Page 90 of The Temporary Fiancée
On my way back to the register, I notice a display with winter hats, scarves and gloves. On a whim, I pick out a matching set of each, all a light lavender color that I think will match with Olivia’s dark hair.
“Is this all?” asks the cashier.
I nod. “Is there any way you can ship it? Same day?”
“Of course,” he says. “I just need an address to send it to. In-state, it should arrive within twenty-four hours.”
I pay for the coat and the shipping, thank the cashier, then head out of the store. Doing something nice for Olivia like this always seems to put me in a good mood—and a good mood is like armor when I’m on my way to work, where I’m all but certain to have a run-in with my father.
Luckily, though, the workday passes by quickly. I find myself busy with a million things, and it’s easy enough to stay focused on that. Lionel doesn’t bother me at any point during the day, either. Maybe he doesn’t think it’s worth it. Maybe he’s giving me the cold shoulder. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I’m not going to question it.
At the end of the day, when I arrive home, the penthouse smells amazing.
I head for the kitchen, the source of the aroma, and find Olivia at the stove. There’s something sizzling in a pan on the front burner, and she’s tending it, stirring slowly and humming while she cooks.
“What’s going on in here?” I ask.
She jumps, startled, and turns toward me. “You scared me,” she accuses.
“Are youcooking?”
She sniffs, drawing herself to her full height—which, unfortunately for her, isn’t an inch over five-foot-one. “Yes, I am.”
I arch a brow. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
“My mom’s rehab is going well,” Olivia says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the blush over her cheeks. “She’s improving more than she has in months. Her stamina’s increasing, she’s getting stronger—and it’s all thanks to you.”
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s the doctors, and it’s?—”
“No, it’s true,” she interrupts. “You were the one who found and paid for that rehab program. Without it, she’d be getting worse, and instead, she’s getting better.”
“So you’re making me dinner?”
“Dinner isn’t even scratching the surface of what I owe you,” she says, returning her attention to the stove. “But it’s something. To show my gratitude.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, but she immediately shakes her head.
“Iwantto, though.” She turns the heat down on the burner, and the sizzling of the meat in the pan—ground beef, I think—grows quieter. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, since our dinner last night was stressful, I felt like you might need an antidote for it.”
I find myself smiling. “You know what? That sounds nice.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So what are you making?” I approach the stove, looking over her shoulder at the pan. There’s seasoned ground beef in there, along with some sliced bell peppers and onions.
She frowns down at the pan thoughtfully, inspecting its contents. “It was supposed to be fajitas, but I’m not really sure I followed the recipe right.”
“Well, it smells great,” I tell her. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
“Thanks.” She grins. “I’m almost done, actually, if you wouldn’t mind setting the table.”
“You got it.” I head over to the cabinets across the kitchen, select two plates, and go to the dining table just outside. I have a larger table in its own room—the room where we hosted all of our friends for dinner—but since it’s just the two of us, I figure that the breakfast nook will be a better setting.
As I lay out the plates, I keep stealing glances at Olivia in the kitchen. She’s started humming again as she pulls a batch of flour tortillas out of the oven, where she was warming them. Sheportions the fajita filling into a bowl and sticks a pair of serving tongs into it.
It only takes her a few more minutes to finish up dinner. She joins me at the table, presenting the dishes with a flourish. “Voila. Hope it’s edible. I’m not entirely sure I did this right.”
