Page 40 of Marry Lies
“I haven’t checked my email today,” I respond.
“Very well. Once you sign the contract, we will schedule a monthly bank transfer.” I nod without answering. Miles looks at me as he chews. When he’s done, he swallows slowly. “Monthly installments are all right?”
“That’s fine.”
The hand holding the fork stills. “Are you sure? We can work out a weekly arrangement instead, if you’d like—”
“I said it’s fine, Miles. To be honest, I assumed you would lord the money over me for the entire year.”
Something flashes in his eyes when I say that. Almost…surprise. Possibly guilt.
The expression is gone in an instant.
Interesting.
Why would he feel guilty?
I wasn’t sure of the logistics of Charles Ravage’s money, but I assumed I wouldn’t receive it until the end of the year. That was the verbal agreement, after all.
“Well, this way you can utilize the money for the startup of your clothing line. And of course, what’s mine is yours for the duration of the year,” he adds, referring to the clause I knew he added to the prenuptial agreement.
“Thank you.”
His eyes slide to mine briefly before he swallows the rest of his wine. I do the same, and he refills both of our glasses. We eat and drink in silence, though I can feel his eyes on me throughout the meal. Every time I look up, he’s already turning away, but the hairs on the back of my neck continue to stand up under his intense gaze.
I have to actively keep quiet when the infusion of flavors in the watermelon, feta, and mint create the perfect combination in my mouth. I love food—if someone else cooks it. When we finish, the next course arrives. I do a double take when the chef sets the plate down in front of me.
“Is this…” I look down at what can’t possibly be my favorite meal from home.
“I spoke to your father this morning, and he mentioned you love cottage pie. So we researched the ingredients,” he says matter-of-factly. “Voila, ma femme.”
I look down at the perfectly browned mash, swallowing the emotion clawing up my throat.
Get a grip, Estelle.He’s still an arse, whether or not he has your favorite meal cooked. I’ve never been won over that easily before. If I keep swooning at every morsel of attention and kindness he throws my way, this is going to be a remarkably unbearable year.
I clear my throat. “Thank you,” I tell him, taking a steadying breath. He doesn’t look at me as he tucks into his dish—he just hums in acknowledgement without saying anything else.
Fine, we’ll just spend the year eating in awkward silence, no big deal.
When we’re both finished, the chef clears the table before bringing in the pudding course—which is decadent chocolate cake. I nearly moan when I take a bite.
As awkward as these dinners might become, I could get used to the idea of three-course dinners every evening.
“This is delicious,” I say to no one in particular.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Miles says, his voice controlled. “I’d like for you to dine with me every night.”
His lack of enthusiasm makes it sound like he’s asking me if I’d like to get a nightly colonoscopy.
“Sure.”
“And I’ll let the chef know you liked his cottage pie. He can make it for you anytime you want.”
I nod. “Thanks. My grandmother used to make it for me.”
Miles is quiet for a few minutes, and at first I think he’s choosing to ignore my olive branch.
“The one who passed away last year?”
