Page 4 of Filthy Little Regrets

I side-eye him. “You realize I’m twenty-seven, right?”

“You’re still young. I’m older and wiser. We see the worst of people in this field of work, but there’s goodness out there in the world. Look at Rose and Dare.”

I scoff. “That’s a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing.” Some might call it obsession. They almost broke up once, and itnearly killed Rose. If that’s what love can do to a person, I’m not sure I want it.

Back at Orion Investigations, I’m deep inside Larry’s personal emails. It comes as no surprise that he’s a vile human being. The scowl on my face hardens the more I shift through the messages. Not even the lavender mist streaming out of my diffuser can soothe the tension settling between my shoulders as I catalog Larry’s wrongdoings. Sex workers. Copious amounts of self-filmed porn with his various partners. A few threesomes. It’s not good.

Maybe Mei should burn the business down, after all. For her sake, I hope he wrapped his junk.

The bell for the front door jingles, and I glance up from my computer, eyes narrowing on the gorgeous man in the doorway.

Mace Astor.Hottest single, as dubbed by NYC Socialite year after year. Annoying, corrupt, and worst of all, charming. Oh, and to make matters worse, he’s a billionaire. Heir to Rex Technologies, the world’s largest tech conglomerate. He’s not just rich, he’srich.The Astors are one of the five richest families in NYC, and his shoes probably cost more than my rent.

The brush of his gaze is warm against my skin, the knot of stress between my shoulders growing. He slides off his suit jacket and hangs it on the coat rack by the door. My muscles tense, body ready to run if needed, and I force air into my lungs. I hate that he and Orion have recently become friends. Actually, I kind of hate everything about him.

His eyes darken at whatever he sees on my face, and awave of unease presses down on my chest as he prowls toward me. The lights seem to dim as he gets closer, shadows coalescing around him, as wicked and foreboding as the ones weaving through his dark blue irises.

“Orion went to get lunch.”

Mace lifts an eyebrow. “What, no hello?”

Gritting my teeth, I look at my screen and mutter, “Hi.”

“Lovely to see you, as always.” He does this a lot. Uses humor to win people over. None of them seem to notice there’s more beneath the surface, but I see flickers of depravity within the immeasurable depths of his gaze. Mace isn’t who he pretends to be. Not exactly.

And I don’t like people who hide their true selves. Especially not a wolf parading around as a sheep.

“Wish I could say the same,” I say, giving him a judgy once-over, as if I find him lacking. But he doesn’t have any faults. Short brown hair and a perfectly symmetrical face. A strong jaw. Piercing eyes that are calculating and far too aware. Sparkling white teeth. A smile that stops a woman outside in her tracks. She does a double take, peeking through the glass and around the Orion Investigations decal to get a better look.

The bastard even has a dimple. Dimples make women stupid.

“I think she likes me,” he muses, nodding at the lady. Her cheeks flush at having been caught, and she scurries away.

My eyes flutter closed. “Please don’t be smug. She has no idea that your personality cancels out whatever hotness you might have.”

“Cassia,” he purrs, smoothing his hand down the buttons of his black shirt. “You think I’m hot?”

Loathing pulses in my chest, and I glare at him. “You missed the insult.”

“I’m ignoring it because it’s not true. I have a great personality.”

“Says who?”

The wicked gleam in his eyes sharpens. “Plenty of people. I’m charming.”

“Nauseating.”

“Hilarious.”

“Annoying,” I counter.

He hums and perches on the edge of my desk. This close, I get two nostrils full of the smoky, earthen scent of his cologne. If it was on literally any other man, it would be nice. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m not.” I scowl at where his butt rests. The man has cake, I’ll give him that.

He tsks. “What a shame.” His gaze sweeps over my dark green blouse, black leather skirt, floral tights, stops at my Chelsea boots, and slowly roves back up, a flicker of approval shimmering within the depths of his irises.

I thought he’d be more into women with perfectly manicured nails, pearls, and sticks up their asses.

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