Ambrose glanced at it without a second thought, his expression shifting subtly. He shot to his feet, already heading for the door. But halfway there, as if struck by a fleeting memory, he turned back. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss against her forehead.
“Sorry, love, I’ve been caught up with so much lately I haven’t had the chance to give you the time you deserve. I swear, I’ll make it up to you once this hectic stretch is behind us. I’ll make you the happiest woman alive.”
In the ten years they had been together, Ambrose had never spoken with such tenderness to Hazel.
He understood that women often craved sweet words, but Hazel had always been the exception. She was far too sensible, too independent, to need his coaxing.
Naturally, his efforts had always been reserved for Scarlett, the woman who thrived on attention, who could cry at the slightest slight and demand his comfort.
Yet now, guilt gnawed at him. The growing unease over his neglect of Hazel had prompted this sudden attempt to treat her better, hoping to ease the weight pressing on his conscience.
But Hazel gave him nothing in return, no smile, no frown. Her face was a blank slate, concealing any trace of emotion.