I’m not talking about the tub, and we both know it.

“Not that new.”

“New enough. Up to the time you accidentally texted me, I thought of you as Macon Ass-Chaps Saint.”

He huffs a laugh. “And you were Delilah Judgy-Eyes Baker.”

“Judgy-Eyes?”

He smiles, totally pleased. “Asks the woman currently giving me judgy-eyes.”

I flick the side of his head. Macon chuckles slow and easy. “Just proves my point.”

Something inside me goes quiet and warm. “I don’t think you’re an asshat anymore.”

All humor fades from his night-dark eyes. His gaze, hazy and heated, lowers to my mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My resistance melts like warm butter in a hot pot. “I think about you too.”

The muscles along his big arms clench as he grips the tub. “I want to be near you all the time. And when I am near you, it isn’t enough; I want more.”

We’re leaning into each other, not touching but sharing the same air.

Macon’s lips part softly. He licks them, then meets my eyes. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

I want to rest my head on his shoulder, crawl into the tub with him, clothes and all, and hold him close. It scares the crap out of me. “No,” I agree. “We can’t go back to how it was before.”

Macon stirs, the water sloshing, but he doesn’t touch me. His lashes are spiky fans, his skin glowing bronze in the lowered bathroom lights. “I know you think everything comes easily to me, Delilah. On the surface, it’s true. But when it comes to here”—he presses a fist to the center of his chest—“I’m fucking lost. I don’t know about normal relationships; my parents certainly didn’t have one.”

He wipes a hand over his wet face and then stares out of the window, where the night sky is black as velvet. Lines of concentration pull at his mouth. When he finally looks at me, his expression is drawn tight, frustration darkening his eyes. “When I’m on location, it eats up hours, days, months. It isolates me, and I forget to be social. Fuck, half the time, it messes with my mind, and I start acting like whatever character I’m playing.”

I nod because I don’t know what to say, and Macon rubs his face again, water tinkling with the movement. “It can be lonely as fuck. But I’m used to being lonely.”

The thought makes me ache.

Macon’s eyes hold mine as if he’s willing me to understand. “I was okay with all of that. And then you came back . . . Delilah, you are the only person alive who truly knows me for me. That used to piss me off. But now? It feels like a lifeline.”

A lifeline. I’ve never been that for anyone. And I tried to snap that connection with him. Remorse is a cold fist in my throat. “I’m sorry for how I reacted on the beach. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. It’s just . . . it’s a leap of faith for me, all right? As the person with all the power here, you have the least to lose.”

“Delilah,” he says with a dry laugh, “if you think you don’t have power over me, you’re completely deluded. Haven’t you been paying attention? One word from you has the power to bring me to my knees.”

As if it is any different for me? He can cut me like a blade without even half trying.

A frown works between his thick brows. “I get that it’s hard to switch gears. We were at each other’s throats for years, and now we’re not.”

“I’m trying,” I whisper, the urge to trace the waterdrops along the sharp line of his jaw almost overwhelming.

“I know.”

And I realize that he truly does know. He’s trying too.

“We’re ending the deal,” he says. “It has to end for this to work.”

Nodding, I lean a little on the tub. “And Sam?”

The corners of his lips pull tight for a second; then he lets go of another breath, this one resigned. “I stopped looking for her a while ago.”

“Since when?” I’m more than a little surprised.

“Since the first week you were here. The watch is gone. Only Sam can bring that back. And I cannot punish her without hurting you or your mama, which is something I’m no longer willing to do.”

Goddamn Sam. I don’t want her deeds hovering over us. The sooner she returns, the freer we’ll be. Macon might have given up searching, but I won’t. I’ve been too lax with that. But for now . . .

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For all of it. I hate what Sam did.”

There is kindness in his eyes as his hand edges toward mine. Our pinkies touch. “I know, honey.”

The small point of contact feels like a caress along my entire side. “I’d move out and put some distance between us, but my house has been rented.”