Page 62 of Marry Lies
And I want to know why.
Especially if I have to spend the next year with him.
Miles is already seated when I walk into the dining room.
His eyes track across my face before quickly darting down to my still-flushed chest.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asks, brows furrowed.
I swear my cheeks must be bright red right now. “I’m fine,” I say quickly, sitting down next to him and taking a sip of my white wine. Hopefully it’ll cool me down. It’s delicious—lightly sweet and tart. My favorite mix of flavors.
And it hits me then—that it reminds me of Miles and those damn green apples he’s always eating.
Pressing my lips together, I set the wine down as my whole body heats even more—as I think of his breath fanning across my face, the scent of those apples on his breath…
“Apologies for bowing out last night,” he says coolly.
I shrug. “I’m used to it by now,” I snark, referring to the time he left me in the restaurant with our fathers.
He pins me with a dark glare, but before he can respond, the chef comes in and serves us a bowl of soup. It’s bright green, and I eye it suspiciously as the familiar, grassy scent permeates the air.
There’s no way…
Suddenly, the anger and annoyance I was feeling dissipates.
“Is this celeriac soup?” I ask, my voice small.
“It is.”
I sit back and stare down at the bowl. He asked the chef to make my favorite foods, and I realize suddenly, after going through the past week of meals in my head, that he’s been ensuring every dinner has some remnants of home.
For me.
The gravity of that makes me feel emotional.Why does he have to be such an arse most of the time? When he’s being decent, he’s actually very kind and thoughtful.
I don’t say anything as I slowly eat the soup. It’s quite good, and Miles seems to agree because he finishes the whole bowl and makes a low humming sound in the back of his throat.
“Did you like it?” I ask.
“I did. It’s very flavorful. I’ve never had it before.” Leaning forward with clasped hands, he gives me a pointed look. “I meant to tell you earlier, but I asked the chef to prepare some of your favorite foods, at least for the first couple of weeks.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head and smirks. “Because my wife is British.”
I nearly roll my eyes, but I stop myself. It’s a sweet gesture. I swallow the knot in my throat when I think of the key sitting in my front pocket.
He’s trying.
I have to give him some credit for that.
“Thank you,” I tell him genuinely.
“How was your day?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine.
“Good. And yours?” I ask politely.
He shrugs as he takes a sip of his wine, so I do the same.
