Chapter 15
Why couldn’t Charles speak to her at least? It was awkward: the two of them sitting in the car with the engine off and neither one of them talking. Sarah peeked at him. He appeared to be deep in thought. The next second, his hand came to his mouth where it covered a yawn.
He faced her and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Sarah was shocked, not only from the sudden gesture startling her, but also from the sight of his face. His eyes were puffy, and even redder than she’d noticed earlier in the day. It seemed like it was taking every conscious effort he had to keep his eyes open. She couldn’t let him drive in that condition.
She raised her palm, “Give me the keys.”
His eyes widened at the same time as a scoff escaped his mouth, “Excuse me?”
“I’m driving us back. You’re exhausted and I’m not going to risk us getting into a car accident because you’re too . . . stubborn . . . to let me drive.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, like he was trying to decide if he was amused or annoyed by what she’d said. She hoped the former; she was in no mood to fight. Unexpectedly, he dropped the keys into her hand and opened his door without another word.
Ha! He’d given in. Seems he could be reasonable at least. Stifling a victorious smile, Sarah opened her own door and stepped out.
She passed him around the front of the car. Neither spoke as they passed. She slipped into the driver’s seat. As Sarah was fastening her buckle, she felt Charles plunge into the passenger seat. He exhaled; deep and low, from the belly. The type sheer exhaustion created. Sarah turned to check on him.
His forehead crinkled, “Are we going?”
It sounded neither rude nor angry. He was looking vulnerable again. Why did that fact stir her stomach the way it did?
She nodded, “Of course.”
A short time later, Sarah stopped the car outside the closed wrought-iron gate that surrounded the cottage. She peered to her right. Charles was asleep, facing her. How relaxed and carefree he looked. She couldn’t stop the smile that came. It was nice to see him like that. She took the reprieve to study him in more detail.
The edges of his eyes had started to crinkle and touches of gray peppered his dark hair. Late thirties or early forties? She’d Google him later to find out. His mouth was soft at the edges; different from the usual stoic expression he had on his lips when he was awake. What was it in his waking hours that made him seem so serious?
Sarah let her gaze trail downwards. As it hovered over his wrinkled T-shirt, she was filled with the memory of his half-naked body in the hotel hall. Her cheeks warmed. She knew they’d be pink. Then she sensed a shift. The warmth drained from her cheeks, moving downward until it settled in her pelvis. Shoot. She had to stop letting her hormones take over. Falling for Charles Morgan was not good idea. He was not the right type of man for her.
I just have to keep reminding myself of that until I get over this silly crush.
Suddenly, the man in question moved. He was waking. She would be faced with the serious side of Charles Morgan once again. Good. She needed to be shown that as much as possible.
She whispered, “Mr. Morgan . . .”
He wiped his eyes and looked over at her. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long.”
“Thank you . . . for insisting on driving.”
“Not a problem.”
A second passed in silence, then he added, “I’ll see you at Mom’s on Sunday then?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll make sure Mom doesn’t get too carried away with her writing this time.”
He grinned, but she sensed it wasn’t a joke.
She offered a tentative smile in response then exited the car.
When she turned to close the door, Charles said, “Mom’s right, you know.”
“About what?”
“About you being a good writer.” What? She felt the shock of the unexpected validation creep over her face. “You know that, don’t you?”
She shook her head, not sure she’d be able to speak.
He flashed her a one-cornered smile, “Well, you are.”
Sarah faltered. Who was this man? He was so confusing. She could do nothing else but stare.
After a couple of seconds, he withdrew his gaze. “Goodbye, Sarah.”
Sarah. That was the first time he’d used her name . . . and it sounded . . . oddly soothing.
She made herself reply, “Goodbye, Charles.”
***
Charles stood in the entry of the cottage with one arm on the doorjamb. He kept his gaze trained on the dark-blue car disappearing down his driveway. When it was out of sight, he closed the door.
He slipped off his loafers and left them where he stood. In the silence, he thought about Sarah. Again. Was this bordering on obsessive? His crime writer mind told him it might be.
Yet even if it was, it was necessary. He had to watch her closely. Maybe he could treat it as a case, as he would in one of his novels? Yes. Sarah Woodward was a case and it was his job to determine her level of threat. He didn’t bother to take off his clothes before lying on top of the patchwork quilt covering his bed. Then he closed his eyes, slung an arm over his forehead, and took mental notes.
In the session with his mother, Sarah had taken copious notes and asked relevant questions. Dedicated and intelligent, just as he’d judged. Though she could be pushy––that was something new about her––it was in a responsible kind of way, like her insistence on driving the car back to the cottage.
Not once had she checked her cell. As such, she’d had no chance to access any social media or pass on gossip. Not only did it confirm the honesty he’d first detected in her, it also showed a level of professionalism he respected. So many women her age––she had to be mid-twenties––seemed to have a cell as an extension of their hand.
Then . . . there was the way she’d said his name before she’d left. It was as if doves had tweeted it at him. The same weird tumbling sensation filled his stomach. He shook his head. She’s married. And he wasn’t getting involved with a woman at the moment anyway. So even if she had been single, it wouldn’t matter.
Besides, she might not even be attracted to him. There was a clear age difference, after all. And he was getting softer around the middle than he had been in a long time; his hair was going gray; there were more wrinkles around his eyes than the shirt he was wearing. He frowned. That was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.