Charley Davidson, Tome 10.5 : A very Charley Christmas

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

“What?”

“That look when I brought in the presents.”

“Probably not.”

“I could pay you. I’m married to a very rich man.”

“You don’t say.”

Clearly my powers of persuasion had taken a vacay. It happened. I rounded the island to force his attention my way. It didn’t work. “Reyes, I’m your wife.”

“So, that’s why you sleep in my bed. I was wondering.” He didn’t look up, but the expression on his face told me he had already moved on. He had no intention of talking about whatever was bothering him. This required diplomacy. Deftness. Delicacy.

I could be delicate. I was a delicate freaking flower, after all. I could do this.

I girded my loins, metaphorically, and went straight for the jugular. “Is this about Christmas? Why you won’t talk about it?”

The sadness that hooded his eyes was so fleeting I almost missed it.