“I hear felicitations are in order, Mrs. Baker. Happy birthday.”

Mama all but titters. “Why, thank you, Macon. And please call me Andie.”

His smile is all charm. “I don’t think I’d be able to. It would feel disrespectful. You’ve always been Mrs. Baker to me, ma’am.”

Lord, help me.

But Mama soaks it all up. “Sweet boy.”

Traitor.

“Look at you,” she goes on. “All grown up.”

“That I am.”

“I’d read on Twitter that you’d been hurt.” Mama glances my way as if somehow I’m responsible. I bristle, but she’s back to patting Macon’s hand. And I try to wrap my head around my mother trolling through Twitter.

“I’ll be fine in no time, Mrs. Baker.”

“Yes,” I add. “He just needs to rest.” Go rest, Macon.

His brow raises as if he hears my silent demand. And I get a look that says, Not on your life, Tot.

“We’re about to have lunch,” Mama says, killing my hope. “You should join us.”

Oh, hell no. “I’m sure Macon has other plans—”

“Why, I would love to, Mrs. Baker. How kind of you to ask.”

He goes to grab an empty chair from across the way, and I glare at Mama, who gives me a pinch under the table. I rub my thigh and get up. “I’ll just be a moment. Help yourselves to the fruit plate.”

Grumbling, I head for the kitchen with Macon’s rumbly voice haunting me as I go. I’d made Macon a plate of food and left it in the fridge. I add it to our lunch, tempted to sprinkle some cayenne on it. Wily interloper. He’ll charm Mama, and all I’ll hear about for months is how sweet and wonderful Macon is.

When I return, he’s holding center court at the table. He sees me approach, and his eyes light up with mischief. But he doesn’t say anything as I set down my massive tray on the sideboard and begin to serve lunch.

“Why, Delilah,” Mama says. “This looks wonderful.”

I’ve made squash blossoms stuffed with pimento cheese mousse—because my mother loves pimento cheese—and for the main course, lobster salad on fresh sweet potato rolls and a simple roasted-corn succotash and jicama-fennel slaw as sides.

“Delilah is a great chef,” Macon says. “Since leaving Shermont, I hadn’t given much thought to food. Then Delilah comes back into my life, and I find myself craving all the time.”

An awkward beat falls over the table. He said it with a straight face, but damn him, his words have me hot and bothered and thinking of sinful cravings that are most definitely bad for me.

JoJo clears her throat delicately. “Good food will do that to you.”

Macon quirks a brow my way as if to silently say, “Indeed.”

I cut him a glare and attack my sandwich with vigor.

Silence descends as we eat, but then Macon wipes his lips with his napkin and turns my mother’s way. “Perhaps you can settle an argument, Mrs. Baker.”

“Don’t tell me you kids are going at it again.”

For some reason the words hit me entirely the wrong way, and all I can picture is Macon and me truly going at it. Against a wall, all hot and sweaty. And hard. So very, very hard . . . I reach for my lemonade and spill some in my haste.

The tops of his cheeks become slightly ruddy. “Er . . . no, not exactly. Delilah tells me she’s named after an aunt who drowned in a pie.”

I make a face at him, and he returns it while my mother is distracted by taking a sip of tea.

“Ah, yes, Great-Aunt Delilah, smothered by strawberry rhubarb.”

“I didn’t know rhubarb was involved,” Macon exclaims as if the addition of it makes all the difference.

“Cuts the sweetness of the strawberry with a little tart,” JoJo explains.

Completely straight faced, Macon nods. “I like a little tart with my sweets.”

I struggle not to roll my eyes.

“Personally,” Mama goes on, “I can’t stand to eat strawberry rhubarb pie anymore. Reminds me of death,” she confides in a lowered voice.

With a groan, I rest my head in my hands.

“I much prefer a nice buttermilk pie or coconut cream,” she tells Macon.

“Chocolate chiffon is my favorite,” JoJo puts in.

Macon keeps his eyes firmly off me as his mouth twitches. “I’m partial to warm peach.”

“Oh, for the love of pie,” I exclaim. “Would you please tell us why I was so named, Mama?”

She gives me a chiding look. “Your patience leaves much to be desired, Delilah.”

Macon clearly struggles not to laugh. “I’m always saying that, but she thinks I’m picking on her.”

“If your leg wasn’t broken, I’d kick it,” I say sweetly before giving my mother a pleading look. “Go on, Mama.”

“It was your father who picked the name. He did so love his aunt.” She takes a bite of her lobster roll, then dabs her lips with a napkin. “I wanted to call you Fern.”