Satisfied, Macon wheels away from the desk. “I’ve sent you a list of tasks for the week. Things may be added at will.”

I find the email in question and read through it. Dry cleaning to be fetched, dress shoes and a couple of suits to be picked up from various shops on Rodeo Drive. He has a mountain of emails he wants me to answer, a calendar to reschedule, calls to return. I have a script I must follow when talking to people, nice little ways to evade giving away any solid details about Macon’s injuries. I’m also expected to purchase a long list of birthday presents for various people and see them personally delivered. None of these things can be purchased online—they’re all from specialty stores around LA. Make that from all ends of LA.

“Seriously,” I say when I’m finished.

The space between his brows wrinkles. “What’s the problem, Tot?”

“I never knew you to be a shopper, Con Man. This reads like a list made by a diva.”

He snorts. “You should be thankful I’m not a diva.”

“And when am I going to find time to cook your meals?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Tucking the phone away, I stand. “Is that all, sir? I’ve got a few menus to plan.”

He grins wide. “Sir. I like that.”

My finger is itching to flip up and say hello again.

He knows it. His dark eyes gleam with anticipation. I won’t give him the satisfaction, though. I turn to leave when he speaks up again.

“Oh, and I expect a snack at ten. Stop glaring, and get to work, slow coach.”

Yep. Definitely in hell.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Macon

The steering wheel presses hard against my cheekbone, airbag clumped up under my neck, hot metal on my leg. Rain falls through the shattered window, blurring the lines, making the blood run faster into my eyes. I hurt. I hurt all over.

The tiny voice of my car service drifts from somewhere overhead. “Mr. Saint? Are you injured? Mr. Saint?”

My mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.

“Mr. Saint?”

I’m here. Don’t leave me.

“Macon?” A voice of hot, sticky honey. I want to taste it, let it drizzle over my skin. “Macon?”

The camera flash pops in my eyes.

God, look at him. He’s really hurt. Shouldn’t we get help?

We will just take one more picture. Feel the muscle on his arm. It’s so hard.

They’re taking pictures of me stuck in this car. They’re fucking feeling me up. While I’m twisted up in this fucking car. A hand grabs my arm. Shouting, I swing wide, connecting with something hard. A tremendous crash rings out.

“Macon! What the great hell?”

It’s her voice—no longer honey sweet but sharp and irate, a voice I can never fully get out of my mind—that pulls me out of my fog. My surroundings come into focus with a breath. Delilah kneels on the floor, gathering up the ruins of what looks to be my dinner.