“I needed to get in front of you.” I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a mother hen, but the thought of him toppling down these stairs and becoming more battered—or, God forbid, breaking his damn neck—makes my blood run ice cold. Not that I think he’d appreciate the concern.

Storm clouds gather over his face. “And why is that?”

“So I can break your fall if you tumble.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently. His skin goes ruddy, his mouth working as if he’s lost his voice. But then it booms out. “Of all the stupid, stubborn, foolhardy—”

“Stop ranting. It’s bad for your blood pressure.” I’m in front of him now. All is well. At least if we can get safely to the sand.

His nostrils flare. “You honestly think you could catch me? Delilah, I’d squish you like a grape if I fell.”

“I’m hearty. I can hold you up.”

“You’re a grape,” he repeats. “A succulent little grape.”

“There you go again, comparing me to food.”

Dark brows snap together as an evil light enters his eyes. “Yep. And one day I’m going to eat you right up. Now move your butt. I want off these stairs.”

He dogs my steps the rest of the way down as if somehow it’s his responsibility to make sure I don’t fall. Typical male. I’m shaking my head when we finally reach the sand.

“There,” I say, hands on my hips. “You’re down safely. Now call when you need assistance back up, and I’ll come get you.”

“Call when I . . . ? Oh, for the love of fuck.” He runs a hand over his face as if trying to quell his temper.

That’s my cue to go. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

I take one step, and he’s on me. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says with a dark laugh. “You followed me down here; you’re damn well keeping me company now.”

“You’re too moody for company.”

“Your fault, Tot.”

I dodge, trying to get around him.

He lurches forward, his hand outstretched as if to grasp my elbow.

A few things go wrong. His cane, which he’s reliant on, sinks into the sand—because canes and sand do not mix—and his step bobbles as he tries to correct his stance. I sidestep in the wrong direction, and my foot meets with a slimy lump of seaweed, which causes me to yelp and hop the other way, colliding with Macon’s teetering form.

We go down like timber.