Dear Enemy

Macon’s jaw bunches, the tendons along his thick neck standing out in sharp relief. He swallows hard, then visibly releases his tension. “I don’t want to hurt your mom. But Sam is a thief. She stole documents from me, personal information.” His dark eyes flash with rage. “People got hurt.”

“Who?” I choke out.

“Does it matter?” he snaps, then blows out a breath. “Point is, she causes destruction everywhere she goes. And I’ll be damned if she weasels out of it this time.”

Sam’s deeds aren’t mine, but I’m so ashamed of her right now I feel covered in dirt. “Perhaps a payment plan?”

“Hmm . . .” His index finger rasps along his jaw. The stubble on his face only serves to draw attention to his lips and the soft curve of them. I can’t tell if the near beard is intentional or if he hasn’t been able to shave since his accident. “You owned a popular catering business.”

It’s not a question but a statement. One that skitters along my spine. “How do you know that?”

There’s a hint of censure in his expression as if I ought to know the answer already. “I looked you up. Stanford University, majoring in art history, until you dropped out junior year and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. Internships in Paris for a year, then in Catalonia the next. Worked at Verve and Roses in New York City before moving back to Los Angeles three years ago to open up your own business.”

“Jesus.” My skin feels too tight for my face. “It’s just creepy you dug up that much. You realize this?”

Macon shakes his head in reproach. “It’s on your website, Tot.”

And now I’m cringing. “Right. Forgot about that. Still invasive, though.”

He simply hums in that irritating, supercilious way of his. “You think I wouldn’t look into your life when I was trusting you to bring back my mother’s watch?”

“Technically, I was supposed to bring back Sam, not the watch.”

“Bang-up job on that.”

“Ass.”

He allows a ghost of a smile before it fades. “Why did you close your business last week?”

“It’s really none of your business.”

Unfazed, he continues to assess my whole life. “By all accounts, it was extremely successful. Hell, over the past year, I had at least three people suggest you for events.”

God. He knew about me being here for that long? And obviously didn’t want to employ my services. That stings. Though it shouldn’t. We parted as enemies, after all.

“Yes, it was successful,” I snap. Until I closed shop, I had a dozen employees and a full client list. I made good money, though with the crazy high-priced cost of living in LA, making payments on my house and on the little industrial kitchen I leased for business, I still lived on a budget. That’s all right. Everything is forward movement, inching up bit by bit. I’ll get to the top eventually. “My decision to close wasn’t financial.”

Macon doesn’t appear to believe me. “Were you short on overhead to keep it open?”

His tone implies all sorts of things that have my gut prickling.

“If you’re suggesting that I somehow worked with Sam to rip you off for the price of a watch—”

“Funny how your mind goes right to that.”

“Oh, don’t play coy. Of course it does when you’re sitting there giving me that raised brow and playing Mr. Detective.”

He simply stares. With that damn raised brow.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need money. I offered you fifty thousand dollars, didn’t I?”

“Why did you close it, Delilah?”

“Because I’m moving on,” I blurt out.

Both his brows go sky high with that one.

Damn it, I sound like I’m skipping town. I stifle the urge to squirm. “I’m going on a tour of Asia to learn new techniques and recipes.” Unless he takes the money. Then I’m shit out of luck and going back to catering.

Macon sits back in his chair and continues to run the tip of his finger along his jaw. There are too many things going on behind those dark eyes. “How are you going to fund your trip?”

No way am I explaining that. Not a chance.

But he knows. It’s there in his expression, the way it softens just a bit before twisting as though he’s disappointed in me.

With a sigh, he rests his hands over his flat belly. “You don’t have a job, so you can’t pay me back.” Right. Damn it. I open my mouth to say . . . something, anything, but he continues. “Save your money, and take the trip.”

Despite knowing his refusal was coming, my insides plummet with dread. “Sam will return eventually. She always does. Just give her a little more time.”

A long-suffering sigh escapes him. “No.”

“Why this urgency?”

“Because I don’t believe she’ll return,” he snaps.

“There has to be a way.”

“There is—you just don’t like it.”

At an impasse, we both fall silent. The chair beneath him creaks as he shifts his considerable weight. Not that he’s hefty; the man is pure muscle and decidedly bigger than he was in high school. At seventeen, Macon had the physique of a model, lean and lithe. He’s still lean, but now he looks like he could play tight end in the NFL. I wonder idly if he built his body up to fit his character, Arasmus, the sword-wielding Warrior King.