Dear Enemy

To combat the awful quiet, I start singing “Comfortably Numb” again, snickering between lyrics because I know how goofy I sound.

“Are you singing Pink Floyd?”

Macon’s deep voice coming from the dark has me yelping loudly. I spin so fast I have to grab one of the columns that frame the great room so I don’t fall on my ass.

Macon sits in a low-slung armchair by the window, the light of the moon shining down, turning him into a picture of grays and whites. His dark eyes glitter as he stares at me.

“Jesus wept.” I press a hand to my pounding chest. “You scared the spit out of me.” Literally. I think I spit. I wipe my mouth just in case. I don’t acknowledge the little happy flips my insides are making at the sight of him. My body is a stupid traitor to my will.

Macon doesn’t move. “Where have you been?”

It’s not quite a demand, but there is a certain sharpness to his tone that gives me pause. I walk past him and go into the kitchen to help myself to a glass of cold flavored water. I take a long drink before I return to him.

“I went out for dinner.”

One of his thick brows lifts. “Must have been someplace nice.” His gaze glides over my body. “Like your dress, Tot.”

Why that makes me feel naked, I can’t say. My knees are weak, and I throw myself into the corner of the couch, all elegant grace. “I went to Jia’s.”

This time both his brows lift. “I think I’ve underestimated you.”

A soft snort escapes me. I could let him think I have some magic clout that gets me into exclusive restaurants whenever I want, but I’m too buzzed to lie. “I’m friends with the owners.”

“Jia and Jose?” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never met them. Ate at their restaurant, but they weren’t there that night. Food was almost as good as yours.”

My snort is much louder now. “Flattery will not get you a smoothie at sunrise tomorrow.”

His smile is thin. “It is tomorrow, and I’m sleeping in.”

All at once, I remember that he isn’t supposed to be here. My head lolls on the couch cushion as I peer at his still frame in the shadows. “Why are you here?”

“I live here,” he says in that same low, slightly off voice.

“I thought you were going to be out.”

Macon looks away, giving me his tight profile. “I did go out, remember? Now I’m home.”

Elusive ass. He knows what I’m asking. I roll my eyes and trace the condensation on my glass before taking another long drink. Hydration is key. “Bad date?” I venture. God, let it be. No, that isn’t nice.

The corner of his mouth makes a bitter curl. “I wouldn’t call it a date exactly.” Macon’s gaze collides with mine. “Timothy set it up. Anya is a star in another series the network is promoting. They thought it would look good for us to be seen together.”

Anya Sorenson, beautiful, bright, looks like a supermodel. Every interview I’ve seen her in, she appears genuinely intelligent and kind. Right. Great.

Macon’s gaze slides away again, going back to some distant point only he can see. “Anya was into it . . . willing.” He waves a lazy hand as if to fill in the blanks.

I fill them in just fine. A burning sensation rises up my chest. I think it’s heartburn. “I don’t know why I need to hear that.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I don’t fucking know either, Delilah.” With a sigh, he leans his head back and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Ordinarily, Macon is in perfect control. That he seems to be sliding off kilter worries me. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Why? Do I look drunk?” He smiles as though the thought amuses him.

“You’re sitting in the dark,” I say shortly. “Making vague and morose statements. It’s a little creepy.”

Macon cuts me a glare. “Didn’t feel like going to sleep.”

“Okay, sure.”

His glare grows glacial. “And you weren’t home.”

“Were you waiting up for me?” I don’t know how I feel about that. Mushy? Nope. I’m too sick at the thought of Macon and “willing” Anya to be mushy.

He frowns and looks away. “No.”

Liar.

“So what? You gave Anya a ride on the Macon train and then were so exhausted you had to sit here in the dark, thinking deep thoughts?”

“The Macon train?” he chokes out, then shakes his head. “Fuck, Delilah, your mouth . . .” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “There were no Macon rides.”

I let that settle, but my insides continue to flip and flutter. “Why not?”

Oh my God, shut up, drunken Delilah.

He looks as surprised at the question as I am. But then his expression grows cagey. “I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t want to have sex with a hot and willing woman?”