"Hildegarde, I made you a lunch. Left it on your desk—eat it while it's warm." His voice was honeyed.
"You made this?"
Her expression flickered.
"Mmhm. Got up early and spent the whole morning on it. Even cut my finger with the knife." He chuckled ruefully. "Cooking really isn't a man's job. Honestly, I have to hand it to Wilfred—puttering around the kitchen every day like it's nothing. Must be nice to have such simple pleasures."
Even now, he couldn't resist the dig.
Hildegarde's face remained impassive. "Got it. I'm busy—I'll call you later."
"Alright. Take care of yourself."
She hung up and stared at the lunch box.
Suddenly, she had no desire to open it.
"Terence Baker," she called.
Her secretary appeared at the door. "Yes, Ms. Pruitt?"
"Has my husband come by today?"
"No, ma'am. Mr. Dickerson hasn't been to the office."
A flush of irritation crept up her cheeks.
"I see. Take this lunch and eat it yourself. If my husband does show up, tell him I've already eaten—and he can take his container back with him."
Terence collected the box and left.
"Let's see how long you can keep this up."
Hildegarde snorted and turned to her work—though her mind refused to settle.