“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, honestly horrified I took a swing at her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she huffs. “I called your name several times, and you were just sitting there, staring out the window.”

“I was asleep.” I run a hand over my face and find it damp with sweat. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine. But the tray might take exception to being whacked.” She shoots me a glare, and I brace for another rebuke, but her stiff expression eases. “You were having a nightmare, weren’t you?”

“Just got disoriented. The painkillers make me loopy.”

Delilah’s hard stance softens. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you without checking to see if you were awake. Daddy always said it was dangerous to jar people out of a nightmare.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” The lie comes out snappish. Probably because I’m lying. But damn if I want to see that pity in her eyes. “Although I agree, you shouldn’t go around grabbing people while they’re sleeping. Kind of rude, regardless.” God, shut up, Macon. You’re the rude ass. But I can’t seem to help myself around this girl.

Her nose wrinkles. “I guess that bug up your butt is a permanent condition.”

“Bringing up my butt again.” I force a smile. “You think about it a lot, do you?”

Her answering smile is all sharp edges and bite. “I think about kicking it nearly every time we’re in the same room together.”

A laugh breaks free, pushing at my aching ribs. “That I can believe. Here, let me help you.” Without thinking, I bend forward to help her and immediately regret the action when a shard of pain punches into my side. She hears me hiss and sees the way I shoot back into my seat.

“Macon, when are you going to admit you’re in pain?” She rises to help.

A shudder runs down my back. The thought of her touching me in pity turns my skin cold. “Don’t,” I snap. My mind yells that I’m making things worse, but my mouth can’t keep closed. “Don’t touch me.”

She halts, her hand still stretched toward me. She has slim fingers, short-trimmed nails with numerous scars and calluses marring her skin. Chef’s hands. Her capable, abused fingers curl into a fist. “Don’t touch you?” she repeats dully, but the hurt and outrage is still there. “Seriously?”

Heat swarms around my neck. I don’t know how to explain to her why I cannot have her touching me right now. “I don’t need help.”

For a second, she stares. Shame washes over me. I haven’t felt that particular emotion in so long I’m choking on it.

This is what she does; she exposes me—lays bare all the parts I want to hide, need to hide.

Hot in the face, I try to back up. My wheels run over the fallen tray with a crunch. “Shit.”

“Here, let me—” She reaches up, but I back away.

And hit the corner of the desk with my bad side. “Shit!”