Page 111 of Filthy Little Regrets

Grabbing a mug, I glare at the high-tech espresso machine, threatening to make it my bitch once and for all. You’d think I’d be able to figure it out, being a hacker and all, but the buttons are more complicated than brain surgery. With a determined sigh, I check all the settings, double check them, and press start. The grinder screams to life and the machine makes noises, but nothing happens.

I slap the side of it. “Come on, you asshole.”

“Hey, I thought that was my nickname,” Mace murmurs, voice raspy and throaty from sleep.

Whirling around, I grasp the edge of the counter and take him in. He looks like shit, but he walks toward me like none of the injuries bother him in the slightest.

My chest clenches. How many beatings has he taken? “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says, drawing me into his arms.

I wrap myself around him, resting my head on his chest and breathing in his vetiver scent. “You don’t look fine.”

He smooths my hair. “Someone could shoot me, and I’d still be fine if you held me like this.”

Pulling back, I glare up at him. “No getting shot.”

Smirking, he steals a kiss, then presses a button on the machine. The espresso shot instantly pours.

“I hate you.”

“Mmm, no, you don’t,” he says, booping my nose. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Absolutely not. You sit down. I’m making you breakfast.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Has anyone ever told you you’re demanding?”

“Never. Sit. Now.”

“Woof.”

Giggling, I shake my head and take a step back. “Do you remember everything?”

“When it comes to you, yes.”

Someone knocked the air out of my lungs, but Mace turns to grab his own mug, and I recover before he can see the impact his words make. Pulse fluttering, I quickly steam my milk and add it to the coffee, then set to work making breakfast.

Mace perches on a barstool and watches me work, sipping his drink. His attention sends ripples of excitement through me.Relax, Cassia, it’s only Mace.When did I start feeling giddy around him?

One of my favorite things to make is a breakfast scramble. A lot of people think eggs are easy, but they’re wrong. Eggs are so easy to overcook, especially in a scramble, and I hate rubbery eggs. I dice potatoes and a root vegetable I found in the fridge and toss them into the pan.

The minutes slip by and the quiet stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. No unwanted memories creep in. Anxiety doesn’t bang around in my chest. It’s peaceful. My eyes glide to Mace, whose brows lift in response.What?

I press my lips together and search for the usual suspects that accompany the silence again, but they aren’t there. The only other person who fills the quiet with peace is Rose. I never feel alone with her, and she’s my comfort person.

Mace has seen me through a panic attack. We’ve experienced a lot in the short time we’ve been married, and aside from the incident with the mafia, I’ve never questioned my safety with him. In a room filled with dead air, my heart beats steady, my breathing is easy, mymind is calm.

“What are you thinking?”

That somehow you’ve become a comfort person, and I can’t even begin to process what that means.

Clearing my throat, I don’t say any of that and instead say, “I was debating betweenThe BearorAbbot Elementary.”

He studies my face, maybe sees the little lie, but ignores it all the same because he understands me as much as I’m beginning to understand him. “The Bearis pretty intense. Are you up for the drama?”

I move to whisk the eggs. “Oddly enough, watching Carmy’s life makes me feel better. That’s probably shitty, but at least my life isn’t like that.”

“We have the whole weekend, should we binge-watch?”

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