Imperfect Match (Elixir Bachelor Billionaires #1)

But he never wanted to be a dad!

I drop the pages onto the bed and open the latch on the metal box, hoping it’ll have an answer to why Charles’ lawyer is playing such a bad joke on me.

There are envelopes—fifty, maybe even more—in various sizes and colors, and all addressed to the same name. Monica. I turn the first one around and take out the letter. My gaze immediately drops to the bottom of the page.

Your loving son, Charlie.

My heart sits back so deep in my chest that I fear it’ll stay there forever.

These are letters from Charles to his birth mother!

I sift through the envelopes, which seem to be carefully chosen, and based on Charles’ writing, I make an assumption about his age for each one.

My hands stop when I find the one that seems to be the oldest of all.

Dear Mom,

I miss you. A lot.

Your loving son,

Charlie.

The words are written on a lined paper in a child’s broken writing. Knowing the confident man that Charles has grown into, it’s almost impossible to imagine him as a kid. Someone who would make simple mistakes, like write his letters wrong. But these letters are proof that behind the unflappable exterior beats a heart that once pined for affection.

My eyes burn as I put all the letters back into their envelopes and bring the box close to my heart. Tears spill from the sides of my eyes, getting lost in my hair, and slowly things start to piece themselves together.

He’s scared.

37

WHAT I CAN GIVE YOU

CHARLES

“Mr. Hawthorne, Mrs. Hawthorne is here to see you,” my temp assistant, whose name I still have yet to remember, says through the intercom.

“My grandmother?”

“No, sir. Your wife.”

My head snaps up to the mirrored wall and there she is. My wife, dressed in a casual dress and a red overcoat.

Shit!

I give my desk a once-over. What used to be so spotless one could eat off it, is now a total mess. But I’m not going to keep Daisy waiting by tidying it up now.

“Send her in.” My stomach rolls as I wait, and it doesn’t take long before there’s a knock on the door and she steps inside.

Memories of last night, which I’d ignored until now, surround me like a shroud at the sight of her. My office walls dissolve away, leaving only her and me in our bedroom, as she whispers, “I love you, Charles,” and kisses me.

I’ve replayed this scene so many times in my head since this morning. I have no clue if it was real or a remnant of some drunken dream. And what would I give to confirm it?

“How are you feeling?” she whispers, still several feet away from where I’m standing behind my desk.

“Like my head is going to explode any minute now,” I reply honestly. “Thanks for leaving the meds out. About last night—”

“I have to return something to you,” Daisy interrupts me midsentence, stepping farther in and placing a shopping bag on the table.