Sweet Little Pains

17

He had not been able to keep his promise.

After thoroughly reading through the contents of the file that had been delivered to him, he had had it sent to Clare, instead of looking at it together as he had promised. Then he had proceeded to brood over a glass of well-aged scotch.

The report had revealed nothing much. Apparently, the dress Clare had received had been stolen from a high-end boutique in Manhattan during a small open-house fashion show at least four months ago.

Attempts at finding the thief by the police had been sloppy at best - the boutique hadn't been that high-end - and the case had ended up fizzling out after a few halfhearted attempts.

The PI he had hired had traced the missing piece in a day, and had discovered that it had been stolen from the thief.

As it was, the person who had originally stolen the dress had flaunted it in the wrong area of New York and had found herself relieved of it, along with the little money she had managed to pickpocket from the event.

The irony of the situation, Simon thought as he sipped from his glass, was beyond rich.

The identity of the latter thief was still unknown. Other than that, there was nothing else of importance in the report.

Although Simon was a little disappointed, he reminded himself that it hadn't even been a full day since he had hired her. The least he could do was give her time to work before breathing down her neck.

If by three days the PI had no conclusive result to hand to him, then he would breathe fully down her neck.

That meant that Clare would be close to him for the next few days at least, before he had to give her up.

Drawing in a soft breath, Simon swished the contents of his glass, causing the little ice cubes in it to tinkle softly. He had a few days at most before he could no longer see her, talk to her, except at things like their daughter's upcoming wedding, or birthdays, or neutral family gatherings.

He wouldn't be able to see her at least, or hear her voice, drier than seasoned kindling, or just look at her as he wanted. Feel her.

Kiss her.

He wouldn't think about that. Simon resolutely gulped down half of the contents of his glass. He wouldn't dwell on things he couldn't change. He may not have made the bed he was about to lie on, but he would anyway. It was, he reminded himself, the least he could do.

But that didn't mean he couldn't want. And he wanted. God he wanted. So much that at times, he wondered how he had successfully managed to stay away all those years. It seemed like an impossible feat.

But he would do it again. He would-

The heavy doors of his study pushed open without the slightest warning. Raising his gaze from the glass in his hand, he directed it towards the door. Simon was not surprised to see her striding in, every long stride she took hinting her annoyance.

"Clare." Simon acknowledged as she drew closer to one of the two sofas he was reclined on. "What brings you by? Have you gotten the report?"

"I did." She confirmed. "I'm returning it to you, since you might need it." As if to illustrate, she raised the hand which was in possession of the file.

"You should have had someone get it to me." He murmured. "You didn't have to stress yourself like this."

"I thought I should hand over to you personally. Especially since you so kindly had it delivered to me."

Here we go.

Simon raised his gaze from where it had landed to her eyes. They contained a quiet annoyance.