Chapter 7: Claire POV
It's been over a month since the wedding and my new role as Ethan's wife. Things have calmed down a bit but still, the marriage feels overwhelming at times.
The mansion's kitchen is a flurry of activity, and I'm in the middle of it, arranging candles on the dining room table like my life depends on it. Tonight's a surprise for Ethan, a candlelit dinner, just us. His small gestures lately, a hand on my shoulder, a laugh that lingers, have me buzzing with hope, but my stomach's in knots. What if I'm reading this wrong? I adjust a fork for the third time, my hands trembling, when the doorbell chimes.
"Mrs. Carter!" Daniel's voice booms from the foyer before I can even get there. He strides in, his green eyes glinting with mischief. "You're glowing. Marriage suits you."
I roll my eyes, heat creeping up my cheeks. "I'm just busy, Daniel. Coffee?"
"Deflecting already?" He grins, leaning against the counter as I pour him a cup. "Come on, Claire. Ethan's got a new vibe. You're doing something right."
I shove the mug at him, avoiding his gaze. "He's just… less stressed. Work's going well."
"Uh-huh." He sips, smirking. "Keep telling yourself that."
I busy myself with the coffee pot, my face burning. Daniel's too perceptive, always has been. Before he can push further, my phone rings, Matthew Carter's name on the screen. I answer, bracing myself.
"Claire," Matthew says, his voice gruff but warm. "Just wanted to say you're doing a hell of a job. Ethan's focused, and the board's eating up this love story of yours."
I blink, caught off guard. "Thank you, Mr. Carter. I'm just trying to keep up."
"More than that," he says. "You're good for him. Keep it up."
I hang up, a smile tugging at my lips, but it fades when my phone pings with a text from Emily: Don't fall deeper, Claire. He's not yours. I read it aloud to myself, my voice flat, then delete it, pacing the kitchen. She's wrong. She has to be.
"Everything okay?" Daniel asks, watching me.
"Fine," I say, too quick. "I've got a dinner to prep. You staying?"
"Nah, I'll let you lovebirds have your night." He winks, setting down his mug. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Get out," I laugh, shoving him toward the door. He's gone, and I'm alone again, checking the table one last time. I call Maria, the head chef, from the doorway.
"Maria, the salmon's ready for eight, right?" I ask, my voice betraying my nerves.
"Yes, ma'am," she says, chopping herbs. "And the dessert's chilling. You want the wine opened now?"
"Please," I say, smoothing my dress, a simple black one, nothing flashy. I second-guess it, wondering if I should've gone bolder, but there's no time. Ethan's due home soon.
I light the candles, the flames flickering as twilight settles outside. My phone stays quiet, but Emily's text lingers, a splinter in my mind. I push it away, focusing on the table, the music, soft jazz, not too much. When I hear the front door, my heart leaps.
"Claire?" Ethan's voice carries from the foyer, tired but curious.
"In here," I call, stepping into the dining room's glow. He appears, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his gray eyes widening as he takes in the setup.
"What's this?" he asks, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
"Dinner," I say, gesturing to the table. "Just us. Thought we could use a night in."
He sets his jacket down, his gaze softening. "You didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to," I say, my voice quieter than I mean it. "Sit. Maria's salmon is legendary."
He laughs, a real laugh, and pulls out my chair before taking his. "You're spoiling me, Claire."
"Someone has to," I tease, sitting as Maria brings the plates. The salmon smells divine, and we dig in, the conversation flowing easier than I expected.
"So, board meeting today," Ethan says, cutting into his fish. "You should've seen Hargrove. Guy spent ten minutes bragging about his golf game, claiming he sank a hole-in-one last weekend."
I raise an eyebrow, sipping my wine. "Hargrove? The man who trips over his own feet? No way he pulled that off."
Ethan grins, leaning forward. "Exactly! I called him out, said I'd believe it when I saw the scorecard. He backpedaled so fast, started mumbling about 'almost' getting it. Whole room was cracking up."
I laugh, picturing it. "You're mean. Poor guy's probably still sweating."
"Poor guy? He's insufferable," Ethan says, but his eyes are bright, playful. "Your turn. What's the worst thing you dealt with this week?"
I set my fork down, smirking. "Oh, you'll love this. Got an email from that new client, Peterson. You know, the one who thinks he's God's gift to finance? Sent me a proposal so full of typos, I thought it was a prank. He wrote 'pubic offering' instead of 'public.' Twice."
Ethan chokes on his wine, coughing. "No. You're kidding."
"Dead serious," I say, giggling. "I had to proofread it three times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Sent it back with a polite, 'Maybe review this?' He hasn't replied."
"Claire, you're a saint," he says, shaking his head, still chuckling. "I'd have forwarded it to the whole board just to shame him."
"And that's why you're the boss," I say, raising my glass. "I'm just the one cleaning up the messes."
"You're more than that," he says, his voice dropping, serious now. "You know that, right?"
The air shifts, and I feel it, the spark I've been chasing. Our hands brush as we reach for the bread, and neither of us pulls away. His fingers linger, warm against mine, and my breath catches.
"Claire," he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. He leans closer, and I meet him halfway, our lips brushing in a kiss that's tentative at first, then deeper, urgent. My heart's racing, and I'm dizzy with it, with him.
"Upstairs?" he whispers, his forehead against mine.
This is the first time he is asking me upstairs to his room.
My heart skips.
This could be the moment.