He gives me a measured look that sends a frisson of heat over my chest but then winks, all easy charmer. “Good. I wouldn’t like to think my chef might poison me one day.”

With a gasp, I put a hand on my chest. “I’d never stoop to poison. If I wanted you dead, I’d go for the jugular.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Tot.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Macon

Timothy arrives at the house chipper as fuck, which does nothing to help my headache or my own shit mood.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces, setting a big box on the breakfast nook table.

I follow him farther into the kitchen. “Somehow I doubt that.”

He grins wide. “You’re right.” After taking the lid off the box, he pulls out a fake ax and plunks it on the table before an empty seat. “You’ve got stuff to sign.”

The show and I have made an effort to give away autographed memorabilia for charities. Throughout the year, I host ball games and fun runs for kids or travel around with my costars to meet and greet certain groups, but until I’m up for travel, it’s down to signing things and having Timothy and his crew distribute them.

“Do you think my social media pages are shit?” I find myself asking as I sign whatever he hands me.

He pauses. “Hmmm . . . let me see . . . I do recall saying as much, oh, I don’t know, about fifty times over the past year.”

He delivers his sarcasm so sweetly.

My mouth twists. “I remember.” And I do. Faintly. Problem is, as PR is my least favorite part of the job, I tend to block a lot of things. Timothy knows it and makes it as pain-free as possible. Which is why he’s worth his weight in gold.

He helps himself to a glass of Delilah’s sweet tea and makes an appreciative noise.

“Careful.” I fight a smile. “That’s the real deal and probably about a thousand calories.”

I’m fairly certain Delilah keeps it on hand just to torture me. I snuck a glass yesterday and drank it down like a sailor who found a lost cask of rum. A lump swelled in my throat at that sweet taste of childhood. Specifically, my childhood at the Baker house.

Timothy hesitates, glass halfway to his mouth, then shrugs and takes another sip. “Fuck it. I’ll do extra cardio today.”

I sign a small poster of me dressed as Arasmus. “Some days, I really do miss living in the South, where I could drink my sweet tea in peace.”

“Take me with you,” Timothy says. “Because this stuff is divine. Where’d you get it?”

“Delilah makes it.”

“I like that girl.”

I sign a faux leather gauntlet, writing along the edge of it. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”