Page 73 of The Contract Marriage

“Oh my God, I gave you a hint!”

She stares back at me blankly. I just sigh again, deflating. How can she not know? The somebody really dear to me is her. Was I too subtle about who I love? I never told her I loved her because if I did, she’d likely run. But shouldn’t she know? At least a little?

And they say men are obtuse when it comes to romance.

“Give me another hint,” she says.

“No. Just finish your dinner.”

“Oh, come on! This is so unfair!”

“Unfair? What’s unfair is that you don’t know.”

“Fine. I’m going to Google right now.”

“Google won’t help.”

But she pulls out her phone and tries anyway, then says, “Aha! Your brothers—Rhys and Finn—founded their investment firm together today!”

My shoulders start shaking, and I just cover my face. She’s so far off it’s ridiculous. “And why would I celebrate their company founding with you, overlooking a beautiful ocean sunset and having halibut?”

She blinks a couple of times. “Maybe because they’re too busy…?”

I laugh harder, torn between affection and exasperation. How can she not realize that today is about her? That today is special because she came into this world?

Then I stop at a horrible realization: she never expected me to celebrate her birthday. Meanwhile, though, Simon got to give her a gift.

It pools in my belly like rancid oil, but I also wonder how much losing her mother robbed her of the chance to celebrate life’s happy milestones. Hugh doesn’t strike me as a good father, and when your own father treats you badly, his mistress won’t be any better either. As much as I dislike Simon, I have a feeling that, until him, nobody in her life bothered with things like birthdays after her mother’s death.

Olivia pouts. “Fine. You’re just being difficult. But I think I’m right.”

“Okay,” I say, humoring her even as my heart aches for the girl who hasn’t had a birthday celebrated since her mom’s passing.

“Good. I’m glad we agree that I’m right. And since you’re being agreeable, here, have a bite of salad.” Olivia cuts a piece of the iceberg lettuce wedge and tries to feed me.

“I have my own salad.”

“You can use a little extra.”

“Why?” I eye her extra-sunny smile warily.

“So you can live long and prosper and all that.”

I squint. “Do you not like the salad?”

“Of course I like the salad. It’s just that sometimes, when I have such delicate fish, I don’t want to overwhelm it with green stuff. That’s all.”

I point to the lettuce. “Eat yours, so you can live long and prosper.” And be happy. With me.

“Okay, fine, I’ll eat it!”

I chuckle at her mutinous face. She really is cute when she tries to get out of eating something as innocuous as iceberg lettuce.

“Tell Frederich that this salad would be much better if he put in about two spoonfuls of crumbled bacon bits,” she adds.

“That would negate the point of eating the salad, because I’m certain he used five sticks of butter to make this fish.”

“I knew I liked that man for a reason.”