“Tough love, eh?”

“Something like that.” He moves with crisp strides, and it’s not difficult to imagine him taking out bad guys.

I hadn’t thought of Macon needing security. I can’t seem to get my head around the fact that he is famous. As it is, I can barely think about how I’m about to see him for the first time in ten years. I’ll vomit if I do.

“You’re nothing like your sister,” North says suddenly, his eyes on me.

My steps falter. Of course I’m not; anyone with functioning eyes would be able to tell that in one glance. Still, I’m surprised he mentioned it. My estimation of North sinks a bit, and I find myself disappointed.

He grimaces, obviously reading my expression well. “That wasn’t meant as an insult. It just struck me that you’re very different in temperament.”

It becomes clear that Sam has had her hooks in North at some point. Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize the signs—the slight strain in a man’s voice when he speaks of her, the unfortunate mix of disappointment and wistfulness in his eyes.

“And in looks,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I’m the one grimacing. I sound bitter. I’m not, really. I’m simply used to that comparison too.

North’s expression turns solemn. “Yes.” His gaze flicks to my breasts so quickly I might have missed it if I wasn’t looking at his face. Then his eyes meet mine, and he smiles faintly. “Again, that’s not an insult.”

Warmth washes over my cheeks. North is capable of turning on the charm when he wants to. I almost pity any woman who gets a full dose of it.

He appears to remember why I’m here and starts walking again, his back straight and tight, his pace quicker now.

Unfortunately. I’d rather dally here. God, Macon’s going to be pissed. And he isn’t going to go easy on me.

Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here.

I think about Mama’s voice this morning. “I could never give up on either of you; it would be like giving up on myself, losing another piece of myself.”

Yeah. That.

The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that reduced men to obedient puppies.

While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.

At least that’s what I tell myself as North stops by a closed door and knocks.

I’m so worked up at this point that I’m sure my pulse is visibly beating at the base of my neck.