Macon shakes his head. “Never did understand that one.”

The past suddenly seems both a distant memory and far too close to my skin. Lost in his own thoughts, Macon stares out at the city sprawl all hazy in the sun. Lines of strain mar the skin around his eyes. “I was a dick in high school.”

Another small laugh escapes me. “Yeah, you were.”

“And you were a brat.”

I swiftly look his way. “What?”

Macon’s chin lifts a touch. “As I recall, you said it didn’t matter how good looking I was, I’d always be ugly on the inside. A worthless soul who would never find redemption.”

A thick, heavy feeling pushes through my chest as I meet his gaze and the hurt lingering there. I genuinely wounded the implacable “I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone” Macon Saint. He never showed an ounce of tender emotion when we were kids, never let me see anything other than that perfect facade. But he is now, and I can’t ignore it.

“Damn,” I whisper, clenching my hands. “That was a shitty and overly dramatic thing to say.”

“Yeah.” His hand brushes against mine. “You always had a way with words.”

Slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt, he touches the tips of my fingers with his, and by some silent agreement, I lace our fingers together. The edge of his thumb strokes a soft path over my knuckles. I hold still, afraid that any movement will end the spell and he’ll stop. I don’t understand him. Here we are, remembering the worst of our fighting, and yet he touches me as if he loves the texture of my skin and can’t stop himself.

“God, Delilah.” He sounds angry at himself, and that grimace returns, twisting his features. “The things we said to each other. We were horrible.”

I have to laugh, and it feels good, despite the lingering tightness in my chest. “We were fairly terrible.”

He hums in agreement.

I blow out a breath. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Don’t be. We can’t change the past, and you didn’t know.” His fingers twitch, and he leans my way. “When I call you Tot now, it’s out of affection. But I’ll stop using it if it hurts you.”

I find myself hesitating. “It pissed me off at first, but now . . . I’m used to it.”

“Used to it,” he repeats, disbelieving. “Like an annoying hangnail?”

He’s clearly laughing inside.

“You’re the hangnail, Macon,” I say blandly, teasing now.

He flashes a quick grin, but it fades as his gaze turns inward. “I guess I am, at that. I’m sorry I caused you pain all those years ago, Delilah. I was an unhappy person back then, and you took the brunt of a lot of it, unfortunately.”

A lump rises in my throat. His expression is steady, the breadth of his shoulders stiff as if waiting for my censure. I swallow thickly. “I shouldn’t have said those nasty things to you either. They weren’t true.”

He lets my hand go. The loss of his touch takes the lightness from me. And an air of melancholy settles over my shoulders. I wrap my arms around my middle.

Blinking up at the sky, I take a deep breath and let it out. “Well, today has been a day.”

“A shit day,” he agrees with a husky laugh. “With dry chicken and uninspired roasted vegetables.”

“I wasn’t going to say it, but yes.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and studies the horizon. The sun is riding low in the sky, obscured behind the haze of smog. “How about we do something entirely unlike us and call a truce?”

A truce. Which means we’d be something closer to friends. Macon Saint as my friend is something I never thought I’d say, but it feels right. Friends I can handle. I think.

“All right.” I clear the thickness from my throat. “I’d like that.”

He gives me a measured look that sends a frisson of heat over my chest but then winks, all easy charmer. “Good. I wouldn’t like to think my chef might poison me one day.”

With a gasp, I put a hand on my chest. “I’d never stoop to poison. If I wanted you dead, I’d go for the jugular.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Tot.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Macon

Timothy arrives at the house chipper as fuck, which does nothing to help my headache or my own shit mood.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces, setting a big box on the breakfast nook table.

I follow him farther into the kitchen. “Somehow I doubt that.”

He grins wide. “You’re right.” After taking the lid off the box, he pulls out a fake ax and plunks it on the table before an empty seat. “You’ve got stuff to sign.”

The show and I have made an effort to give away autographed memorabilia for charities. Throughout the year, I host ball games and fun runs for kids or travel around with my costars to meet and greet certain groups, but until I’m up for travel, it’s down to signing things and having Timothy and his crew distribute them.