“Okay,” I say calmly because now he’s freaking me out. “We’re alone. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Macon’s dark gaze searches my face. “That meal. You were telling the story of us.”

My heart flips within my chest, and I suck in a breath, stunned into silence.

“It was us,” he says. “Every bite. It was our childhood. It was you, me. Mangoes in the market, kissing on the beach, banana cream pie . . .” He steps closer, his chin lifting as though he’s in for a fight. But there’s so much heat and emotion in his eyes that my mouth goes dry. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I hadn’t thought . . .” I trail off, pressing my palm to my overwarm forehead. Yes, I was telling my story through the meal, but he’s right; it was about Macon too. About us. Because he is part of my story. Always. My gaze collides with his. “You understood that? Just by tasting?”

His nostrils flare as he gives a short nod. “With every bite. You made me remember. You pulled me into those memories.” Macon’s head dips, his breath brushing against my lips. “You made me love it.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m exposed. Utterly. Both to him and to myself.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, peering down at me with tense eyes. “All that emotion you put into the food. Did you mean it?”

But he knows. He tasted it, after all. Good food is evocative. I unknowingly put my heart on my freaking sleeve, and I’m not certain how I feel about that. Being this open is new to me.

“Macon—”

His mouth is on mine, his hands tunneling into my hair. He goes all in, taking my mouth like he owns it. Devouring me just as thoroughly as any meal. And I let him. For all my fears, I feel it too, this desperate need, that maybe I won’t get another chance to touch him.

And then it changes, becomes soft and melting. I melt right with it, falling into him. He makes me weak in my knees, in my heart. Maybe I do that to him as well, because he stumbles a bit, his back bumping into the wall, his hands still holding me close.

He pulls away to catch his breath. And I’m the one following, my hand on the column of his neck, my mouth seeking his. I need more. Another taste. The feel of him. With a groan, he dips his head, giving me what I need.

“You’re killing me, Tot. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you.” Hot words against my skin. I swallow them down, lick them up. Savor him. And he lets me, pressing his body against mine as if he can’t get close enough.