Page 114 of Filthy Little Regrets

“That bad?” Chef asks, eyebrows lifted.

I laugh and bat the moisture away. “It’s amazing, Chef.”

She nods, eyes softening, and turns to Mace. “No complaining.”

Mace sets his hand over his heart. “I would never, Chef.”

A grin cuts across her face as she nods in approval and leaves us to eat.

Mace turns to me once she’s out of earshot. “Don’t tell anyone, but she scares the shit out of me.”

After dinner, the world isn’t so heavy, and it gets even lighter when Mace suggests a movie. I take my spot, snuggle under a blanket, and sigh. In the past, at night when I wasn’t working, I’d end up on the couch alone. The empty space on the other side of the couch was always so pronounced.

I found ways to not let it bring me down, but no matter how much I convinced myself it was fine, watching movies alone always bothered me.

Mace drops onto the cushion next to me, popcorn bowl in hand. “Here are your options:Inside Out, the new Lindsay Lohan holiday flick, orFight Club.”

I loveFight Clubas much as the next person, but I’m not in the mood for something heavy, and that also rules outInside Out. “We have to support Lindsay’s comeback.”

He smirks. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Don’t look so smug about it,” I tell him, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

Mace’s smile only grows as he turns on the TV and finds the right movie. I watch him with narrowed, reprimanding eyes, but in my heart, I’m not annoyed. I’m happy I’m not alone. Happy to not suffer through the rest of the night alone...and as he leans back, settling his arm around my shoulder, I’m just happy.

I can’t sleep. For about a week now, every night when I crawl into bed—the one I share with Mace—I lie in the dark, trying to figure out how I got here. I hated Mace. He was a smug, entitled asshole. I was forced to marry him if I wanted to live, and then he was bossy. Telling me where to sleep, where he wanted me, how he wanted me. But he’s also sweet in his own way.

Taking care of me with the anxiety attack.

Making sure I had my headphones.

Staying with me through a hard day of grief.

The line of hate and something more is getting blurry, but it’s way too soon to feel any type of way about him, right? It’s been what...a month and a half? Two months?

How do I know this isn’t Stockholm?

The thought drives me out of bed. I quietly slip into my swimsuit, grab a towel, and escape to the place that always brings me clarity. I dive into the water, letting it share the brunt of my emotions.

My mind is still a frantic mess, worried about whether I’m being stupid, concerned about what happens when I don’t give the FBI exactly what they want, but most of all, it’s full of fear that Mace doesn’t feel the same way. Thewall of the pool approaches, and I flip, tucking my knees in and rolling, pushing off the wall and propelling toward the other side.

What if this is simply a form of entertainment for him?

What if I danced exactly how he wanted?

What happens when he leaves?

A fist clamps around my heart, and I break through the surface, gasping for air as I realize that’s what’s wrong. I couldn’t care less about the rest, but the fact that Mace could walk away or die and I’d be left with pain I never wanted to feel again? I hate that.

Losing someone you love is the worst sort of pain.

Mace strides into the pool room with sleep-mussed hair, wearing nothing but his boxers.

My gaze flies to his. An excited flutter runs through me, but I stifle it, remembering that I’m the one with everything to lose. Whatever he sees on my face has him lifting an eyebrow.

He sits on one of the lounge chairs, watching me tread water. “What’s going on?”

I swim to the edge of the pool, pull myself out, and storm up to him, stopping inches away from where he sits. Water pours off of me, splattering onto the floor.

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