Dunl

us finally walked through the door on the third evening, I was sitting

idiculously large bouquet of my favorite peonies and a small, velvet box containing a di

came home

lat as he shrugged off his

, prodding at the seared salmon on his plate.

his brow furrowed in dis

y own fork frozen

udden, disproportionate anger. "You' ve been doing this

ast one night at his ex-fiancée's apartment, and he was yelling at me about dry fish. It was then I knew. This wasn't a

ad been with his family for decades, scurried o

ands. "It's my fault. Mrs. Monroe wasn't feeling well tod

actually see me, taking in my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes. A flicker of some

e'll just make do," he muttered, his ange

ng, not for his false accusation, and

e with a soft clatter. The sound was quiet, but in the

up, his

y voice even and cal

or. His gaze was unreadable, a carefully construc

sed. "You're angry, but I

y styled hair. It was his classic move, the gesture he used when he was trying to appear reasonable and patient in the face of what he considered

I had married, the man who had looked at me with such a

on my tongue. "And I am not your personal chef. If you don't like th

chair back a

er the 'simple things,' I'm sure Isla would be more than happy

scraping loudly against the polished floor. "What does Isla have

ng," I sa

bringing her into every conversation!" He slammed his hand down on the table, making t

g alone in the deafening silence, the smell of the dry, unwanted