Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
The expression on Delilah’s face is one I haven’t seen before. It almost looks like gratitude. I don’t know what to do with that. She shouldn’t feel grateful. I’m the one holding her back. The knowledge wraps itself around my throat and squeezes. She shouldn’t be here in Sam’s place. I should let her go. I should say it. But I can’t seem to make my mouth form the words.
Delilah takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. “In a weird way, being here has helped put things into perspective.”
“What do you mean?” I ask through stiff lips.
She tilts her head back and sighs. “A chef has to discover who she is and how she wants to express that to the world. What is the story she wants to tell?” Her big soft eyes meet mine. “I closed the shop because I realized I didn’t exactly know the answers to all that.”
“And being here helps?” I want it to be true, but I can’t believe it. I’m a hindrance, not an asset.
“I don’t know if help is the right word,” she drawls with slight humor. “More like I’m learning about myself through adversity.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
Her laugh is light and oddly carefree. “Don’t look so pained. It was my choice.”
Sadly, that doesn’t help a bit.
“And when this is done?” The thickness in my throat swells, making my words rough. “Will you still go on that tour?”
She worries her bottom lip with the edge of her teeth. “You know, for the first time in years, I’m not looking forward. I’m just concentrating on right now.” She appears to find this surprising, almost funny, if her huff of laughter means anything. “I don’t want to think about the future.”
In that we differ. For the first time in years, all I see is the future. It’s dark and empty, and what scares the ever-loving hell out of me, what makes me get up and leave the kitchen a short while later, is that it will be because she’s gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Delilah
Macon and I do not mention that evening on the porch. Whether this is by silent, tacit agreement or it simply doesn’t register as any big deal to Macon, I don’t know. I can’t ask because, as stated, I refuse to speak of the incident. It’s a struggle not to think about it, either, but I manage. Mostly. There are occasional flashes of memory—how very good it felt to rest on him, how very delicious he smelled, or the heady feeling I got just hearing the deep rumble in his chest when he laughed. Those unfortunate snips of memory I push away as quickly as I can. But they disturb me. Mostly I’m disturbed by how easy it was to cuddle up to him.
But in the dark of night, when I’m huddled under my covers alone and too sleepy to fight it, a trickle of regret will steal over me. It was more than comfortable there with Macon. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. And for an all-too-brief moment, it was perfect.
And then there’s Sam. I know without a doubt I won’t see her until she’s good and ready to be found, that guilt and shame have pushed her into hiding. This is far worse than the time she disappeared for a month after blowing a semester’s worth of tuition on a weekend in Vegas with her girlfriends. Daddy was alive then and mad as hell. She only came slinking back when she ran out of money, and only then—I’m convinced—because she knew Daddy wouldn’t actually kill her.
She’s got no such assurances when it comes to Macon.
Good God, she sold his trust and his literal safety. I know that’s why she left. The watch was probably an impulse theft, a quick way to get cash. Ugh. Everything feels turned on its head. I want to protect my mother’s tender heart as much as ever. But I also want vengeance for Macon. I don’t want to leave him alone in this. If, at age seventeen, someone had told me that I’d feel protective of Macon Saint, I’d have laughed my ass off and called them a liar. Now? Damn it, I don’t know. The hurt and still very vocal girl in me says get the hell out of here and protect yourself. The adult in me says that maybe Macon isn’t so bad. Maybe he could be . . . what? A friend.
I shake my head at that, scared and freaking confused. And I work. Work always helps.
We settle into a routine of sorts. Macon goes about his business—whatever that may be—and I plan my menus and, after getting Macon’s okay, set about planting a vegetable garden along the side of the property. The place already has a good amount of lemon, avocado, and olive trees dotted around. Something I take advantage of as much as I can.