For a long moment, we stand there, me breathing a bit too hard, my chest rising and falling—and Macon staring at me as though he’s never seen me before.

But then he blinks, a slow sweep of those thick lashes. “Did you ever find out who your birth parents were?”

“No.” I lean my butt against the car. “Mama and Daddy offered to help me connect with my birth parents. But I didn’t want to.”

Shaking my head, I sigh and study my sensible black pumps, now chalky with road dust. “I was afraid to open that particular box. What if my birth parents ended up together and could have kept me? What if they had a kid right after me and didn’t give him away? What if they were horrible people? Or what if the story is just so sad it breaks my heart? My list of fears were—are—endless.”

With a shrug, I face Macon. “It seemed better to leave it be. Besides, I have parents. The fact that they did not conceive me doesn’t make them less my parents.”

“They’re great parents,” he says fondly. “I used to wish they were mine.”

“Not anymore?” I tease.

A strange look enters his eyes. “That would make us siblings, so no.”

“Don’t worry; I find the thought of you being my brother just as distasteful.” Not in the way he probably thinks, but I’m not saying that.

“I should hope so.” He gives me a quick wink.

I’m silent for a second. “Maybe someday, I’ll do one of those DNA kits and see what I’m made of.”

“I can tell you that,” he says easily. “Sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“That mean you’re made of puppy-dog tails?”

Macon shakes his head. “Never did understand that one.”

The past suddenly seems both a distant memory and far too close to my skin. Lost in his own thoughts, Macon stares out at the city sprawl all hazy in the sun. Lines of strain mar the skin around his eyes. “I was a dick in high school.”

Another small laugh escapes me. “Yeah, you were.”

“And you were a brat.”

I swiftly look his way. “What?”

Macon’s chin lifts a touch. “As I recall, you said it didn’t matter how good looking I was, I’d always be ugly on the inside. A worthless soul who would never find redemption.”

A thick, heavy feeling pushes through my chest as I meet his gaze and the hurt lingering there. I genuinely wounded the implacable “I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone” Macon Saint. He never showed an ounce of tender emotion when we were kids, never let me see anything other than that perfect facade. But he is now, and I can’t ignore it.

“Damn,” I whisper, clenching my hands. “That was a shitty and overly dramatic thing to say.”