He plops his big frame onto the Adirondack chair beside mine. “She’s always complaining.” His attention drifts to my toes. A small smile plays about his lips, and he taps his long fingers on the arms of the chair. Macon leans back, but his gaze remains on my feet as if he finds the process of my self-pedicure fascinating. “Somehow, I don’t think she’ll try anything with you again.”

Pressing my lips to my bent knee to hide my smile, I finish off the last toe. “She’d better not. I studied up on Rodgers and Hammerstein during my shower, and I’m not afraid to belt out a stirring rendition of Oklahoma! if needed.”

Macon snorts. “If she messes with you again, I’ll provide backup.”

I pause and dab at a small spot on my toe. “That’s right; you starred in our junior-year musical.” Unlike me, Macon has a wonderful voice—deep and resonant. I still kind of hate that he wore suspenders and sang “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” and still managed to make all the girls swoon.

Silence falls, and Macon stares out at the Pacific, where the sinking sun has turned tangerine in a violet sky. That smile of his grows secretive and quivering around the edges as if he’s holding on to his composure with great effort.

“Macon Saint, you’re itching to say something. Spill it.”

He full out grins. “Well, Ms. Delilah Baker, it appears you’ve gone viral.”

“What?” My voice rises as panic sets in. “What!”

Macon pulls out his phone and flicks on the screen. And the horrifying sound of me singing at the top of my lungs comes out.

“I’ll give you this,” he says, laughing. “You really sell it.”

With a screech, I launch myself out of the chair and at the phone. Macon holds it up out of my reach while his other arm wraps around my waist and pins me against him. Only then do I realize that I’ve basically thrown my body over his in my attempt to get to the phone.

“Give me the phone,” I cry, still struggling.

“Not a chance.” I don’t know how he manages it, but I find myself sprawled on his lap, arms tucked against his chest. I’d find his strength impressive if I wasn’t in full panic mode. He holds me prisoner with one arm. “We’ll watch it together.”

Since I can’t move, and he still has the phone, I can only groan and slump against the wall of his chest. “Fine. Torture me; I give up.”

Chuckling, Macon hits replay. And there I am, singing loudly and obnoxiously and dancing like a fool.

I let out a sound that is somewhere between a moan and a wail. Whatever it is, it is pitiful.

Macon, however, is extremely entertained. “Is that the Funky Chicken?”