The crests of his cheeks flush again. “Oh, for the love of . . . I did not keep Sam around because I secretly liked guys. Sam was safe, Delilah. She didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t really want to get to know me. I was a loner stuck in the role of town charmer. Sam suited my purposes because she played the part of devoted girlfriend and kept people from getting too close. That’s all.”

I really don’t want to examine the purely selfish reasons that I find myself relieved to know he’s not gay. But his confession depresses me. “Life isn’t a play,” I find myself saying. “You don’t act out roles in real life.”

“Just because you’re an open book doesn’t mean everyone is.” His brows lower as he leans closer to me. “Most of us pretend to be something we’re not. It’s only to a select few that we really show our true selves.”

“I’m not an open book.”

“More like newsprint.” He gives me a level look. “I can read you like a headline, Delilah.”

I huff out a breath. “Okay, I’m fairly open, but I do get it. Everyone has a public self and a private self. I’m only saying that it’s kind of sad, you and Sam sticking together for those reasons.”

“Why do you think I found you so annoying?” Macon quips. “Because you damn well knew we were fakers.”

I smile, showing teeth. “I thought you two were plastic. Not faking a relationship.”

“Brat,” he says, amused.

Thing is, I’m amused too. It’s easier now, hashing things out with Macon. Which is a surprise. People grow up; I know that. But usually you’re there for the growth, the steady change of character. Seeing is believing. I hadn’t been around Macon for a decade. I hadn’t seen the change from boy to man. And though he might look and act more mature, my instincts react as if no time has passed. My first impulse is to think the worst of him. Only slowly but surely, he’s making me reassess that.

Rolling my eyes, I unwrap my mango and take a bite. It’s richly sweet and perfectly ripe. Like Macon, I find myself scrambling to wipe away the juice that runs free.

He watches beneath lowered lids. “Missed a spot.” The blunt tip of his thumb brushes the lower edge of my lip, just at the corner—a place I never thought to be particularly sensitive. Yet that small touch sends thick chords of shuddering pleasure through my body.