Insecure (Love Triumphs 1)

She laughed. “Not a note. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” Other than the feeling of unease cramping the back of his neck. “What are you doing?”

“I’m very, very busy.” He could hear traffic, other noises that weren’t the soundscape of the loft. “I’m sitting in the sun. I’ve got coffee, a sandwich and a book.”

“What book?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What book?”

“It’s called The Sheik’s Secret Wife’s Lover’s Baby.”

He laughed. There was no way. But a few of Buster’s books with just as implausible titles had made it into the loft, piggybacking on the day bed, tucked in between the mattress and the springs, and Cinta had given him a caning for it, calling him a closet romance reader. God, he loved her. “Yeah, what’s the baby’s name?”

“You’re worrying me. It’s end of month, tell me you and Dillon are okay, you made it through.”

“We made it through. Everything’s all right.” Except for whatever this was twisting his gut, a kind of panic attack he didn’t have time for. At least he was managing it better this time, he hadn’t raced home and thrown her friends out, demanded sex with her. What a fuckwit he’d been.

“I’m reading Disruption: Jobs that will power the future. Sheik’s Secret whatever would be more fun. Mace, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m tired. I’m just... We’re all right aren’t we? You and me, we’re okay?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, there was a headache lurking. What the fuck was he going to do if she said no? He didn’t have Ramesh’s fatalism or Monica’s practicality. He was relying on Cinta to get them through this as a couple, because he didn’t know the first thing about surviving in a relationship that was stressed.

“I love you. We’re fine. I miss you, but I know this is what you have to do.”

“I, how? Fuck.” he groaned. “How did I get so lucky to have you hit on me?”

“I liked your swagger.”

She wanted him to laugh but he didn’t have it in him.

“Mace, we’re okay. We can do this. Whatever upset you we can talk it through. When will you be home tonight?”

He swiped the screen on his tablet, checked his to do list. “I’ll be late, baby.”

“How late?”

“Don’t wait for me. You should go to bed.” He’d said that a lot lately. This time he felt the heft of it, a solid block of egotistical ambition forming a barrier between them.

“Shall I bring you dinner?” She’d done that a lot lately. Bringing Chinese, Indian or Thai for him and Dillon. He’d rather heat one of the frozen meals provided for them than deal with the guilt of dragging her out on that selfless mission.

“No. I’ll get something here and try not to be too late.” They both knew that last bit was an empty promise, but Cinta let him make it without complaint and he did nothing to kick the dishonesty.

He rang off. He got back to work. He meant to send her flowers, chocolates, anything so she knew how much she meant to him. He meant to open an account with some delivery mob so he could do that easily, often. It was an insurance policy, like Carl taking pictures of his kid with his phone, like Monica consulting a lawyer, but Dillon needed new budget inputs and there was a meeting about locations and he forgot, and when he got home she was asleep and rather than wake her he slept on the couch in his office.

They’d be all right. They’d be fine. Cinta understood. He had to trust that.

35: Fantasy

“You have twelve,” Mace said, while Jacinta was tidying up after a rare meal together. He sat at the kitchen table and it made her happy, just that simple act of him being there. If he was home, he was usually extra silent and withdrawn, working some problem in his head while she tried to make conversation and draw him out. He’d eat like a hungry cannibal and then disappear into his office and she’d go to bed alone. But tonight he was with her, and he’d been in the studio. He’d counted.

“Close enough.” Her final selection was still a work in progress.

“It’s a theme. But I’m not sure if I get it. Something about the colours and the way you use the canvas, like everything is in half or mirrored.”

He’d done more than counted. He didn’t come home with flowers and groceries; he didn’t get all gruff and alpha demanding. He gave her his most precious commodity—time.

She dumped the tea towel and leant on the table opposite him. “How long were you in there?”