Dear Enemy

“There is an old saying,” I tell him pleasantly. “Never bite the hand that feeds you.”

Far from being cowed, he seems to be enjoying himself. “I’m kind of partial to ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’”

Those heirlooms are growing more tempting. He catches the direction of my gaze, and he appears delighted.

“Try it,” he says, all silk and promise. “See what happens.”

Oh, but I want to. I can picture little squishy bits of red sliding down his cheeks, tiny seeds clinging to his stubble. But that’s what he wants. Macon loves fighting with me. I have to remember that. I have to ignore that I love fighting him too.

Well, love isn’t the right word. “Derive some sort of weird satisfaction from it” is closer to the truth.

Sucking in a breath, I turn and pull a carton of eggs from the refrigerator, then grab one of the tomatoes. “I’m making you eggs in a cloud with roasted tomatoes, smashed avocado, and herbs.” I flick on the oven before searching for bowls and a frying pan. Oh, Lord, all copper. All French. I’m in love.

Behind, Macon makes one of those expansive noises men draw out when they think women are being unreasonable. “Sounds . . . fluffy.”

“They are.” Everything in his kitchen is in the perfect place, and I easily locate a few bowls and a whisk.

“Delilah.”

My back tightens. I crack an egg and separate the yolk from the whites.

He sighs again. “Countless people call me Saint. Only you call me Macon with that bitter honey voice.”

Bitter honey? The description does something to me that I don’t like, that sets me off-center. Resting my hands on the cool counter, I remain quiet, but I’m no longer actively ignoring him. There is no softness in his tone, but it is thicker now as if the confession wants to stick in his throat before he forces it out. “I like it.”

The words take the starch out of my spine. But I don’t know what to say.

He isn’t done, at any rate. “How about this? You promise not to call me Saint, and I’ll knock three months off the deal.”

I whirl around. “What? Are you crazy? You are. You knocked a damn screw loose in that accident, didn’t you?”

Macon’s grin is wide and devious. “Got you.”

For a second I just stare. Got me? Got me! Blood rushes to my face. “You . . . you . . .” I don’t think. I let the tomato fly.

He isn’t so quick in the chair, and despite me zinging it to the left, the heirloom smashes apart on his shoulder. Doesn’t stop him from laughing his ass off, though.

“Get out of my kitchen, you rat,” I yell, waving my whisk at him.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, still laughing as he spins around and starts wheeling away. He’s almost out of sight when he calls over his shoulder. “Missed you too, Tater Tot.”

Lucky for him, he’s out of range. I grab another egg and get on with my work. But I find myself fighting a smile as I make breakfast.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Delilah

Between creating a menu for the week, shopping, unpacking, and getting my new kitchen in order, I barely hear from Macon the next day. He sends a note to skip breakfast, then has his lunch—a roast-chicken-and-avocado salad with a lemon vinaigrette—in the upstairs den. North comes to collect it, and I go about my business. So far, I’ve been told via text that I’ll start all the administrative duties later. I take the opportunity to drive out to my favorite seafood monger and come home with succulent and glossy shrimps and scallops.

My catering kitchen was a sterile industrial space with stainless counters, concrete floors covered with dull-gray epoxy, harsh fluorescent lights, and rows of overhead steel vent fans that left a constant hum. It was hot when cooking and cool during early-morning prep. Nothing meant for comfort, but everything I needed to feed mass numbers of people.

Macon’s kitchen is warm and inviting. The wide-plank hardwood floors are silky smooth underfoot. Sunlight streams in through the windows and tracks a path across the honed marble counters as the time passes.

There is a cozy wood booth tucked into a corner nook that overlooks the ocean. I sit there, drinking a latte made with the commercial-grade espresso maker, and flick through magazines I’ve neglected for months—never finding the time to relax while running my business.

Surrounded by the sun and the sea and the thoughtful beauty of the house, the long-held tension that has settled deep into my flesh over the past few years starts to lose its grip.

With a slower rhythm than I used in my catering kitchen, I start dinner. There is a different kind of pleasure cooking here. I’m not in a rush. Instead, I sink into the essence of the food, the crisp sound of my knife slicing through red peppers, the fresh clean scent the vegetable gives off as its flesh yields to the blade.