16. Be a Good Wife
16
BE A GOOD WIFE
DAISY
My eyes open and I need a beat for everything to come back, including the reason why I’m sprawled out in a room that looks fancier than a first-class hotel room.
It’s no hard guess which side is Charles’ on this bed. There are two leadership books neatly stacked on the nightstand, along with his notepad with an engraved Hawthorne crest and a matching ballpoint pen.
And of course it’s also the one I claimed last night.
Did I do it intentionally? Of course not. I was too nervous to make all those observations yesterday.
If anything, last night was a gift of revelations in so many ways. For the last four years, I’ve wondered if my boss even sleeps in his expensive tailor-made three-piece suits, but God, those suits fade in comparison to how Charles looks in black track pants and a matching T-shirt. The corded muscles of his neck, his shoulder blades, and that broad chest that remains hidden was all there for my eyes and my eyes only. The time he spends in the gym is definitely worth it if this is the result, and for a change, I’m happy that Charles hides all this masculinity behind his suits.
His usually perfect hair was a bit amiss, one dark blond curl falling over his forehead as he read his emails, his forehead furrowing in the process.
I couldn’t have spelled my name if someone had asked me, so noticing which side of the bed I claimed was definitely not in my focus.
But he didn’t correct me.
Is he the same man who guards his private space tighter than the security at the Louvre?
I slowly rise, resting my weight on my elbows behind my back and peering at the couch.
But it’s bare, without a trace of a pillow or the black duvet Charles had near his feet last night.
I glance at the clock, and it’s been eight hours since the man whom I nicknamed asshole kissed me right in the middle of this room. My fingers involuntarily drift to my lips, but they weren’t the only thing Charles touched last night. His grip was on my shoulders and my waist, and his fingers locked in my hair, tugging just enough to make me feel alive.
And then there was his unmistakable erection sliding against my stomach. Even through layers and layers of my wedding gown, I could feel it as Charles slightly rocked me, rubbing me over his hard length. I’m not a virgin, but Charles’ touch was damn powerful in a way I’ve never been touched before.
“What the heck?” I almost lurch at the sound of the cuckoo bird call that is accompanied by the sound of a gong from Charles’ wall clock.
My thighs jerk and I’m wetter than I’ve ever been, making me aware of new information—the memory of kissing my husband is my personalized and most potent foreplay.
I get out of bed and go in search of the man who’s the leading star of my dreams and thoughts these days. It doesn’t take much effort to find Charles, dressed immaculately in a fine black suit with a cup of black coffee before him. His gaze lifts from the tablet in his hand, where he’s busy reading the morning business news.
How do I know this?
Because I’m the one authorizing the payments for all those annual subscriptions, plus I’ve memorized my boss’ schedule by heart.
Yet, you didn’t know a whole lot about him—like he can melt you like butter with just a touch of his lips.
“Good morning.” I do a small wave when Charles simply stares at me for a beat. I wait for him to comment on me getting up so late and still being in my pajamas, but nothing.
Instead, Charles places the tablet back onto the table and rises from his chair. I freeze in place when he walks toward me.
“It’s definitely a good morning. You are finally mine, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His lips, which usually remain flat, curl to one side before he holds my face.
My breathing stops and my brain short-circuits when his thumb runs along my cheek before he leans in. My eyes fall closed as I wait for a peck like yesterday at the altar, because of course I know Charles losing control last night in his bedroom was something that happens probably once in a decade. But when his lips touch mine, fireworks go off in my head. His mouth, even though closed the entire time, works like magic.
When Charles finally pulls back, my hands are clutching his perfectly pressed suit jacket, leaving wrinkles in their wake. His one hand is still on my face, while the other is wrapped around my waist, supporting me in place.
“Definitely a good morning.” He winks, and before I can ask him what the hell is going on, his housekeeper, Mrs. K, as she’s called by everyone but Charles, clears her throat.
So much for not kissing for an audience. Hypocrite.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne. How do you take your coffee?” Her eyes crinkle with amusement as if surprised by this side of her boss.
That makes two of us.
“She’ll have two sugars and half a cup of milk.” Charles doesn’t even bother looking at her as he leads me to the chair next to him, surprising me some more.
“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I hiss while he replies with a grin.
For someone who can’t keep that perpetual scowl away for less than two seconds, he definitely met a happiness fairy and got dusted with some happiness dust this morning.
