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I lean my forehead against the cool window and pinch my eyes shut as he navigates out of the parking garage, shoving the images of the dead body and the threats that rattle through my brain into a box in the back of my mind, far out of reach. The drive takes about thirty minutes. I’m too out of it to question how Mace knows where I live. He snags a parking spot and helps me out of the car, carrying my clutch and hooking his arm around my middle.
I wish I didn’t need the support, but the contact is so comforting. He leads me to the building. With trembling fingers, I enter the code to let us in, taking him to the second floor and to my apartment.
As I’m unlocking the door, he releases my hand. “Perfect timing, man. Thank you.”
I open the door and turn, registering a delivery person and the bag in Mace’s hand, but the medicine is kicking in, making everything a little hazy. All I want to do is lie down. The guy leaves, and Mace pulls me into my loft and leads me to the kitchen. He places the bag down and helps me into a seat.
“I hope you like street tacos and nachos. That was the fastest delivery I could get,” he explains, unpacking containers of food and spreading them out in front of me. Savory scents, with hints of onion and cumin, hit me and my mouth waters. “There’s al pastor, carne asada, and carnitas tacos. Do you have a bowl?”
I gesture to a cabinet, eyeing the food in a bit of a daze. He ordered me tacos? ,Why is he taking care of me?
Mace dumps a bag of chips into the bowl and peels off the lid of a container filled with queso and another of a container full of refried beans. “Do you like to dip or drizzle the queso?”
This is so strange.But the food will help, it always helps.I clear my throat. “Dip,” I say, voice cracking.
He glances at me, but I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. “Water or tea?”
“Water.”
In a matter of seconds, a glass of ice water is in front of me. “Drink,” he demands.
I don’t even have the energy to argue. The cool water soothes my strained throat, and I sit a little straighter as he dips a chip in cheese and spoons out some refried beans on top.
He brings the food to my mouth. “Eat.”
“You don’t?—”
“Eat,” he growls, pressing the warm-cheese-covered chip to my lips.
It smells so good and perfectly melty. “Fine,” I mutter, taking a big bite and swiping my tongue across my lips. Mace pops the remainder of the chip into his mouth before preparing another. He lifts it again, and for some stupid reason, a tear tracks down my cheeks.
He stares at the tear, then brushes it away with his thumb, clutching my chin and forcing me to hold his gaze. I’ll never admit it, but every time he touches me, the part of me that craves human contact is soothed. That’s how much I’ve missed having someone to love.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs.
“Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, Mace alternates feeding me nachos and tacos until I’m full. “What’s your favorite comfort show?”
What is happening?
“Schitt’s Creek.”
He nods and turns on my TV, starting the show right where I left off in the middle of an episode, and tips his head toward the couch. “Come on.”
“What are you doing?”
“Stop asking questions,” he says with a shake of his head.
“I’m fine, seriously. Thank you for the food, but you can go.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’m staying.” I have a feeling I might hear that a lot once we’re married. Is this my future? Him ordering me around?
A burst of frustration ripples through me. “Get out.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you here,” I snap, crossing my arms.