Lib Novel Page 92
This time the grin on Charles’ lips is sincere. “Chloe loves kids. I’d be shocked if she doesn’t produce a wailing, thrashing baby within the first year of marriage. She’ll love that little devil despite the pain, vomit, and poop.”
“You’re definitely not competing for the favorite uncle trophy.” An irritating knot of tension settles in my stomach, twisting uncomfortably.
“There’re enough people who will give them love. I better do the things I’m good at, and love is definitely not my strength.”
“You don’t say.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
Why the heck is my agitation rising with Charles’ every word.
He’s just being honest.
“Daisy—” Whatever Charles is about to say gets interrupted by the ringing of his phone. His gaze stays on me for a second longer before he tends to the call.
My head turns toward the window, staring at the moving traffic and streetlights. I hate the feeling of jealousy that creeps up in my chest as I imagine Chloe with her kids. They’d enjoy slumber parties and movie nights in Sophia and Ashcroft’s home. Everyone would love them, and I know without a doubt that Charles would protect his sister’s family and her dreams more fiercely than his own heartbeat.
If this isn’t luck, what is?
Lost in my thoughts, I spot a streak of light in the sky and my eyelids fall closed, a wish taking shape in my heart.
If not in this life, please, Mother Nature, I want to have love of every kind in my next life.
But with my horrible luck at relationships, there’s a massive chance that it isn’t a shooting star and just the flashing headlights of a vehicle on the windy streets of the mountains.
When my eyes open, I find Charles’ reflection staring at me in the mirror, the phone still tucked to his ear.
Standing in front of the mirror, I apply my night cream and stare at my reflection.
This is silly and borderline crazy, Daisy.
Why the heck are you upset that Charles doesn’t want kids or a family?
He isn’t your real husband. This is a contract marriage with an end date.
Plus, we haven’t even had sex. I haven’t even seen his dick for real. Maybe he doesn’t know how to use it to make babies.
Yeah, now that’s a whole other level of bullshit.
If he wanted to, Charles Hawthorne could get a woman pregnant with his statement scowling glare alone.
Like the previous nights, I’m not wearing a bra, and my nipples poke through the thin cotton of my panda T-shirt just at the thought of my husband.
My brain continues to be on a seesaw with this man—one second, angry and upset, and in the next, remembering how he’s started to act around me.
I’m still staring in the mirror when the doorknob turns and Charles walks in, dressed in low-hanging track pants and his chest bare in all its glory.
“Hey, you cannot walk in like that.” All the butterflies in my stomach go crazy wild at his sly grin.
“Then you should have locked the door.”
Good point.
But for someone who’s used to living alone in my apartment, I’m still getting used to the idea of a roommate.
“What if I wasn’t dressed or in the shower?”
“Then we would be having a very different kind of conversation,” Charles drawls.
It’s so easy to fall under the spell of this man, who’s completely different from the one outside these four walls of his bedroom. Even though this version of Charles smiles and makes stupid jokes, he’s still a pole apart from me.