“What sort of husband would I be if I didn’t know that about my dear wife?”
Every time he says those three words, my dear wife , I feel a small zing going through my spine.
“I was waiting for you to show up for breakfast,” Charles adds.
“I’m not hungry this morning,” I mumble absently. This new version of Charles seems to have stolen my hunger and thirst, at least temporarily.
“Oh.” His grin slips but he recovers fast. “Then if you don’t mind, I’ll leave for the office. You can take the day off, if you’d like. You are a new bride, after all.”
Take a day off.
He continues to fire the surprise cannon relentlessly.
You want acting? You got it, Hawthorne.
My hands find his tie and I tug him closer. His eyes flare with a foreign expression for a second, so fleeting that I might have just guessed it, until he smiles and leans further in, making me gulp. But I push away those butterflies that have started to take flight every time Charles is around me.
“I’ll miss you too much if I stay home, husband. You can expect me at my desk in the next hour,” I coo in a honey-dipped voice.
“I’ll be counting the seconds, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His smile is so wide that I almost die.
He kisses the tip of my nose, and I want to bawl like a child at the sweetness of it all.
How dare he act so well.
Charles grabs his bag and saunters toward the main door, which opens right on cue. Dave’s hand stays at the knocker, and he speaks into his earpiece, alerting Steve about Charles’ move.
But everything dies in the background when, just before leaving through the heavy door, Charles looks over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and I suck in a breath of air.
“You look beautiful in butterflies, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His lips tip to one side, and then he’s gone.
What the heck?
My gaze skids from the door to my PJs, which have colorful butterflies, until I close my eyes hoping my racing heartbeat will calm down.
Before that can happen, I hear Mrs. Kowalski behind me. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Mrs. Hawthorne? Maybe some eggs or pancakes?”
“Please call me Daisy like you used to, Mrs. K. I don’t want everything to change.” Especially when my boss is filling every quota in that department.
I’m about to refuse the food again when my stomach rumbles loudly. In all my nervousness yesterday, I barely ate anything, and it seems the smell of coffee and the offer of pancakes is enough to bring back my lost appetite.
“My stomach likes the pancake offer.” I smile sheepishly.
“I’m happy to hear that. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll have your breakfast ready.”
When she leaves, I send a text to Kai.
Me: Hi. How’s Dad doing? Was yesterday too much exhaustion for him?
Kai: Not at all.
He sends me a picture of Dad focused deeply on his iPad.
Kai: He’s searching the latest fashions for older men. To set his social media image right from the start.
I can’t help my laugh.
Me: I don’t know if I should be happy or bothered about my dad’s newfound addiction.
Kai: Don’t worry. I have it under control.
Me: Thank you so much. You’re a godsend.
“Can I take my breakfast to the bedroom?” I ask Mrs. Kowalski as she gently places a plate of pancakes next to my coffee mug.
“This is your home, Daisy. You don’t need anyone’s permission here. Definitely not mine.” She gives me that warm smile once again.
“Does Charles ever eat in his room?”
“I think you know Mr. Hawthorne better than anyone.”
This time I match her grin with my own.
“So that’s a big fat no. Then I’d like to show his room some change.”
Your bedroom is no longer a breakfast spot virgin, my dear husband.
Mrs. Kowalski arranges my plate and coffee mug along with cutlery and a napkin on a wooden tray.
“In all the years of me working in this house, today is the first time Mr. Hawthorne acted out of his routine. He needed someone just like you in his life. I’m so happy to see you here, Daisy.”
Guilt slithers inside me, but I keep my smile in place. “Thank you.”
Once back in my room, I check my cellphone and there’s a missed call from Charles. I take a deep breath before pressing the green call sign on the screen.
“Wife.” His voice is cool like a breeze, and goose bumps litter my skin in its wake.
“If you are in the limo and the privacy screen is up, there’s no need for pretensions, Charles.”
He chuckles, and for some absurd reason I like the sound of it.
“Every second, you continue to prove that my decision about this marriage was absolutely perfect.”
“Your ego will someday kill you.” I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile.
“My darling wife wanting me dead the day after our wedding? I must be a really cruel husband.”
Gosh! Who the heck is this man?
I need some extra preparation to win against this version of Charles.
“What do you want, boss?”
