Whatever the case, apparently I do not possess a lick of sense when it comes to this girl—this woman. She is all woman now. Her baby softness has melted away, leaving lush curves and elegant lines. Delilah Baker is a ripe peach, with pouty red “fuck me” lips.

“Don’t go there, man,” I groan in the dark. But I am there and can’t escape.

Seeing her walk into my office was a kick to the chest and a hard tug to the balls. She was all jiggle and sway in the best of ways—curvy hips, bouncing breasts, glossy hair floating around her shoulders.

And those red lips, like an exclamation point on the “go to hell, Macon” statement she made with each look my way. I have zero doubt Delilah wanted to nut me the entire time we talked. She never could hide her irritation. But what irritated me, what irritates me still, is her willingness to pay for Samantha’s sins.

I’ve always hated that about Delilah. She would fight me tooth and nail, but with Sam, she would roll over and play doormat.

I can’t exactly blame her in this case. Delilah believes she’s protecting her mother from pain. It’s noble as hell. I’m the asshole taking advantage of it, because I don’t believe for one second that Sam will come back and make amends.

I shocked myself accepting Delilah’s crazy offer, part of my mind screaming to shut the hell up and let the poor woman leave. Let the whole thing with Sam go. But I didn’t. I can’t. I don’t want to examine too closely why I can’t because I’m no longer certain if this is about the watch, Sam, or Delilah.

Delilah. We react to each other like the vinegar-and-baking-soda experiments we used to do in science class as kids. Even now she brings out the immature ass in me. But the second she walked back into my life, I became aware of two uncomfortable but undeniable facts: I am lonely as hell, and Delilah Baker feels like home.

And now she will be living in mine. It’s both a victory and a calamity waiting to happen.

“Damn.” This is a terrible idea. The woman hates my guts, and rightly so; I was an asshole to her in my youth. I hurt her in ways that make me cringe. She has hurt me in ways she doesn’t even know. We could end up tearing each other apart.

Sharp pain shoots down my leg as I reach over and grab my phone, determined to halt this madness. Her last text looms bright in the darkness: It’s midnight somewhere. I’m in. Are you?

She might as well have said, “I double-dog dare you, Con Man.”

I find myself smiling, my thumb rubbing over the edge of the phone. I should text her back, call it off. I know this. But my fingers don’t move.

I have been on my own for the last ten years. Since becoming Arasmus and inheriting all the bullshit that comes with fame, I locked myself away from all but the most essential contacts. I thought I liked my solitude. There is safety in not having anyone around who really knows me. I can be anyone, as glossy as a well-polished mirror.