I nearly jump out of my skin when a deep masculine voice bids, “Come in.”

North opens the door and then steps back to give me room to enter. For a brief and shining second I envision myself turning tail and running for the nearest window like the Cowardly Lion. But I step into the wizard’s lair instead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Delilah

There are times in life when everything sort of slows down, all your senses go on high alert, and you see everything from a distance.

This is one of them. I’m taking in the whole of the room at a glance—the retractable glass wall that’s open to the ocean view; the built-ins with a gold Emmy sitting among various books and decorative items; the massive desk cluttered with books, papers, and dishes; and him.

His presence rubs over me like a pervasive itch that won’t go away.

Sitting behind his desk, he’s turned my way, staring at me as I stare at him. I take him in as a whole: his big muscled body—the sheer physicality of him. And I see the details. The details are what throw me.

“You look like hell,” I blurt out.

His eyes lock onto me, and I’m momentarily hurtled back to being seventeen again. Those eyes, deep set and carob brown under black brows that are straight, angry slashes. When he was a kid, those eyes somehow managed to appear angelic and sweet with their long curling lashes and shining depths. Now he resembles an Old Testament archangel, all fierce judgment and wrath—the type who smites wrongdoers with one look.

“Well, hello, Ms. Delilah Baker,” he drawls. “So nice to see you too.”

“Sorry.” I force a smile, though it feels strained on my face. “That was rude of me.”

He waves an idle hand. “No, no, do go on. It’s been years since anyone has insulted me to my face. I’d say about ten years.”

“Surely I haven’t been the only one to insult you in all this time.”

Macon’s lush wide mouth, surrounded now by stubble so thick it’s nearly a beard, pulls in a half smile. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And I do look like shit, so . . .”

He doesn’t really. He’s still Macon, brutally handsome and possessing far too much charisma for one man. He’s just beat up as all hell and in a wheelchair. A cast encases his left leg from the knee to his foot. Another soft cast is on his right wrist. He wears his hair cropped so short it borders on militaristic, but it also highlights the clean bone structure of his face and the fact that his right eye is black and blue and slightly swollen. Various scrapes mar his tan skin, and a line of surgeon’s tape bisects his right brow.

“What happened to you?” I step farther into the room.

“Car accident. Broken fibula, sprained wrist, two bruised ribs, and a gash over my eye, if we’re being exact.” He appears to find his list of injuries amusing, but I don’t.