Page 36 of The Games We Play
No matter how exhausting or chaotic the outside world got, I always had this.
The walls painted in colors that made me feel alive. The air thick with the soothing scents of vanilla and spice. Every piece, every detail, carefully chosen to be more than just decor. It was comfort. It was a sanctuary.
It was mine.
I dipped the vacuum low in a dramatic swoop, then spun—only to freeze when a shadow moved in my periphery.
My heart lurched into my throat, and every alarm bell rang.
I let out a loud shriek, stumbling backward as the vacuum crashed to the floor with a loud clatter. My pulse pounded against my ribs, my breath coming in sharp gasps as the surge of adrenaline rocketed through me.
“What the fuck!” I clutched my chest, feeling the wild hammering of my heart beneath my palm. “Are you crazy!”
With a shaky hand, I smacked the vacuum’s power button, cutting off its low rumble.
Mac stood in front of me, his chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a marathon. His expression was unreadable—except for the way his lips parted slightly, like he was struggling to catch his breath.
He stood completely still and silent, staring at me like he wasn’t the one who’d nearly given me a heart attack.
I narrowed my eyes and repeated myself. “What. The. Fuck.”
A surge of anger flooded in at the reminder he’d walked into my apartment unannounced and sure as hell unwelcomed.
Mac reached behind himself and—click—slid the deadbolt into place.
My stomach dropped as my eyes went wide. The anger morphed into a low tingle of fear and apprehension. Instinctively, I took a few steps back, putting space between us. “Mac?” My voice was edged with caution.
He started pacing, his boots scuffing against the floor as his hands raked through his hair. He gripped the strands, tugging roughly before locking his fingers behind his neck.
“Mac…” I tried again, softer this time.
His head snapped up, dark eyes locking onto mine.
“I need you to talk to me.” His voice was raw, thick with something desperate.
I stilled, my breath catching.
Not this. Notagain.
Had he already forgotten the other night? I told him—on my terms. On my time.
Barging in here like this, demanding answers, backing me into a corner. He was ignoring everything I’d said.
He couldn’t be that stupid.
“I have nothing to say right now,” I replied, my voice clipped and controlled.
Walking into the kitchen, I grabbed a towel and started wiping down the counters with unnecessary force, like scrubbing hard enough could erase him from my life.
Maybe if I ignored him, he’d get the hint.
Nope.
Heavy footsteps followed. The heat of his presence curled around me as he stopped behind me. Close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence pressing into my back.
“Pen…” he exhaled, his voice low, almost pleading.
I closed my eyes, tilting my head up toward the ceiling as frustration coiled in my chest. Then, with a sharp breath, I threw the towel down, the sound of damp fabric smacking against the countertop breaking the silence between us.
