“Jesus wept.” I press a hand to my pounding chest. “You scared the spit out of me.” Literally. I think I spit. I wipe my mouth just in case. I don’t acknowledge the little happy flips my insides are making at the sight of him. My body is a stupid traitor to my will.

Macon doesn’t move. “Where have you been?”

It’s not quite a demand, but there is a certain sharpness to his tone that gives me pause. I walk past him and go into the kitchen to help myself to a glass of cold flavored water. I take a long drink before I return to him.

“I went out for dinner.”

One of his thick brows lifts. “Must have been someplace nice.” His gaze glides over my body. “Like your dress, Tot.”

Why that makes me feel naked, I can’t say. My knees are weak, and I throw myself into the corner of the couch, all elegant grace. “I went to Jia’s.”

This time both his brows lift. “I think I’ve underestimated you.”

A soft snort escapes me. I could let him think I have some magic clout that gets me into exclusive restaurants whenever I want, but I’m too buzzed to lie. “I’m friends with the owners.”

“Jia and Jose?” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never met them. Ate at their restaurant, but they weren’t there that night. Food was almost as good as yours.”

My snort is much louder now. “Flattery will not get you a smoothie at sunrise tomorrow.”

His smile is thin. “It is tomorrow, and I’m sleeping in.”

All at once, I remember that he isn’t supposed to be here. My head lolls on the couch cushion as I peer at his still frame in the shadows. “Why are you here?”

“I live here,” he says in that same low, slightly off voice.

“I thought you were going to be out.”

Macon looks away, giving me his tight profile. “I did go out, remember? Now I’m home.”

Elusive ass. He knows what I’m asking. I roll my eyes and trace the condensation on my glass before taking another long drink. Hydration is key. “Bad date?” I venture. God, let it be. No, that isn’t nice.

The corner of his mouth makes a bitter curl. “I wouldn’t call it a date exactly.” Macon’s gaze collides with mine. “Timothy set it up. Anya is a star in another series the network is promoting. They thought it would look good for us to be seen together.”

Anya Sorenson, beautiful, bright, looks like a supermodel. Every interview I’ve seen her in, she appears genuinely intelligent and kind. Right. Great.

Macon’s gaze slides away again, going back to some distant point only he can see. “Anya was into it . . . willing.” He waves a lazy hand as if to fill in the blanks.