Beneath me, Macon shifts a bit to get more comfortable. But he doesn’t let me go. “Did you say something about a book?”

My laugh is weak and lazy. “When you distracted me with your sexy pecs? Yes.”

He snorts.

Slowly, I ease off him and pick up the book that ended up on the floor. “It’s my childhood diary.”

Macon’s dark brow quirks high. “Do I want to know?”

Grinning, I crawl back onto his lap and rest my head on his big shoulder. “It’s probably just as you suspect. But I read through it now, and all I feel is a happy fondness. Here, take a look.”

“You sure?” He’s eyeing the diary like it might bite.

“Baby, there is nothing between us now but love. Besides, I added to it, and everything is as it should be.”

Delilah’s Diary

Dear Diary (age 11),

I still do not have a dog. Mama claims I am allergic, and Daddy won’t listen to reason. It’s a conspirisy conpr It’s a sham!

In other news, today I called Macon Saint an ass canal, the most vile and disgusting thing I could think of. I am sorry to say, Mama agreed. Had I known she was behind me, I would have waited until later to call Macon that.

Now my fingers are pruny and smelly because I spent the day polishing all the silver—including old Grandma Belle’s holiday service ware. The only justice is that Macon had to polish it too because Mama heard him call me a fuck-munch.

But it’s still not fair because Sam—who started the whole thing by blabbing to Macon that Mama’s oyster soup gave me diarit diarrhea—got away free as a bird. SHE had a clear view of the den’s doorway and shut her big mouth as soon as she saw Mama coming.

I don’t know who I hate worse, Sam or Macon.

Sam.

Macon.

Both.

No, definitely Macon.

Dear Diary,

Today was the day I planned to enter my first pie in the summer church bake off. I’ve been waiting forever to be thirteen—the official minimum age for entrants. Mama convinced me to wear the sky-blue eyelet sundress that has been hanging in my closet since spring, and I had to admit that it looked quite pretty on me.

I soon came to regret my decision. Upon seeing me, Macon Saint, shithead and ass face, asked (in a loud voice) if I was smuggling baby bananas under my top. Right in front of Jonas Hardy—Macon knew I had a crush on him. Stupid Sam tells him everything.