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.

The assistant aspect of my job isn’t the greatest; I’m either shopping, picking up Macon’s meds and whatever else catches his fancy, or bringing meals. But mostly I field his calls. So many calls. And Macon doesn’t really want to accept any of them. I’ve become the queen of giving lame excuses.

His issues aside, there is one personal issue I have to manage, and fairly quickly. I hunt Macon down and find him in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee.

“I have a problem,” I say without preamble.

“Oh? Is it sex related?” With a brow waggle, Macon leans against the countertop. He’s tall enough that his butt rests on the top of it. The perfect height that, if he wanted to, he could set a woman on that cool marble, spread her legs, and . . .

What is wrong with you? Stop thinking about sex, you hussy. A shudder moves over my shoulders, and I push those thoughts away. Push, push, push. So many unwanted thoughts. It’s getting crowded in my mind now, harder to hide away from things I don’t want to address.

“Hardly. My mother keeps texting me. She wants to know about my new job and is asking questions.”

“So answer her.” He pours me some coffee and slides it my way. “Or are you having trouble with what you should say?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll tell her . . . something. I’m not sure what at the moment, but it’ll come. Thing is, I owe her a birthday lunch.”