Macon’s direct gaze has always been powerful, capable of evoking a visceral reaction: annoyance, rage, suspicion, resentment—anticipation, amusement, attraction, craving. Today, he looked at me with intent. With lust.

If it were anyone else but him, I’d already have dragged the man upstairs. But it is Macon. And this . . . lust, this need for him is weird for me. I don’t know what to think. Sex has always been about pleasure for me. I have no doubt sex with Macon would be incredible. But having sex with Macon would mean opening myself to every vulnerability I have. Never mind the fact that we have to live together afterward—with the knowledge that we’ve been thrust together by Sam’s theft.

Our relationship is based on a mutually uncomfortable deal and an unexpected attraction. Sexual release is fleeting, while the awkwardness of regret can linger like a bad odor. Walking away from him was the right thing to do.

Only it isn’t so easy to shake. It’s as though my insides have outgrown my skin, leaving me bloated and tight. I’m twitchy and irritable and wanting to burn off this unstable energy within me.

Damn that man. Damn his six-foot-two canvas of tightly packed muscle and unfairly gorgeous obsidian eyes. Damn him for not staying in the mold of ex-enemy and current employer but insisting on blurring the lines and upending my nicely ordered world.

God, I nearly moaned when he wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, revealing the hard slab of his lower abs. Lord, but he’s beautiful, nicely defined but big and strong. A fighter’s body. My mouth went dry at the sight of the V and those glorious abs, swooping down and disappearing behind the low line of his sweats.

The weather isn’t helping my mood any. The sun blares hot overhead. Growing up in the South, the term hot meant something entirely different than it does in LA. There, hot meant feeling like you were walking into a sauna whenever you stepped outside. Here, hot is brighter, intense sun and heat that makes your skin tight. It’s rare to feel that sort of heat in Malibu. Usually, the ocean breeze cools a body down. But today, nothing stirs up on the bluffs.

I close my eyes and try to take my mind off everything. A shadow blocks out the sun, and I squint one eye open to find Macon looming over me, his dark gaze traveling over me in lazy perusal.

The bikini I’m wearing is modest by today’s standards, and yet I feel utterly naked, all too aware of my nipples still stiff from our last conversation. Macon’s attention slides down to my belly and thighs.