Lib Novel Page 70
“Why did you call me, Charles?” I ask carefully.
He’s quiet for a while and then says in that guarded tone of his, “I’ll be getting home late.”
“You could have sent me a text.” Another long pause, but I wait, knowing well that pulling words out of his mouth is like pulling teeth.
“I won’t be joining you for dinner at home. Don’t wait for me.”
It takes me a few moments to process his words, and finally it clicks.
I stare at the warm breakfast before me.
“Charles, did you—”
“I gotta go, Daisy. But I want the construction crew on Vincent’s site today.”
The call ends but the phone remains tucked against my ear. I grab the untouched breakfast tray and walk back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Kowalski leaves the carnations and scissors beside the vase and approaches me as I place the food onto the table. “Is something not right, dear?”
“Um, no. Did Charles eat breakfast this morning, Mrs. K?”
She shakes her head before a slow smile takes over her lips. “I think he was waiting for you.”
Oh, my!
“I didn’t know! He could have at least told me so.”
“You and I both know Mr. Hawthorne guards his emotions fiercely. But don’t worry, he’ll probably eat something in the office.”
Or he won’t, because my fake husband seems to have taken my parents’ story to heart.
“I hate doing this, but can you please store this for me in the fridge? I’ll have it for dinner. Charles is going to be late and will eat out.”
“Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll send this plate for Steve. That man will eat anything with sugar and syrup. You just let me know in the evening what you’d like to have for dinner, and I’ll make you something fresh.”
“Thank you so much. You’re the best.”
I still can’t get over the fact that Charles Hawthorne, the man who would rather cut off an arm than let go of his routine, skipped breakfast because of me.
By the time I reach the office, my brain is a hurricane of conflicting emotions. I’m almost tempted to give a name to this feeling that is equal parts attraction and irritation for Charles—irri-attraction.
My steps come to halt when I spot a gift box on my desk. With shaky legs, I approach it, and the thunder in my heart returns as I read the ivory paper engraved with a Hawthorne crest.
My dear wife,
This is your wedding present. It’s not something from your list, but I think you will like it.
Your husband,
Charles A. Hawthorne.
My fingers brush against the letters, tracing the black ink.
Who knew you could be such an amazing husband, Charles?
Once I tear off the wrapping paper, I can’t stop laughing. So hard that my belly hurts.
It’s a pair of furry slippers with butterflies and Best Wife written on their wings.