Maybe it’s overkill, but at least I look put together yet no nonsense. Unflappable. Professional.

“Who the hell am I kidding?” I yell at the road before me. “It won’t make a lick of difference. I’m so screwed.”

Perspiration tickles my spine as I drive onto a smaller road, heading closer to the shore. Despite all my years living in LA, I haven’t visited this part of Malibu. The narrow coastal road is utterly unfamiliar, but the car navigation informs me that the address Macon texted me is six hundred feet to my left. Of course Macon would live right on the beach.

With a lot of work and a dash of luck, one day I might become a famous chef and be able to afford to live out here. Right now, I couldn’t even rent a guesthouse in this neighborhood.

My lips pinch as I finally turn into a driveway blocked by a big wooden gate. The thing about the Malibu coast is that curb appeal means little more than having a nice garage or a big gate. The true beauty of the houses is saved for the owners. And while most of Malibu is an ever-shrinking strip of space squeezed between the mountains and the ocean, Macon’s property is on a rare bluff of flat land that juts out and curves back toward Los Angeles.

Taking a shaky breath, I edge up to the intercom, noting the cameras placed all around, and press the call button.

Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck.

“Yes?” a man answers. He doesn’t sound like Macon.

Even so, I find myself stuck, lips parted, mouth dry, and not a sound escaping me.

Answer him, dimwit.

No, turn the car around, and run away while you still can.

“Hello?” he asks again. I swear I catch a hint of humor in the question as if the man on the other end is holding in a laugh.

Buoyed by sheer annoyance, I find my voice. “Delilah Baker to see Macon Saint.”

My hands are so sweaty one slips off the steering wheel. I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirt and stare into the dark little eye of the camera. It feels like forever but is probably only a few seconds before the gate slides open.

A long driveway lined with lacy old olive trees beckons me inside. Slowly, I drive along, my heart pounding a steady tattoo against my ribs. A small one-story white house comes into view. I begin to brake but then quickly realize it’s a guesthouse. In the distance looms a far bigger white house that faces the ocean.

“Jesus wept, what a setup.” A laugh escapes me even though I’m not finding anything particularly funny at the moment. But I can’t help myself. If I had to point to my perfect dream house, this would be it.

There are four main styles of houses favored by the wealthy in Southern California. The classic twenties Spanish style, the ornate wannabe French or English manor, the ultramodern, and the craftsman on steroids. Macon’s house is a mix of craftsman and modern, which shouldn’t make sense. But it does.