Half-bent over the counter, she’s wearing a tan dress that hugs every delectable curve. Her ass is a thing of beauty. I want to run my hand over it, give that peachy butt a firm slap. It would jiggle so nicely. And she’d probably kick my ass. Then again, maybe she’d be into some light spanking. I want to know this. I need to concentrate.

“Hey,” I say, coming up to stand alongside her. “You doing all right?”

She brushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “I got this.”

“I know you do.” I bend down to kiss her cheek and feel the tension in her.

Delilah grabs hold of my forearm. “Macon . . .” She pauses, hesitating, then takes a breath. “Thank you for this.”

I’m not certain that’s what she really wanted to say, but I’m not going to push it. “There’s nothing to thank.” Caressing the curve of her cheek, I give her a smile of encouragement. “He’s going to love you.”

My throat closes on the words, emotion throwing me off for a second. But she doesn’t notice. Bracing her shoulders, she walks with me to meet our guests.

I shouldn’t have worried. Delilah handles Ronan with a cool confidence that totally belies the case of nerves she showed me. I try to keep track of the conversation, but then one of Delilah’s former catering waitstaff brings out a round of drinks and a tray of little spheres the size of a large marble.

“Gin blackberry bramble and peanut brittle spheres,” Delilah tells us.

I take a sip of the drink. Instantly, I’m back in the South on a summer’s day, eating plump blackberries straight from the bush. The peanut brittle sphere melts in my mouth, reminding me of the cookies Delilah’s mom used to make for us, more savory than sweet. It’s such a strong childhood moment that I swear I can practically feel the sun on my back.

After our drinks, she has us sit, and our first course arrives.

“Oysters topped with watermelon-and-habanero brunoise,” the server says, setting a plate before me. It’s a little work of art.

“The menu tonight,” Delilah tells us, “is a take on what I’m thinking about offering. It’s a compilation of the things I love and hold dear. However, I’d be creating dishes based on the best produce available for the week.”

“As long as you don’t call it farm to table,” Ronan says. “That catchphrase has died a swift death.”

She smiles easily. “I’ll leave you to come up with the new catchphrase. For me, a dish is only as good as its ingredients. It’s my job to start with the best and make them shine in a way that you never expected.”

He’s charmed. Of course he is; she’s brilliant. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”