Dear Enemy

ConMan: Why am I waiting?

Rolling my eyes, I text back.

DeeLight: Is this like one of those “What’s the sound of one hand clapping” riddles?

Riddle me this, what’s the sound of Macon dialing 911 to report a robbery?

Asshat. Seriously, he could convey a little sense of hesitation or meekness today.

You only get three chances to hold that threat over my head. After that, I’m making a jerk-off gesture.

I don’t know if Macon takes his drink with a straw or not, but earlier I found a massive silly straw in a drawer. I plunk it in the glass as his text comes in.

Am suddenly dying to see you make this gesture. Get up here so I can use up my threat quota.

“Here” being an upstairs den at the far corner of the house with a killer view and a small corner cupola that boasts a wall of windows. Within a nearly 360-degree viewing area, Macon sits behind a desk. He waves me in and keeps talking to someone.

“I’m fine, Karen. The bruising around my face is nearly gone.” He takes his smoothie without a glance but then pauses when the red silly straw bops him on the nose.

Attempting to be the picture of innocence, I bite the inside of my lip when he glares up at me. He holds that glare as his tongue snakes out and snares the end of the straw. It should look ridiculous, Macon sucking hard on a twisty, loopy kid’s straw, his lean cheeks hollowing out from the force he needs to get to his smoothie. But it doesn’t.

I feel each tug along with the straw.

Craziness. Utter insanity.

I move to go, but he holds up a hand and points to a leather-and-chrome armchair by the window. Apparently I am to sit and stay. Bah. I cross my legs and lightly bounce my top leg with impatience.

“I have a new assistant,” he says to Karen, giving me a withering glance as he tosses the straw into a trash can. “Yes, another new one.” His lips curve just slightly.

My leg swings with more vigor. Macon’s gaze zeroes in on it, and his lids lower a fraction. I find myself rethinking my decision to wear jean shorts that draw attention to my bare legs and go still.

It doesn’t stop him from staring. His gaze turns slumberous as he leans back in his chair. “Hmm?” he murmurs into the phone.

The muscles along my inner thigh draw tight, and I uncross my legs, switching to the other leg. It’s too hot in this damn room without curtains to mute the morning sun beating down on my shoulders and the tops of my breasts. I fight the urge to fan myself.

A slow smile unfurls over Macon’s lips, and he raises his head until our eyes meet. “Oh, I won’t be having any problems with her.”

On pain of death, his expression implies.

With deliberation, I lift my middle finger and pretend to put lipstick on with it. His smile turns positively gleeful, his teeth catching on his lower lip as if to rein it in. “Call it instinct,” he says to Karen. And then he faces the ocean, taking another long drink of his smoothie.

Karen says something that makes his nostrils flare in clear irritation. “For fuck’s sake, no.” Another pause. “Because she’s my employee and just . . . no.”

He sounds so offended that my insides pinch. Because it doesn’t take a genius to know Karen is asking if we’re screwing each other. Macon rubs his forehead. “She’s not an actress.” He huffs out a truly entertained laugh. “Believe me, she wants no part of this life. You’ll understand when you meet her.”

The smug assurance in his tone rubs over my skin like grit.

“No more questions,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “I’m going now.”

Cool quiet falls over the room, and I content myself with listening to the waves crash into the beach. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of asking why he wanted me to listen in on his conversation. We haven’t faced each other since the awkward way we ended things last night. Which is fine—employers aren’t supposed to hang out with the help.

But now Macon sits in his chair like the lord of the manor, his gaze boring into me so hard it prods at my breastbone like a pesky finger, daring me to look back at him. I don’t give in to the urge.

He finishes his drink before speaking. “You put something different in this.”

“It’s arsenic. I’d have gone the powdered-cookie route, but you’re on a diet.”

Amusement gleams darkly in his eyes.

“That mouth.” From under the fringe of his lashes, he assesses me, the tip of his long finger idly stroking his lower lip. “I’d thought my memory exaggerated the sass that mouth is capable of. Clearly not.”