I roll up before the warm, inviting doors of weathered wood, and my breakfast threatens to make itself known once more.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, pressing a hand against my roiling belly.

Outside, the air is fragrant with wild chamomile, sweet lemons, and the salty sea air. The gentle lull of the ocean just beyond seems mocking in the face of my wildly pounding heart. I take a long, easy breath and let it out slowly.

Running a hand through my hair, I prepare to meet my childhood nemesis. God help me.

Macon Saint does not answer the door.

I shouldn’t be surprised. However, I can’t help but stare at the guy who stands before me.

He looks like James Bond, to be honest. Roughly handsome with dark-blond hair, a pouty sneer, and a body that borders on brutish, he’s fairly intimidating. His sky-blue eyes rake me over, but I sense he’s curious, not antagonistic.

“I’m North,” he says by way of greeting.

I put on my visiting smile and hold out a hand. “Delilah.”

He shakes my hand briefly. “I know.”

Of course; he was the one who answered at the gate. And I’m expected. Neither of us mentions that Sam isn’t with me. Maybe he expected that too.

For the thousandth time this morning, I swallow down my irritation with Sam. It won’t help me now.

“Come on in.” North inclines his head in invitation.

I don’t want to. I want to run. The corners of his eyes crinkle as if he knows this well and empathizes. I’m led into a sun-filled front hall, and I’m hard pressed not to gape and sigh.

The interior of Macon’s house is even nicer than the exterior. Perfection. It is space and light and peace. It somehow manages to be grand without feeling empty.

“You find the place okay?” North asks me as we walk past a great room.

“Navigation aids are a lifesaver.”

“True.”

I catch glimpses of a living area with wide weathered plank floorboards, coffered ceilings, creamy-white paneled walls, and beyond, the blue, blue ocean. It’s perfect. A dream.

A nightmare.

I hate that Macon Saint, a.k.a. the devil, gets to live here, that he gets to look out these floor-to-ceiling windows every day. I hate that I’m jealous.

The house is extremely quiet and smells faintly of timber and citrus. Every few feet, an ocean breeze drifts through the open windows and teases the ends of my hair. We pass a dining room and a glass-walled wine room filled with bottles.

I imagine a drunk Macon sprawled on the floor, deliberating which wine to try next, and suppress the urge to snicker.

“Are you a friend of Macon’s?” I ask, partly to fill the silence that’s getting to me and partly because I’m genuinely curious.

“Friend?” North seems to ponder the question, then glances my way. “Yes. But I’m also his temporary bodyguard and personal trainer.” His expression turns devious. “So he’s not allowed to play the friend card when I’m busting his butt.”