“Why would I lie?” I huff out a laugh, remembering the fine pain of that childhood embarrassment. “Can you imagine my horror, going hard as a pike upon seeing the shape of my greatest nemesis’s tits?” I put my hand to my heart. “God, you have no idea. I was like Pavlov’s dog after that. One sight of your breasts, and there I went, fucking hard as a rod no matter where I was. Made me grumpy as hell.”

I’m still like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to her. She just has to be around, and I’m drooling. Like a damn dog.

“You . . .” She sucks in a breath. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this.” She starts to smile. “Mrs. Lynch never forgave me, you know. She used to call me that horrid banana-pie girl and then scuttle off in the other direction as though I was preparing for another pie launch.”

I burst out laughing, doubling over. “Oh, shit . . .” I try to stop. Honestly, I do. But my mind keeps replaying that moment in slow motion. Evil old Lynch’s pinched mouth going wide in horror, the wet slap of pie as it hit her face. I lose it again, and I hold up a hand as if to say, “Give me a moment here.”

“You’re just asking for a dunk in the pool at this point,” Delilah deadpans.

I wipe my watering eyes and straighten. “Okay, I’m good.”

She raises a brow, and my lips quiver. Delilah gives me a grudging smile, her hands going to her hips. The action thrusts out her breasts. And all my good intentions fly out the door.

“You’re staring at my boobs.” Her tone is wry but somehow not insulted.

“I am aware.” I should be sorry, but I’m not. “I’m staring at your peachy butt, too, if we’re being totally honest here.”

“Macon.”

I glance up at her. “Your body is fucking luscious, Delilah. Bitable in the best way possible. A juicy peach, a sweet apple covered in caramel. Do you know how much I’d kill for a caramel apple right now, Tot? And me stuck on this hell diet. It’s a torment, I say.”

“I don’t think this is very professional,” she says weakly.

“I should hope not.” God, I love teasing her. Her whole body lights up when I do it. Foreplay. Does she realize that’s what we’re doing? “I was just thinking—”

“What did I say about you thinking?” she warns.

“They don’t look like bananas now, Tot.”

“Oh my God, you’re terrible.” But she’s grinning now. Fighting damn hard not to show it, but definitely grinning.

“More like peaches. Ripe, juicy peaches.”

She sways in my direction before catching herself doing it and shifting her weight. “You called my butt peachy.” A dry complaint. “My boobs can’t be peaches too.”