A small frown works its way along the sides of Karen’s mouth as she looks at us, but it quickly smooths over, and she puts all her focus on Macon.

After ordering lunch, he and Karen map out possible plans to get him the role while North offers training routines he can do with Macon to work around his injuries.

And I eat.

It’s not that the conversation isn’t interesting. I simply have nothing to add. Occasionally Macon asks me to put a date or note down in his calendar. I do but then notice that he appears to have perfect recall of other dates and contract points, and I wonder if he’s simply giving me busywork, especially when Karen tells him that she’ll send over all the information anyway.

I’m typing in one such date when Macon’s fork comes drifting over to my plate and spears a piece of my black-truffle arancini. “Hey. Get your own.”

He is unrepentant and steals another bite. “But it’s so good.”

“Then you should have ordered it. Take another bite, and I’m biting your hand.”

He goes in for a piece, and a fork duel ensues.

“Stop eating my food.”

“But yours is better.”

“I know. That’s why I ordered it.”

“Come on, Tot. Just one more bite.”

“No. Eat your damn salad. It’s good for you.”

“I hate salad. Fuck the salad.”

“You first, salad boy.”

We’re snickering now, our forks clanging as they thrust and parry. A loud exasperated sigh cuts into our fun.

“You’re acting like children,” Karen says, wrinkling her nose.

Macon straightens, his brows drawing together. He looks at his fork as if he’s never seen one, his thumb running along the tines. The transformation of his expression is like a slow unfurling, from confusion to irritation to bland remoteness. He sets the fork down and is all business once more. “Delilah brings out the worst in me.”

I want to snort but don’t. There’s something about his manner that makes me feel as though he’s set me aside as easily as he did the fork. When am I going to learn? I’m pissed that I forgot how easily Macon can draw me in, only to drop me off a cliff when I least expect it.

And I’m pissed at myself for feeling chastened by Karen, of all people.

She gives me—not Macon—another reproachful look, then turns to him. “You should listen to your assistant. She clearly understands about fattening foods.”

Her tone is not kind. And I’m done being polite. Or quiet.

I turn to North, who is sprawled back in his chair, blue eyes alight with undisguised anticipation. An ally I desperately need. “Tell me something . . .”

“Anything, babe.”