Page 37 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

Maeve wasn’t looking at me anymore, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. I didn’t know what to do. I was waiting for something to happen, for her to say something, but the silence just kept stretching. She stood there looking angry and hurt. A knot twisted low in my stomach. I didn’t know how to make this better.

What the fuck did I just do?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Maeve

The penthouse kitchen wasn’t just quiet; it was empty in a bad way. I noticed it the moment I stepped inside. The cold stone floor pressed against my bare feet, making me shiver. Everything in there seemed intentional and exquisite. The fridge opened smoothly and I stood there staring at food I didn’t buy. There were eggs, fruit, milk I hadn’t opened, and bread that looked like it had been bought for someone who appreciated the finer things in life. It irritated me, but I took some things out anyway. I wasn’t thinking; I was just moving. It was like I was following a rhythm my body remembered even if my mind didn’t.

The pan heated up fast, and I cracked eggs into it. I watched them spread, then added another egg. Each sound was loud in the silence. I focused on the food because it was easier than thinking about anything else. I just kept cooking. I stirred the eggs for a while, then stopped and started again. The motion was something I could hide in. Something that didn’t require me to think. I plated the food without looking at it too long. For a moment I just stood there holding the plate. I wasn’t sure if I was going to eat or if I was just proving to myself that normal things still existed.

I turned around and there he was…Sean. He was sipping juice from a glass cup, acting all smug. I kept my attention on the food to prevent myself from watching him.

“You always cook like this?” he suddenly asked.

The question threw me off more than it should’ve, mostly because it wasn’t framed like an accusation.

“It’s just food.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Sean said.

There it was again—the way Sean talked like he was owed answers. It irritated me more than I wanted to admit. I put down the plate of eggs and turned my attention back to the pan.

The chicken needed turning, so I turned it. Oil snapped softly against the meat. “I cook when I want something to do,” I said. It sounded normal enough, almost careless.

Sean didn’t answer. I felt him moving behind me instead of hearing him.

When I finally glanced over, he was leaning against the counter, watching the food instead of me. Or maybe he was watching both. It was hard to tell with him. I looked away first.

A few days earlier I would’ve filled the silence just to break it, but I let it sit.

“I’ve never seen you cook,” he said.

I shrugged. “You haven’t been around.”

“Maybe.”

I focused on the pan again. The edges of the chicken were a little too dark.

“I’m not used to seeing you like this,” Sean said.

I paused. “Like what?”

“Not fighting.”

Something rose up my chest, sharp and venomous, but I kept my face still. “I’m not always fighting, Sean.”

He didn’t react the way I expected him to. “You usually are,” he said.

I let out a short breath that almost became a laugh. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Silence again. Then, softer, “Maybe.”

I put the chicken on the plate with the eggs without thinking about it too much. It was just something to do with my hands. Sean didn’t move, and I could feel him still there next to me. And I didn’t look at him.

Not because I didn’t want to. Because I wasn’t sure what would happen if I did.

I didn’t plan to bring it up. It just slipped into the conversation the way thoughts did when silence stretched long enough. I’d vowed not to ask him again after that…that…act that happened in the office. I’d already decided I’d never speak about that again.