I give her a look of mock outrage. “And where would that get me? Alone? In pain? Without you to wipe my fevered brow?” Please come up to bed with me and wipe my brow. I’m so damn fevered.

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” She’s clearly trying not to give in to another round of laughter.

“I’m a lit major,” I say easily, even though we’re standing so close my shoulder is rubbing against hers, and it’s distracting as hell. “I have an endless supply of melodrama stored in my brain.”

Despite my attempt to put her at ease, Delilah edges away and cleans out my glass. “You should probably take some ibuprofen and a shower.”

I don’t want her to go yet. Seeing her makes my day brighter. Desperate to keep the conversation going, I set my hand on my heart as if struck. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“What? Did I forget your birthday?” she quips, biting back a smile.

“I’m in serious pain here. Where is my sympathy, woman?”

A laugh bubbles over her lips, and I feel like I’ve won a damn medal. “Fine, then,” she says, looking up at me with a patronizing expression. “Poor Macon; want me to kiss your boo-boos and make it better?”

You have no idea how you tempt me, woman. “Would you?” I’m not above fighting dirty. I reach for the hem of my shirt and start pulling it up, exposing my abs. “Because I have this spot here—”

“Ack, stop.” She’s laughing again, but a fine blush spreads across her cheeks. Bingo. “Pest. I’m not kissing anything.”

I let the shirt fall back into place. “Tease.”

“Flirt.”

I grin without remorse, then get distracted by the gleam in her butterscotch eyes. She’s looking at me like I’m a snack. I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it, but it’s enough to make my hunger return full force. I’m this close to drooling. Just to be sure, I run my thumb and forefinger along the corners of my mouth and am gratified to find her watching the movement. She licks her full bottom lip. The gesture is so explicitly hungry that my abs clench, and my cock stirs.

Down, boy. Take it easy.

“Been thinking, Tot . . .”

Her eyes narrow. “Probably best if you don’t.”

Probably. But where would that get us? “I want a dessert.”

She turns and starts wiping down the clean counters like it’s her new mission in life. “I’ll go to the farmers’ market and get some ripe fruit.”

“Not. Fruit.” Fact is, I can’t eat a mango anymore without wanting to suck on Delilah’s tongue. “Something rich and sweet and creamy.” And now I’m thinking about sinking to my knees before her. Behind the kitchen island, I reach down and adjust myself. Having zero experience with flirting, I don’t think I’m doing a proper job of it. I’m only getting myself riled up here.

Especially since Delilah’s expression remains deadpan. “I don’t think any of that is on the approved list.”

“I think you bring up that damn list to annoy me, Tot.”

“This is true.” She doesn’t bother to hide her glee.

Like a bee to nectar, I drift closer. “Come on, Delilah. Cheat with me. Just a little?”

Shaking her head in clear exasperation, she tosses the cloth into the sink and faces me. “All right, just this once. Name your poison.”

She isn’t in my arms. My mouth isn’t on hers. But it’s still a victory, and I rub my hands together in anticipation. “Let’s see . . . oh, God, the choices. Your Totally Toffee-Chip Cookies? Your Mad Monster Chocolate Cake?” I stop to think of all the deserts Delilah has made over the years. “Ah. I know . . . Bountiful Banana Cream Pie. That’s what I want.”

It’s as if I’ve kicked her. Her happy expression ices over into something hard and angry. “You shithead. You total dick weasel.”

“Dick weasel? Why? What’d I do?”

She scoffs in disgust. “Of course you don’t remember. Typical.”

She darts past, giving me a wide berth. I’m left standing alone and bewildered. Why would she be pissed about her banana cream pie? She made the best ones I’ve ever tasted. The fact that I haven’t had a taste since we were thirteen and I still remember how good they are should tell her . . . the memory rises up like a ghost.

The annual summer pie contest. Delilah at thirteen, wearing a pretty blue-and-white summer dress without a bra. A young brainless me realizing that Delilah had breasts. Words were said. Pie was thrown.

“Oh, shit.” The heavy thump of my walking boot beats a rapid staccato as I rush to follow her. “Delilah. Wait. Shit . . .”

I catch up to her by the pool. “Okay, I remember . . .” Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. But, God, that pie had flown. The splatter was spectacular—a virtual Rorschach test of banana and whipped cream. “But come on, you have to admit in retrospect it was kind of funny.”