Because he’s not just making dinner. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and under the apron my fake husband is wearing a white button-down shirt and a pair of dove-gray slacks, which hug his ass so well that there should be a monument built in honor of the curves.
Not something I should notice about my fake husband, I remind myself for roughly the thousandth time.
“Come here.”
Charlie steps around the island, picking up a beer on the way and pressing the cool glass into my hand as he guides me to the kitchen table. On the wooden surface is a stack of wrapped gifts.
“My birthday isn’t until May.”
“Ah. But this isn’t for your birthday.”
Charlie kneels on one knee beside my chair. If we weren’t already married, I’d be concerned he was about to propose.
“Happy one-month anniversary.”
“Charlie,” I groan as realization hits. “Seriously? We’re fake married! You can’t get me gifts for a fake anniversary.”
“Too late!” He grins.
“Well then, return them.” I shove the packages away like the ungrateful bitch I am.
But Charlie only shrugs, his smile not wavering in the slightest. “Can’t. They’re personalized.”
I mutter a curse as he straightens and returns to the kitchen, likely to finish making whatever delicious creation I smell. For a full minute, I sit, pouting and sipping my beer. Charlie doesn’t prod or get mad or insist I open the gifts.
He just keeps cooking.
Eventually, curiosity overwhelms my good sense, and I pull the first wrapped rectangle toward me. There’s a certain pleasure in tearing off the paper. Until all I find is an empty frame. Picking it up, I check the back, then the front again.
But nope, nothing to see.
“It’s empty,” I announce.
Charlie makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.
I move on to the next one.
And the next.
And the next.
And so on, until I’ve opened six empty frames.
Well, this is a certain kind of bullshit. And when I realize I’m disappointed, I have to admit, I let myself get excited about a surprise that shouldn’t have even happened.
“Here.” Charlie sets another wrapped rectangle down in front of me.
I use all of my willpower not to glare up at him. “You forgot one of the very important empty frames?”
Charlie barks out a laugh, but doesn’t answer, choosing to set the table instead.
My bar resting very low, I tear off the gold paper.
The string of empty frames ends when I stare down at a small, thin hardback book.
At the sight of the cover, I suck in a sharp breath, every muscle in my body tightening. “Where’d you get this?”
“Dash.” Charlie’s voice has lost its teasing edge, all sincerity now.
