Dear Enemy

Delilah. We react to each other like the vinegar-and-baking-soda experiments we used to do in science class as kids. Even now she brings out the immature ass in me. But the second she walked back into my life, I became aware of two uncomfortable but undeniable facts: I am lonely as hell, and Delilah Baker feels like home.

And now she will be living in mine. It’s both a victory and a calamity waiting to happen.

“Damn.” This is a terrible idea. The woman hates my guts, and rightly so; I was an asshole to her in my youth. I hurt her in ways that make me cringe. She has hurt me in ways she doesn’t even know. We could end up tearing each other apart.

Sharp pain shoots down my leg as I reach over and grab my phone, determined to halt this madness. Her last text looms bright in the darkness: It’s midnight somewhere. I’m in. Are you?

She might as well have said, “I double-dog dare you, Con Man.”

I find myself smiling, my thumb rubbing over the edge of the phone. I should text her back, call it off. I know this. But my fingers don’t move.

I have been on my own for the last ten years. Since becoming Arasmus and inheriting all the bullshit that comes with fame, I locked myself away from all but the most essential contacts. I thought I liked my solitude. There is safety in not having anyone around who really knows me. I can be anyone, as glossy as a well-polished mirror.

And there’s the rub. People see what they want to see, like what they want to like: my money, my fame, my looks. In the end, they see nothing. Delilah won’t be fooled by the exterior shine. She never has been. If that’s a good thing or bad, I’m not certain.

A voice whispers in my head that I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I step away now. For all I know, it could be the devil urging me on. But my gut has gotten me this far, and so I set the phone down.

CHAPTER SIX

Delilah

DeeLight to SammyBaker: I’m cleaning up your mess as usual. If you have any love for me or Mama, you’ll come home.

I should hate the sight of Macon’s house. But I can’t. It’s just too damn beautiful. That I love the house makes me want to kick something—preferably Macon’s tight butt.

Once again, North answers the door. “Good morning, Ms. Baker.”

“Delilah, please.” I step inside and draw in a breath of that lovely lavender-and-lemon scent. Damn it.

“Delilah.”

“Is North your first name or last?” I ask as he shuts the door behind me.

His nose wrinkles, and he seems to hesitate. “First.” He visibly winces before bracing himself. “My full name is North West.”

There are many things I can say, but I’m figuring he’s heard them all.

“North by Northwest is one of my favorite movies.”

North stares at me as if I’m off my rocker before breaking into a wry smile. “Are you messing with me? Did Saint tell you my name?”

“No. Why?”

North shakes his head. “That’s my mother’s favorite movie.”

“Ah. Hence the name?”

“Yep. Unfortunately.”

“Well, I’m named after my great-aunt Delilah, who drowned in a pie.”

North chokes out a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“She was packing up one of her blue-ribbon-winning Strawberry Delights to take to a Monday-night social when she fainted—the doctor thinks she had a problem with low blood sugar—and ended facedown in the pie.”

North blinks. “I . . .”

“Don’t get sucked into one of Delilah’s yarns, North,” Macon suddenly says from the entrance to the hall. “That’s one rabbit hole you don’t want to go down.”

He’s in a wheelchair, which is an unnerving sight. I might think of Macon in terms of ass and hat, but somehow, in my mind, he was always invincible and immune to injury. He’s still an asshat, though.

“It’s not a yarn,” I snap. “It’s the truth.”

He rolls his eyes. “The woman asphyxiated on rhubarb. She didn’t drown in a pie.”

“Poh-tay-toe. Poh-tah-toe.”

“Let’s call the whole thing off,” North finishes with a wink.

I smile.

Macon makes a sound of annoyance. “Don’t you have work to do, North?”

North doesn’t bother looking his way. “No, boss.” His tone isn’t exactly sarcastic, but it’s clear he’s not worried about his job security.

“Then find some,” Macon says blandly. He isn’t even looking at North, but at me. “I told you to bring your things.”

In his instructions, Macon said I needed to pack enough for at least a week. After that, I’d be given an opportunity to return home and gather what I thought I’d need for the year and make arrangements to put my house up for rent if I so chose. I’d wanted to fling my phone.

“My bags are in the car.”

“North can bring them in for you.”

“Aren’t they going to the guesthouse?”