“I want you to check that everything is okay for Vincent’s project. There’s an email about issues with the construction material. See what’s going on there. Vincent is one of our biggest clients. His project takes priority over everything else.”
“On it.” I put the phone on speaker and open the email app.
“Also, there’s a board meeting late this afternoon.”
“But it wasn’t on the schedule.” I pause and jump into the calendar app while Charles hums in agreement.
“It appears that after seeing us yesterday, no one has any more doubts. I once again have you to thank for everything, my dear wife.”
“I’d prefer a raise.”
“Let’s talk about that later.”
Charles’ chuckle ringing in my ear is so foreign. In this moment, I also realize he’s rarely called me in the past, always preferring text to calls.
“Why did you call me, Charles?” I ask carefully.
He’s quiet for a while and then says in that guarded tone of his, “I’ll be getting home late.”
“You could have sent me a text.” Another long pause, but I wait, knowing well that pulling words out of his mouth is like pulling teeth.
“I won’t be joining you for dinner at home. Don’t wait for me.”
It takes me a few moments to process his words, and finally it clicks.
I stare at the warm breakfast before me.
“Charles, did you—”
“I gotta go, Daisy. But I want the construction crew on Vincent’s site today.”
The call ends but the phone remains tucked against my ear. I grab the untouched breakfast tray and walk back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Kowalski leaves the carnations and scissors beside the vase and approaches me as I place the food onto the table. “Is something not right, dear?”
“Um, no. Did Charles eat breakfast this morning, Mrs. K?”
She shakes her head before a slow smile takes over her lips. “I think he was waiting for you.”
Oh, my!
“I didn’t know! He could have at least told me so.”
“You and I both know Mr. Hawthorne guards his emotions fiercely. But don’t worry, he’ll probably eat something in the office.”
Or he won’t, because my fake husband seems to have taken my parents’ story to heart.
“I hate doing this, but can you please store this for me in the fridge? I’ll have it for dinner. Charles is going to be late and will eat out.”
“Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll send this plate for Steve. That man will eat anything with sugar and syrup. You just let me know in the evening what you’d like to have for dinner, and I’ll make you something fresh.”
“Thank you so much. You’re the best.”
I still can’t get over the fact that Charles Hawthorne, the man who would rather cut off an arm than let go of his routine, skipped breakfast because of me.
By the time I reach the office, my brain is a hurricane of conflicting emotions. I’m almost tempted to give a name to this feeling that is equal parts attraction and irritation for Charles— irri-attraction.
My steps come to halt when I spot a gift box on my desk. With shaky legs, I approach it, and the thunder in my heart returns as I read the ivory paper engraved with a Hawthorne crest.
My dear wife,
This is your wedding present. It’s not something from your list, but I think you will like it.
Your husband,
Charles A. Hawthorne.
My fingers brush against the letters, tracing the black ink.
Who knew you could be such an amazing husband, Charles?
Once I tear off the wrapping paper, I can’t stop laughing. So hard that my belly hurts.
It’s a pair of furry slippers with butterflies and Best Wife written on their wings.
It’s cheesy, corny, and everything that my husband isn’t. Or the man I knew until yesterday.
I slip out of my heels and put the slippers on. A groan slips out of me as my feet meet the plush fur. I snap a picture, making sure that my purple-painted toenails are clearly visible.
Me: I give you 10/10 on your performance as a husband. In fact, I think you’re even compensating for your asshole, bossy vibes with this new charm.
Boss aka Charles Asshole Hawthorne: Don’t worry, that asshole boss isn’t far away.
While the three dots dance under his text, indicating he’s still typing something, I change his name on my contact list.
Husband aka Charles Adorable Hawthorne: This gift is also to remind you who you are, Mrs. Hawthorne. Now be a good wife and get to work.
This time I don’t even try to stop the butterflies taking flight inside my stomach as I imagine Charles repeating those same words, but we’re talking about a very different type of work.
I fan my face and drop my phone on my desk.
You are going to hell, Daisy.
Get to work means get to work and not think about Charles’ beautiful face graced by a five o’clock shadow, his pink lips, which are so soft and full that they make me jealous and hot at the same time, or his erection, which feels like it could take any girl on the ride of her life.
It takes another half hour for me to bring my focus back on the work at hand.
