Masters And Lovers 1-4 novel Chapter 8

Charlotte sits cross-legged on the rug by the hearth, the fire glowing warm. Although, in theory, we’re well into Spring and the sun is bright, the day is crisp and cold here on our mountain, as Winter shrugs its last over the heights.

Michael carries in an armful of logs. “Plenty to keep us going.”

In fact, I rather think he enjoys chopping the firewood. I’ve seen Charlotte watching him sometimes, surreptitiously, when she thinks he doesn’t notice. Stripped to the waist for the work in even the coldest weather, from the female point of view, I imagine he makes an engaging sight.

She’s working through catalogues and brochures for invitations, stationery, flowers and dresses. There seem to be more every time I look, and Beth keeps producing more to add to the stack.

“What have you chosen for the vows?” I ask. “Please tell me that you’re not promising to ‘Love, Honour and Obey’. None of us would believe it for a minute.”

She has the grace to blush. “Er, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea, would it? I shall promise to Love, Honour and Cherish’.”

“How about the part where you promise to ‘forsake all others…’” chuckles Michael.

Charlotte’s jaw drops. My gut clenches and Michael’s expression twists to dismay. “Hey, it was a joke….” He looks between us, palms raised. “Really. It was just a joke.”

But Charlotte’s eyes travel to mine, then his, and back again as she chews at her lip.

*****

As I step out of the elevator and into the reception area, Michael is there. Hands behind his head, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he sits staring into space, humming tunelessly.

“Waiting for someone?”

His eyes flick to me. “Hi, Beth,” he smiles. “Yeah, Charlotte’s running late.” He stands, reaching for the box I’m carrying. “Here let me take that for you.”

“Thanks.” Gratefully, I pass it to him, then shake the blood back into my aching hands before brushing myself down of dust and cobwebs.

“Heavy,” he comments, lifting it with no apparent effort. “Where do you want it?”

“In the conference room, please. Just put it down in the corner.”

Michael deposits the box, gritty with the dirt of years, on the expensive carpet of my husband’s meeting room, then swipes hands together with the logic that argues you can clean off one against the other. “Any more like that?”