Page 103 of Filthy Little Regrets

She lifts both eyebrows. “You look like a wet dog.”

“Your food tastes like ass.”

She scoffs. “No, it doesn’t.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Cheffy.”

“The wine didn’t work,” she observes, lips tugging down.

“The wine was fine. It’s the husband that’s the problem,” I grumble.

She tsks and smooths her apron. “It’s too early for him to annoy you.”

“He’s always annoyed me,” I admit, eyeing the food. “But here we are.”

Chef approaches me, her face suddenly serious. “Can I offer you some sage advice?”

I eye her. She’s not old enough to qualify as someone who would be a sage, but I’ll roll with it. “Uh, sure?”

“Don’t be late next time.”

Rearing back, I shake my head. “Here, I thought you actually cared.”

“Look around you, Cassia. What do you have to complain about? People would die to live this way.”

The frustration from Paige, Mace’s attitude, and everything else has been compounding. Chef’s words are the last straw. “You think I don’t know that?” I snap. “My dad died trying to give me this life, so don’t talk to me about how I should feel. I didn’t ask for this!”

Her expression morphs, sympathy softening her gaze, and she starts to say something right as Mace appears.

“Enough, Chef. It’s time for you to go.”

She glances at Mace, face scrunching. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re apologizing to the wrong person,” he says, tone firm.

Her attention shifts to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

My eyes are burning. I can’t look at her right now.

Releasing a soft breath, she excuses herself. Mace takes his seat, watching me as the sounds of Chef gathering her things filter over to the dining table. She softly shuts the front door when she departs.

“Let’s eat,” Mace says.

“That’s all you have to say?”

He picks up the bowl full of prepared pasta. “What do you expect me to say?”

Frustration holds my chest in a vise grip. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, distant or whatever. You—” I cut off before I say something embarrassing, likeyou left me.Sure, he’s been here, but not in the same way as before. Definitely not like the night he asked me twenty-one questions.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, standing and coming to give me a generous serving of the food.

Clenching my jaw, I ignore the ripple of goose bumps running down my arm at his proximity. There’s no way I’m answering that question.

“Right. Didn’t think so.” He returns to his side of the table and serves himself. Once he has a full plate, his gaze strays to mine. “You should eat.”

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