I blew a raspberry. “Stating an opinion contrary to others isn’t being ornery; it’s called having a working brain. Sorry you two don’t know anything about that.”

At that Sam laughed loud and exaggerated, slapping her hand on my shoulder, hard. “She’s such a kidder.” A warning squeeze came while she gave the boy her wide, sunny smile. “I’m Samantha Baker. What’s your name?”

“Macon Saint.”

“Macon? Rhymes with bacon. I love bacon. Oh, but Saint is so cool. You look kind of like an angel. Not a pretty girl one, of course. A boy angel. Can I call you Saint? You live in that big ol’ house? It’s so pretty. Do you like peanut butter cookies? My mama just made some.”

Macon blinked under her verbal barrage, and I waited for him to lay into Sam the way he had to me, because even I was tempted after all of that spew. But he simply smiled in that lopsided way I’d soon come to know and hate. “Guess you’re never ornery, huh?”

The way he said it, with that smarmy drawl, I knew he was implying Sam was basically brainless and that he approved. But she didn’t notice.

“Nope.” She beamed. “I’m a happy girl.”

I rolled my eyes, but neither of them cared, and that had been that. Macon had gone off with Sam to eat cookies, and I’d officially become the third, unwanted wheel. I’d lost my sometime ally of a sister and gained a pain-in-the-butt, sneering boy.

Two years later, Macon shot up several inches and became the most sighed-over boy in school. And Sam became his girlfriend. That pretty much sealed it. Macon Saint was at my house more than he wasn’t. Hanging out on my couch, stealing the remote to watch sports, sitting at the dinner table, and pinging bits of food my way when my parents weren’t looking. The worst was it hurt being around him. Around them. Because I always felt lesser.

I never dated or had a boyfriend. No one asked me out, and I didn’t know how to ask anyone. I was simply Delilah, party of one. The friends I made were intimidated by Sam and Macon and did not want to hang out at my house for fear of running into them. Which meant I either went to other people’s houses or braved facing the beautiful pair on my own.

By high school, Macon and I actively bickered whenever we got within sight of each other. But it wasn’t until the end of our senior year that my dislike turned to acute loathing.

“Saint and I are going to the prom.” Sam smiled triumphantly as she opened her locker door next to mine.

I barely glanced up from shoving my violin case into my locker. “Sammy, that is a ‘well, duh’ statement if I ever heard one. Prom is over a month away; why are you even telling me this now?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Can you at least be happy for me?”

“For what? Dating the devil? Setting the bar so low the rest of your romantic life will seem like a victory?” I shrugged. “I suppose that is good planning.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a date.”

“Date,” I scoffed. “Your date is a life-size Ken doll, with less personality. I’d rather go to prom alone than have to deal with that.”

“Liar. I bet if Matty Hayes asked, you’d go with him.” Damn Sam for seeing what I didn’t want her to. I had a slight crush on Matty. Sam grinned, reading me like a cheap tabloid. “He probably would if you put a little effort into your appearance.”

“Like hell he would.” The declaration was deep and confident and not mine.

My shoulders stiffened, and a cold wave of dread went over me at the sound of his distinctive voice rumbling from somewhere over my head.

Macon leaned a shoulder against the edge of my locker, his eyes mocking me from under the mop of his stupid Zac Efron–style hair. Every time I set eyes on Macon Saint, the reaction was visceral, a punch to the solar plexus. He was gorgeous, sure, but it was his eyes that did it. They burned as if he could strip the skin from my bones and rip right into the heart of me.

Mama always said I was fanciful with my words, but that was the truth of it: locking gazes with Macon was like forging into an angry storm. You’d come out of it weak, breathless, and a little bruised.

“I don’t recall asking you to join the conversation,” I said.

He snorted. “I don’t need an invitation. And you don’t stand a chance with Hayes. He likes his women stupid and thin. You know, like a Barbie.”

The thin comment cut into me. Clearly, he’d heard my Ken-doll comment as well. I didn’t give a shit and was about to say as much. But Macon wasn’t done. Standing toe to toe with me in the hall before lunch, he let that dark, wild gaze of his slide over me as his nostrils flared in disapproval. “You look like a tater tot in that dress, Baker.”