“How long are you in the chair?” I ask.

“Another week; then we go to the doctor, and they’re fitting me with a walking boot.”

“We?”

He glances my way as the car stops. “Yes, ‘we.’ You’re my assistant now, Tot. You go where I go.”

He might as well have said, “Welcome to hell.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off a headache, I peek at him from under the curve of my hand. “So what does the assistant part of the job entail?”

“You’re asking that now, after you’ve offered yourself up on a platter?”

“Just answer the question, Macon.”

The edges of his lips curl. It’s not a smile. It looks more like victory. “Get shit done for me, no questions asked. And obviously help me out while I heal.”

I’m surprised at this. Macon never likes conceding weakness. The mere fact that he expects me to aid him is not only surprising; it’s shocking.

“Okay,” I draw out, feeling not relief exactly but as if there’s a tiny spot of light at the end of the tunnel. It doesn’t sound so bad.

It’s going to feel like a yearlong dental visit, and you know it.

“As for cooking,” he says as we move down the hall, “I expect healthy meals. No heavy southern shit.”

I don’t bother telling him that not all southern cooking is heavy. And it certainly isn’t shit. He knows all of this well. He’s just being . . . Macon, trying to get my goat.

“We start shooting again in June,” he goes on, either ignoring or not noticing my side-eye, “and they’ll have a fit if I gain an ounce.”

“Have to keep your ass in tip-top shape for all those screen flashes?”

He pauses, and the air becomes too close as his gaze glides over me, a smile oozing out—smug and heated. “Why, Delilah, have you been watching my ass on screen?”

“No. But Sam has. Can’t say it was enough to keep her around, though, eh?”

His gaze narrows.

What. Are. You. Doing? You can’t antagonize him!

But if I roll over for him completely, I’m as good as dead. It’s a delicate balance, dealing with Macon Saint. So I merely keep my bland smile in place and wait him out, pretend that my chest isn’t tight and that uncomfortable heat isn’t burning my skin.

Thankfully, I’m given a reprieve.

“My room is at the end,” he says. “Your room is here.”

We stop at a door one down from his. I’d been hoping for the other end of the house.

Reading me well, Macon gives an amused look. “You need to be near in case I need something in the night.”

“Seriously? Is this some form of extra punishment?”

Macon’s nose wrinkles in affront. “Jesus, Delilah. I’ve been in a car accident. I need someone nearby. End of story.”

He looks so put out and offended that my shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I’m a little tense.”