I sift through my inbox and move a ton of congratulatory emails to a separate folder so I don’t forget to reply with a personal note of thanks later. Finally, I reach the email about Vincent’s site and am shocked to find the construction union rep complaining about the weak infrastructure and unsafe working conditions.
I go through the reports and call the head of the construction company.
“Good morning, Mr. Buffay. This is Daisy from Hawthorne Holdings. What’s going on with the new construction site? I thought everything was on track.”
“Hi, Daisy. I mean…Mrs. Hawthorne.”
We both pause until I clear my throat and smile, even though the older man can’t see it. “Please call me Daisy. It’s worked all these years.”
“Sounds good. First of all, congratulations on the wedding. I didn’t expect you to be back to work already.”
“One day off for the wedding day was enough of a break for Charles, and I didn’t want my husband to miss his second wife—his work—too much.”
He chuckles. “You’re a funny one, as always. Regarding the construction”—his voice gets serious—“I have no idea what changed in the last forty-eight hours. Everything was going as planned until two days back.”
“Can you meet me at the site and we can figure out what’s going on?”
“Sure. If you like, I can pick you up at your office.”
“Oh, that’ll be good. Then I’ll wait for your call when you’re close to the Hawthorne Tower.” It’s not the first time I’ll be riding with one of our business partners for work.
“You got it.”
An hour later, Mr. Buffay and I are standing outside the building, if we can use that term for the four walls that sway with a heavy gust of wind.
I tug on the collar of my coat to stop my shivering in the cold. My teeth chatter as I turn to Mr. Buffay. “Let’s get in and then we can talk to the workers and the supervisor.”
But when we step inside, the place is empty except for one worker, who’s also hurrying to the door.
“Hi, sir. Where is everyone?”
“Everyone’s gone.” The worker looks over his shoulder. “This place isn’t safe.”
“Wait, please.” I run after him, which is a dangerous thing to do in heels in this place that’s on the verge of falling any minute. “Where’s your supervisor?”
“He was the first to leave once we found out that the construction material is dirt cheap. It’s unsafe and hazardous. This place will collapse any minute. If you’re here for proof, you can check the super’s office. There are some files and reports.” With those departing words, the worker in blue overalls leaves without waiting for any more of my questions.
“It’s impossible,” Mr. Buffay mumbles, wiping away the sweat beads from his forehead.
He’s right to be nervous.
If what the worker said is correct, Charles will not tolerate this. He’ll want Buffay’s head and maybe even mine for picking Buffay Construction for one of the biggest high-stake Hawthorne Holdings projects.
“I should go to the warehouse and talk to the person in charge.” Buffay presses several buttons on his phone, possibly reprimanding his staff in text. “I’ll drop you off first, and then—”
“No, you go. I’ll call Steve, but first I want to gather all the paperwork from the super’s office. If there’s anything in there that can tell us what happened here, I’ll find it out.”
“Are you sure? I don’t like leaving you here, Daisy. It’s not safe.” He grimaces as he looks around.
“Don’t worry. If this place stayed for two days, I’m sure it’ll stay for another ten minutes. I’ll text Steve right now.”
Me: Can you come to this address and pick me up, please?
I show the text to Mr. Buffay.
“We need to figure out what the hell happened here by the end of the day. Believe me, Charles is not looking forward to hearing this, so I’d like us to at least have a plan for how we’re getting back on track.”
The old man cringes. “I understand completely. I’m going to leave now, but you call me when you reach your office so I know you are safe.”
“I will.”
After he leaves, I walk past the brick walls and finally locate a small makeshift office.
The walls in this room are plastered, and there’s a small light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There’s a chair that looks like it was delivered recently, with the untorn plastic still intact. I flop down on it and grab the manila folder on the table.
Everything clearly shows that whoever was put in charge by Mr. Buffay was not doing their job, unless it was to mooch money off their boss.
My gaze lands on my watch, and I realize it’s already been forty minutes.
Where is Steve?
I grab my phone from my purse and realize two things—I never sent the text, and my phone is almost dead. Of course, with everything that happened last night, plugging my phone in to charge was the last thing on my mind.
The moment I hit send, my phone turns off.
Crap.
I grab the charger from my purse and find an electric outlet. Right when I flip a light switch on, a spark hits the bulb, which crashes down to the floor. A squeal leaves my lips when the wall next to the door collapses, and I find myself leaning against the only two walls that are still erect.