I feel small and irritable and suddenly don’t want to hear the sound of her voice. I can’t believe I’ve been anxious to get a call from her. “Just get your ass back here with the watch.”

“I will,” she promises with a drawl. “And you remember your past. Remember who Macon is.”

She hangs up, and I’m left holding the phone in my numb hands. Remember who Macon is? Or who he was?

Sam’s phone call festers. I try to shake it off, but her ugly words keep playing over in my head. I can’t rid myself of them. They remain even when I go to my happy place, the kitchen. They ring around my head like an unfortunate earworm as I chop onions, my eyes smarting and watering.

“Shake it off,” I mutter, patting at the corner of my weeping eye with my sleeve. “They’re just words. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“Are you crying?” Macon stands at the entrance to the kitchen, a frown on his face. For a moment, I simply look at him, remembering the bronze of his skin, beaded with water, the way he came in my hand with a groan that seemed ripped from the deepest part of his wide chest.

My face blazes with heat. He must notice; a slow, lopsided smile unfurls. Those inky eyes hold tenderness and mischief.

“Onions.” I set the knife down and go to wash my hands and splash my face with cool water. “This one is particularly fierce.”

He takes his time walking over to me, that small pleased smile playing on his lips. And here I am, jumpy as a cat with fleas. Stopping before me, he reaches out and gently touches my cheek, catching a water droplet I missed when I dried my face. I try not to flinch. But I do.

The frown returns. “You all right?”

I know he’s asking about more than the damn onions. “I’m good.”

The frown remains. “Something is on your mind.”

It isn’t a question. That jumpy, twitchy, ugly feeling grows nearly intolerable.

“What is it?” he asks in a low, concerned voice.

It’s Sam. She called and burst my happy, horny bubble. She cut me off at the knees and reduced me to that insecure teenager.

Sam called.

I’m not supposed to tell you.

I hate her.

I hate that I wonder.

I hate that I’m doubting you.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I see those thoughts racing behind those pretty eyes, Tot. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Macon . . .” I lick my lips.

His soft gaze shutters. “Are you regretting last night?”

“No,” I whisper. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly,” he repeats flatly.

“I’m just having a moment.” I stare down at the counter. My sister eviscerated my self-confidence. “I’ll be okay in a bit. Just . . . give me some space.”