In his instructions, Macon said I needed to pack enough for at least a week. After that, I’d be given an opportunity to return home and gather what I thought I’d need for the year and make arrangements to put my house up for rent if I so chose. I’d wanted to fling my phone.

“My bags are in the car.”

“North can bring them in for you.”

“Aren’t they going to the guesthouse?”

“Sorry, Tot. You’re not getting the guesthouse. North lives there.”

Frustration blooms like a hot rash. “So? Didn’t Sam live there as well?”

Macon’s dark eyes narrow to slits. “You’re not Sam. You’re staying here.”

I can’t let it go. “Why?”

Red washes over his cheeks. “Because I said so.”

The words ring through the house, startling us both, I think. He blinks as if coming out of a fog. I, on the other hand, huff out a humorless laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

“Be careful I don’t spank you.”

Unwelcome heat touches my thighs, and I shift my weight to keep from clenching them. “Try. It.”

We glare at each other from across the way. I’m fairly certain we’re both playing a game of chicken with this arrangement, seeing who will cave first.

North claps his hands together. “Okay, children. I’m going to bring Delilah’s bags in. I want to see happy faces when I return. Happy. Faces.”

Macon doesn’t take his eyes from me. “Piss off, North.”

North shakes his head. “Your funeral, man.”

He leaves us alone.

Macon’s gaze darts over my face. “You gonna be a pain in the butt the whole time?”

“Only when you act like an ass.”

His lips quirk. “Kind of feeling the urge to pull one of your pigtails right now.”

I won’t smile. Nope. No way. “I’m not wearing pigtails.”

A husky note enters his voice. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He snorts lightly. “Come on. I’ll show you around.” He touches a knob on his armrest, and the wheelchair turns around.

I catch up and walk alongside him. Macon glances up at me and frowns. “Don’t know if I like you looming over me.”

“Now you know how I felt all those years,” I say happily. In high school, Macon was always at least five to six inches taller than me. He looks larger now, and I’m guessing he probably tops me by a foot when he’s standing.

He grunts and stops at a set of doors. “Hit the button, will you?”

I do as asked. “An elevator? That’s convenient.”

“It’s ridiculous in a two-story house,” he admits with a touch of self-deprecation. “But the previous owner was an artist. She painted massive canvases and didn’t trust them to be taken down the stairs. Her one request of the house was that it had an extrawide elevator.”

Ah, the whims of the rich. Want an elevator in your seaside mansion? No problem.

A small click and a light on the panel announces the car. I open the doors and slide back an inner door. Macon rolls in, and we’re soon riding upward.