And I cannot deny that I like his attention. That must make me some sort of sicko to virtually enslave myself just to get more of it. I truly don’t know if I refused to end our arrangement so I wouldn’t be able to leave him, but the fact that I can’t reject the theory outright is distressing.

“Argh.” I groan into the tiled wall of my shower, the hot water pounding on my back doing little to ease my stiff body. “I’m an idiot.”

A great prideful idiot trapped in a net of my own making.

If we didn’t live together, I’d feel safer to explore this new thing between us. I’d have the ability to go to my own corner and lick my wounds if things went south. I don’t have that here. We haven’t even had sex, and it’s awkward as hell.

I hide out in my room for the rest of the day. Damn if I’m not edgy, wanting to seek out Macon’s company. I feel the pull of him as if there’s a hook attached to my breastbone that leads directly to him. I know without being told that he’s in his room just as I am in mine. The side of my body that faces his room is cold, and I find myself rubbing my arm in agitation. By the time the sun sets, I’m downright twitchy.

It’s almost a relief when he texts.

ConMan: I need you.

My stupid mind takes this the wrong way, and my insides flip. But I shake myself out of it.

FearTheTater: Clarification?

You’ll have to come to my room for that ;-)

I bite back a smile. This Macon, the side of the man I never knew before, does not hold grudges. He disarms me at every turn. This Macon is fun. I can’t help but have fun with him.

Don’t winky face me. Answer the question.

Such a hard ass. Fine. I need you to help me.

With?

His voice, sounding oddly hollow, comes from the direction of his room. “Get your peachy butt in here, Tot!”

I text him a reply.

Seriously???

“Completely serious,” he hollers. “I’m not going to shut up until you get in here.”

“Juvenile,” I shout back. Why he can’t come into my room is beyond me. And why it has to be in his room, I don’t know. But it feels like a trap.

“Nonsense,” I mutter to myself, tossing my e-reader aside and hauling my “peachy” butt off my bed.

Macon’s room is like mine on steroids. It’s bigger but still manages to be cozy. He has a fireplace, a glorious affair of cut white stone reaching up the coffered ceiling and a reclaimed-wood mantel. The gas hearth is a line of flickering flames over crushed ceramic coals.