Page 49 of This Life and All the Rest
His brow furrows as his eyes bounce between mine.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone vegan or something, too?” He waves a hand over the plates of tacos. “I guess you could scrape the cheese off or something.”
“No,” I say, laughing lightly to try and hide how unsettled I feel. “I’m not vegan. Thanks for picking this up.”
He nods, then fixes Evie’s tray with a little deconstructed taco. She wastes no time in taking a fistful of food and shoving it in her mouth. I can’t help but chuckle. She definitely diffuses tension without even trying.
“Okay, well...” Macon says, taking a seat on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island. “Eat. Tell me about Paris.”
I sit and flash him a look like he’s crazy.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you do? What’s so great about it that you never come back home?”
I bristle at his tone.
“Paris is home,” I say, and he snorts.
“Paris might beCapri’shome, but Lennon will always belong here, and I think we both know who you are.”
“Don’t do this, Macon,” I say with a sigh. “You don’t know anything about me anymore. Quit speculating as if you do.”
Just like how I don’t know anything about him.
He keeps his eyes on his food for a few bites. He gets up and fills two glasses with ice water, setting one down in front of me before taking a sip of the other. He gives Evie a sippy cup filled with something from the fridge.
The silence stretches and I start to fidget.
The people pleaser inside me, the one I shoved deep down years ago, itches to apologize, but I keep my mouth shut. The part of me that will always have feelings for Macon wants to reach out and touch his hand, to comfort him. I don’t do that either.
Getting close to him will only hurt me. Especially now. I’ve lost too much. I can’t afford to backslide.
I’ve used up all my Macon Davis lives. I couldn’t survive him again.
Just as I make up my mind to leave, he speaks.
“You’re right,” he says. “We don’t know each other anymore. It’s stupid to suggest we do.”
His blue eyes lock with mine and the open vulnerability in them hits me right in the chest.
“Let’s fix that. Tell me about Paris.” He smirks slowly before adding, “I promise not to be a dick.”
I tilt my head to the side as I survey him. What’s he playing at?
“Why?” I ask. “You want to know why I dropped out of college to become afreeloading, directionless Frenchman’s whore?”
Macon doesn’t even flinch when I throw his words back at him. Not an ounce of remorse or shame, and it stokes my growing anger. His lips twitch at the corners as he sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, his silver wristwatch glinting in the gleam of the kitchen light. I keep my eyes on his, but the bulge of his biceps and chest are still visible, taunting me from the outskirts of my vision.
This would be so much easier if I wasn’t attracted to him.
“I already know why you dropped out of college,” he says after a minute, and I blink.
I don’t roll my eyes like I want to. I don’t let my mouth drop at his confident tone. I just blink. Once. Twice. Then I raise an eyebrow and wave my hand between us, gesturing for him to enlighten me.
“You never liked school. You did it because it fit your image.”
He leans forward, folding his arms on the table, eyes never leaving mine.
