Page 29 of The Mafia Bachelor

He doesn’t choose me.

Another week of turning myself inside out about my growing feelings for Kill, and I’m back in a luxury resort, this one on the Mediterranean coast and it feels huge, sprawling along the coastline. The task went well, I thought? A polygraph test.

While some of the other girls stammered over the questions about their reasons for being here, their previous sexual partners, or their feelings for Kill, all those were too easy for me.

Yes, he’s paying me, but that’s not why I’m here.

And then Kill chose Jemma to take to dinner tonight.

He’s paying me. He sent me a gorgeous dress. Silk. A deep-green that sets off my hair beautifully. It made me feel like a princess wearing that dress. I thought it would be me. I thought I’d bask in the warmth of his attention.

Instead, I sit alone in my bedroom and stew. It’s stupid, and unreasonable, but I can’t help it.

My man is with another woman.

Except, he’s not mine, is he? He’s as far from being mine as Pluto is from being a planet. Just an asteroid that was told it was special. Not unique, one of many, many in the vicinity.

When reading a historical novel fails, I try to browse for a new book. And when that doesn’t distract me, I put on the television. That’s a waste of time too, as I stare at the expensive screen and wonder if he’s laughing with her. She’s quite funny. Maybe they’re bonding over a shared love of guns. She probably knows what ammunition goes with what gun, and what the difference between a shotgun and a pistol and a handgun is. Or something.

Will he kiss her?

I’m fully torturing myself, and I know it’s stupid to be so jealous, but I can’t help it. This is the worst thing that has happened to me.

I flop back onto the bed, leaving the television on, and stare at the ceiling. When did I get so invested in what should only be a job? This is a well-paid job, and could open doors for me to get another one. Maybe a junior position in a law firm, like I thought I wanted.

Years of legal training, and this is the result? I haven’t even got the critical reasoning skills to logically argue myself out of wanting a man who hired me to help him not marry. I have a degree in being a hopeless case.

I didn’t use to think I was a romantic. I’ve never been interested in boys, preferring my books or studying, or television shows. And my helpful libido has popped off at a man almost twice my age. Helpful. Thanks. Good timing.

It’ll be hours before they return. The other girls are in the social area of this part of the resort we’re staying in, but I can’t stand to be on display right now. I’m too liable to show how much I care in inappropriate ways like tears and a big outburst.

What if she’s touching him? Worse, what if he’s touching her? I wonder if she’ll invite him back to her room. It would be against the rules, but Jemma isn’t a rule taker. I bet she’d find a way.

The hours drag past like a half-dead animal clawing to its den to finish its life in peace and comfort. I don’t know what to do with myself, and I hate that I care so desperately.

Probably Kill’s mother is happy. Since she doesn’t seem to like me, she’ll be pleased he chose someone else. And what about Kill? Why did he choose her? He could have chosen me, and we could have pretended to be falling in love for these few hours, and damn, but I didn’t realise how much I was enjoying that pretence. How much I wasn’t faking it, but chipping away at my heart to give to Kill.

But maybe he’s doing it out of some other reason? Most likely, he wants to see if Jemma is really a good fit for him as a wife.

She probably is.

I turn on the television for some noise, because without it, I’m listening out for Jemma returning from the date. It makes me a bad person, no doubt, but I hope it went terribly, and finishes early. Maybe she’ll say something awful and Kill will reject her, so I don’t have to worry about being compared to her.

I flick through channels, including the ones not in English, unable to settle. I miss having my phone, but they’re taken from us for these dates.

Then it happens.

There are doors open and shut, squeals, giggles. I don’t go out to hear about Jemma’s date. I think the details might break me. And from the sounds, I’d rather not know. Jemma is excited, and clearly thinks it went well.

I’m glad, and I’m devastated.

At least the evening is over, and I can stop torturing myself.

But I’m crumbling inside, and if you sliced me open I’d bleed as green as the dress Kill gave me, because I’m more jealous than I thought was possible. It’s a toxin I can’t eject.

I stare at the screen without seeing it until the fuss dies down. The other girls call “good night,” and “well done” to Jemma. They close their doors, and then there’s only the low noise of the television.

I should go to bed.