Dear Enemy

My breathing becomes slow and deep, almost as if I’m meditating.

I’d stopped cooking like this—for an individual, for myself. Somehow cooking had become a race, a need to prove my talent, but in doing so, I’d distanced myself from the very thing I love.

“You thinking deep thoughts, Tot?”

Macon’s voice pulls me out of my zone with a jolt. He’s by the kitchen booth, sitting in a patch of amber sunlight that colors his skin deep bronze. It also emphasizes the bruising around his eye and the lines of strain along his mouth. He’s leaning back in the wheelchair with a casual air, but there is a deliberate stillness about him that makes his pose a lie. He is in pain.

“I was actually thinking about how much I love to cook,” I tell him, moving to the fridge.

“Just as long as you’re not contemplating another tomato launch,” he says lightly.

I cut him a glance, and he widens his eyes as if entirely innocent. Snorting, I pull out some milk. “Alas, the tomatoes are all used up. But I do have an extra head of cauliflower, so I wouldn’t tempt me.”

“Ouch.” He holds a hand up in surrender. “I’ll be good now. Cross my heart.” Biting back a smile, he draws an X over his broad chest, then tracks my movements as I collect honey and spices. “You always did flow around a kitchen like you were dancing to music only you could hear.”

My brows lift, a beat skipping in my heart. “Did I?”

“You never noticed?” He runs the edge of his thumb along the armrest of his chair, eyes on the movement. “I used to envy that ease. How you found a place to fit in perfectly.”

“One place,” I correct thickly. “Whereas you fit in everywhere else.”

He takes that in with a short exhale, and his lips press together, caught between a smile and a grimace. “Looks can be deceiving.” He nods toward me. “What are you doing now?”

“Making some turmeric lattes.” I put the spiced milk under the foaming nozzle on the espresso machine and let it froth and heat. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and turmeric fills the air.

“It smells like Thanksgiving,” he says as I pour the lattes into two cups.

“Here.” I offer him one and then take a seat on the booth.

Macon moves up to the end of the table, then takes a sip. “Delicious.”

“Mmm . . . turmeric is an anti-inflammatory, which can help with pain.”

He pauses, eyes meeting mine over the rim of his porcelain cup. “It isn’t that bad.”

“Why do men pretend that they’re not in pain when they clearly are?”

“Because we don’t like being fussed over,” he answers with a small smile.

“See, that’s the strange part about it,” I say, cupping my latte. “Men love being fussed over. I’ve never heard so much whining as when a man is sick.”

A gleam of challenge lights his eyes. “You’re missing the key factor.” Macon sets his cup on the table. A bit of creamy foam clings to the corner of his lip, and he licks it away with the tip of his tongue. “We only do that when we expect our women to kiss and cuddle us, then tuck us into bed.”

I blame the steam from my latte for the hot tightness over my cheeks.

Macon’s gaze zeroes in on them, and his lip curls upward. “So unless you’re offering?”

“Remember the cauliflower, Macon. My aim is stellar.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Didn’t think so.” Then a speculative look enters his eyes. “You got a boyfriend who might give you a hard time over this arrangement?”

I smirk into the well of my cup. “A little late to be asking that, don’t you think?”

“Wouldn’t be my problem,” he says with a shrug. “I’m simply curious.”

“My last relationship ended a few months ago.” Ah, Parker. He’d been perfect on paper: cute without being intimidating, nice without being challenging, a successful marketing exec with his own condo. He liked giving oral and didn’t fall asleep directly after sex. Always a plus. It also had been too easy to let him go, which means it had been the right thing to do.

Macon sits back in his chair and rests his hands on his abs. “What happened?”

“We didn’t suit.”

“Didn’t suit.” He sounds skeptical as if he assumes I’d been dumped and was embarrassed to admit it.

I set my cup down with a sigh. “He snored.”

Macon barks out a laugh. “You dumped a guy because he snored? Jesus, Delilah, everyone snores now and then.”

“I know. I’m not a total jerk.” I glare at him when he raises a brow. “I’m not. You weren’t there. This was not normal. He snored so badly his dog would run out of the freaking room and cower. The neighbor would pound on the walls, for pity’s sake.”