“Sorry. Spontaneous laughter.” I clear my throat, feeling like a grade A ass. “I do that when I’m enjoying my food.”
The silence is deafening. Ronan smothers a laugh with a cough. Delilah’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit. I stare back, all innocence. But in my head, I’m thinking about what she’s done. And all that lust and need rise up again, hard, needy, but tempered with something I don’t want to name just yet. But it is real, and it’s demanding.
I don’t know what she sees in my eyes, but she shakes her head and laughs lightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” I want to kiss her. Right here. Pull her onto the table and taste her mouth, tell her everything. “This is the best meal of my life.”
North glances away as though he’s fighting not to laugh at me too. But Ronan, who I’m liking more and more, sits back and nods. “I have to agree with Macon. I am honestly stunned here. This menu isn’t pretentious or showy, but that’s the point. I’m not trying to figure out what I’m eating but simply enjoying every bite and wondering how it is that I never realized how good these simple ingredients were.”
She blushes prettily. For him. “Thank you. There’s dessert.”
With that, they bring out individual pies. Banana cream pie with bitter chocolate. I manage one bite of what is the best pie I’ve ever had, all lush cream and sweetness, a bite of Delilah incarnate, the intense, hot richness of the chocolate pushing its way almost rudely into all that, just like I did. Sex and salvation on a plate. I can’t take it anymore.
My fork hits the plate with a clatter, my breath unsteady. Blood rushes through my ears, and I push back from the table. “Excuse us for a moment.” I take hold of Delilah’s hand and pull her up with me. “We’ll be right back.”
Then I get us the hell out of the room before I make a greater fool of myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Delilah
“Macon,” I hiss as soon as we’re out of the dining room. “What in the great hell is wrong with you?”
He’s been acting strange the entire meal, unfocused and not saying a damn word to anyone. Frankly, it has pissed me off and hurt in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
He doesn’t answer but tugs me along with brisk steps, forcing me to clatter after him in my high heels. I follow willingly because I’m not about to make a scene. Too bad he’s already done that. Another burst of rage hits hot as fire. How dare he act like this now of all times? It was the ultimate bait and switch.
“Are you high?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice down. “Seriously, did you take some sort of drug before dinner?”
He stops and backs me into the shadowed alcove at the end of the hall stairs. “I know I’m out of line. I . . .” He runs a hand through his hair hard enough for the dark ends to stick up wildly. “I had to talk . . . I couldn’t sit there anymore and not say something . . . fuck.”
I realize what a good actor Macon can be. Until now he’s appeared so placid, a cool lake with hardly a ripple of emotion showing. He isn’t placid now. And he isn’t cool and collected. He’s weirdly unhinged.
“Okay,” I say calmly because now he’s freaking me out. “We’re alone. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Macon’s dark gaze searches my face. “That meal. You were telling the story of us.”
My heart flips within my chest, and I suck in a breath, stunned into silence.
“It was us,” he says. “Every bite. It was our childhood. It was you, me. Mangoes in the market, kissing on the beach, banana cream pie . . .” He steps closer, his chin lifting as though he’s in for a fight. But there’s so much heat and emotion in his eyes that my mouth goes dry. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I hadn’t thought . . .” I trail off, pressing my palm to my overwarm forehead. Yes, I was telling my story through the meal, but he’s right; it was about Macon too. About us. Because he is part of my story. Always. My gaze collides with his. “You understood that? Just by tasting?”
His nostrils flare as he gives a short nod. “With every bite. You made me remember. You pulled me into those memories.” Macon’s head dips, his breath brushing against my lips. “You made me love it.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m exposed. Utterly. Both to him and to myself.
“Did you mean it?” he asks, peering down at me with tense eyes. “All that emotion you put into the food. Did you mean it?”
But he knows. He tasted it, after all. Good food is evocative. I unknowingly put my heart on my freaking sleeve, and I’m not certain how I feel about that. Being this open is new to me.