Amelia Clarke insisted, and Owen Moreland laughed, caressing the top of her head and said, "Take it slow."
"I know. You go upstairs and take a shower."
Amelia Clarke watched Owen Moreland's retreating figure as he ascended the stairs. His suit was crisp; he was tall and majestic, his single-handed pocket-walking pose exuded maturity and steadiness, and was especially charming.
Just watching him filled her heart with an involuntary sweetness.
Carrying the beef soup upstairs, she opened the bedroom door. The sound of running water came from the bathroom, on the coffee table lay his metallic wristwatch and a black business phone. Apart from that, the room was the same as before she went downstairs; Owen Moreland would never carelessly throw his clothes around, they were always neatly placed in the wardrobe in the dressing room.
