confess that I sent it. I don’t have a death wish.

Smart. She would definitely kill you.

Luckily, you piss her off more. Having seen her in action, I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.

Snorting, I hit play on the video again, and a smile erupts as Delilah’s terrible voice fills the kitchen. I find myself eyeing the front door, waiting for her.

Delilah

“So . . . ,” Macon drawls as he walks onto the upstairs balcony where I’m sitting, painting my toenails. “You had quite the day.”

I don’t look up from my work. One bad swipe of Cherry Sundae will show for miles. “What, did Karen call to complain?”

He plops his big frame onto the Adirondack chair beside mine. “She’s always complaining.” His attention drifts to my toes. A small smile plays about his lips, and he taps his long fingers on the arms of the chair. Macon leans back, but his gaze remains on my feet as if he finds the process of my self-pedicure fascinating. “Somehow, I don’t think she’ll try anything with you again.”

Pressing my lips to my bent knee to hide my smile, I finish off the last toe. “She’d better not. I studied up on Rodgers and Hammerstein during my shower, and I’m not afraid to belt out a stirring rendition of Oklahoma! if needed.”

Macon snorts. “If she messes with you again, I’ll provide backup.”

I pause and dab at a small spot on my toe. “That’s right; you starred in our junior-year musical.” Unlike me, Macon has a wonderful voice—deep and resonant. I still kind of hate that he wore suspenders and sang “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” and still managed to make all the girls swoon.

Silence falls, and Macon stares out at the Pacific, where the sinking sun has turned tangerine in a violet sky. That smile of his grows secretive and quivering around the edges as if he’s holding on to his composure with great effort.