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But the smile I got was well worth the effort.
I didn’t think I’d ever seen Macon Green truly smile until that moment, and it was dazzling.
“You missed.”
“I don’t think I had a chance in hell,” I admitted.
That scarred brow arched. He was obviously enjoying the banter. “You could sneak up on me in the dark, and you still wouldn’t have a chance in hell.”
“Someone obviously did,” I said, pointing to the tiny line above his eye.
His fingers touched it, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Bar fight,” he explained. Now, it was my brow that arched. “That I broke up,” he added with a genuine grin. “On the job.”
I laughed. “Who knew keeping the peace in Ocracoke could be so dangerous? Any other battle scars?”
He didn’t answer, but the heated stare he gave me said it all.Wanna find out?
I swallowed audibly.
“Do you want something to drink?” Macon asked, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the quick change of subject. “I, uh…don’t keep any alcohol in the house, but I can offer you a soda or…” He took a breath, avoiding my gaze, making me wonder if he was embarrassed or… ashamed? He opened the refrigerator door open once again. “Well, that’s about it.”
I laughed, purposely ignoring his nervousness. I could see it wasn’t a subject he wanted to address. “Water is fine, thank you.”
We continued to make small talk while he finished a few batches of pancakes and heated some syrup in the microwave. He plated a few onto two plates and pulled out some butter. We both helped ourselves to the syrup, and then I followed him to the couch.
I set my glass on the coffee table, noting the stack of books and the newspaper. There was little else as far as decor, which either meant he was a minimalist or his wife had seriously cleaned him out.
Having met her, I thought I knew the answer.
Taking my first bite, I couldn’t help but moan a little. First of all, I was starving. It’d been a solid ten hours since I’d eaten, and secondly, it was delicious. “This is fucking good.”
“Better than German pancakes?”
“Yes, but if you ever tell my mom, I will end you. She’s terrifying.”
He leaned back, angling his body toward mine. There was a safe distance between us, but I still felt exposed. Still felt the heat of his eyes on me.
“What about your dad?” he asked. “Are both your parents German?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’m first generation. They immigrated here so my dad could pursue his music career. He went to Juilliard for his graduate work.”
“No shit?” He seemed genuinely impressed.
I grinned. “No shit.”
“So, what does he play?” he asked.
I watched him bring that fork to his mouth, and my own went dry.
No one should look that hot while eating.
“He’s a violinist,” I answered, focusing back on my plate. “But he hasn’t played professionally for years. He was diagnosed with MS when I was a kid.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“It was,” I agreed. “But his progression has been fairly slow. He’s been able to walk up until this year. He’s wheelchair-bound now, but he hasn’t been able to hold a violin without shaking in decades.”
“So, all that work and he had to, what? Do something else?”
