“Oh, I’m sure my hand on his knee clinched that.” He winks when I laugh, but something in my tone must give me away because his expression quickly turns concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Nothing I can fix, and nothing I wanted him to notice, at any rate. I’m not going to complain to him, and it irritates me that I let any cracks show. I try to make my voice lighter. “I’m a little tired; that’s all.”

It doesn’t fool Macon for a second. His eyes move over my face as if he can somehow read my mind if he looks hard enough. “No, something is bothering you. Tell me what it is. Please.”

It’s the gentle “please” that gets me. At this point, evading his questions will only make him latch on and try to weed them out, thinking the worst.

“I feel out of place here,” I confess in a low voice.

The tense line of his shoulders relaxes, and he ducks his head so his lips are closer to my ear. “I do too. Everybody here does.”

I cut him a disbelieving glance. “Don’t patronize me, Macon. It isn’t necessary. You fit here like hand to glove. And I sincerely doubt your colleagues feel out of place.”

“You’d be surprised,” he says dryly, but he lets out an expansive breath. “Let me clarify, because you’re both right and wrong. There are times when I am working, and I feel like I’ve finally found my place, my people. And that feeling? It’s fucking awesome, Tot. A relief. But right on the heels of that is this dread that it can all go away in an instant. Unless you’re absolute Hollywood royalty, most of us here never truly feel at ease.”

“That’s how it is to be a chef as well.”

Dark eyes sharpen as he peers down at me, and a cloud forms over his fine features. “You’re miserable doing this, aren’t you?”

I can’t deny it, so I look away. Between the folds of my skirt, his hand finds mine. He links our fingers together, giving me a slight tug so that I have to look up at him. I see the remorse in his eyes. “You are.”

“Macon . . .” I push away all my self-pity, ashamed that I let it show. “I’m fine.”

“No.” His grip becomes a little tighter. “You’re not. Let’s end this deal. Reopen your catering business, and do functions again. You can use the kitchen at the house until you get back on your feet.”

“No,” I say firmly. “We had a deal. I’m not running scared. I can take it.”

His brows lower. “I don’t want you to ‘take it.’ I was a dick to agree to any of this when I knew I was only doing it to give you a hard time.”