Page 120 of Imperfect Match
“It’s our first holiday together. I want to make it special.” He shrugs, and I wait, because if I’ve learned something these past weeks, it’s that there’s always more with Charles. And he proves me right the next second.
“You told me how your dad bought these rhinestone hair clips for your mom.” His fingers graze the pearl hair clip in my hair tonight. “I liked the tradition, and you definitely like wearing them, so…” He shrugs again before hesitantly looking up at me. “Why can’t we continue the same tradition?”
I’m speechless. He raises his eyebrows in real confusion at my tears, and I throw my arms around him.
“Oh my God. Who knew you could be so considerate?” I say between hiccups, and I feel his chest shaking in suppressed laughter.
After a beat, he pulls me back and wipes my tears with the pads of his thumbs. His blue eyes shine with happiness as I lean forward and place a small kiss on the tip of his nose. My heart’s so full and emotional right now.
“In this very moment, if there was a competition for the perfect husband, you would win it fair and square, Charles.”
“So where’s the Christmas gift for your perfect, extraordinary husband?”
While his smile couldn’t be wider, I’ve lost all my happy hormones, as I’m busy panicking. My gaze moves from him to the side cupboard where, covered in gaudy yellow packaging, sits a stupid coffee mug.
It’d have been better if you didn’t get him anything.
But how would I know that Charles was going to break our unspoken Christmas gift tradition this year?
He has always given me a gift card of a ridiculous amount—does it matter that I negotiated it during my first year working for him?—and I’ve always bought him a funny, snarky coffee mug.
A smile on his face in return for money in my bank account. This was the only way I could afford the expensive prices of last-minute holiday shopping, since I don’t get any time off before that.
Win-win for all, if you ask me.
But right now, there’s no room for that stupid mug next to this hair clip. This man sitting before me is not my jerk boss, but someone plucked out of every girl’s dream.
Forget the white horse. Charles Hawthorne in his white Porsche is rewriting all the fairy tales.
But what Cinderella would I be if I gave him a cup that says, “You are a jerk, my dear boss-prince.”
Mustering up all the courage I have, I glance up at Charles. “It’s your turn to close your eyes.”
“Why?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Did I ask so many questions when you blindfolded me?” I grab the tie from the front pocket of his jacket and tie it securely.
26
MORE TOXIC THAN CHERNOBYL
CHARLES
Daisy tries to get up from my lap when I hold her hand.
“Where are you going?”
“Not far,” she whispers. The light shiver in her voice is a telltale sign of her initiating something sexy, and I can’t wait to see what my wife has planned on the fly. As opposed to what she thinks, I know about the box wrapped in yellow paper in the cupboard.
But my excitement comes to a halt when I feel her cold hands on my knees, clutching the soft fabric of my pants.
“Daisy? What are you doing?” There’s no hiding the surprise in my voice.
“Is it clear now?” Her hands slowly crawl up, resting over my thighs, an inch away from my throbbing cock.
My hands are itching to tear the blindfold off my face. She must be blushing so hard, the crimson spreading all over her face, down to her neck and cleavage. But there’s a strange thrill in anticipating her moves when I can’t see her face, which usually gives her away.
Daisy’s hands move toward my belt buckle, escalating my heartbeat to the highest notch. My cock is at full mast, knowing it’s in for one of the best nights of its life.