Every word hit Claire like a gut punch. Unreal. She was Finley’s wife, and he’d spent three days in the same hospital glued to someone else.
“Ms. Carlson, you’re all set to go. Is anyone picking you up?”
The doctor’s voice was careful, curious. No one had visited her. She’d been completely alone.
“No one.” Claire got out of bed, packing her things without a glance at the group.
“Some people really have it tough,” one of them muttered as they left.
When Claire got home, the smell of pumpkin soup greeted her. In the kitchen, Finley stood wearing an apron, stirring the pot.
In three years of marriage, she’d never seen him cook. For a second, she wondered if he was trying.
But the moment he saw her, he didn’t even let her settle in.
“Why are you just now getting back? You’re four or five months pregnant—why are you running around? Can’t you just stay home and rest?”
Claire froze, biting back the urge to snap. She wasn’t even three months along. Did he even know that?
She let it go. She was too tired for another fight. She turned toward the stairs, all she wanted was to sleep.
Before she reached them, a bright, chirpy voice called out.
“Finley, is the soup ready? I’m starving!”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘He brought her home.’
“Almost done, little foodie. Come eat,” Finley said, setting a bowl of pumpkin soup on the table.
He slid another bowl toward Claire.
“You should eat too,” he added.
Claire didn’t move. “Why is she here?”
Renee turned to her, all fake sweetness. “Claire, my house is being renovated, and I had nowhere else to go. Finley was kind enough to let me stay. You don’t mind, do you?”
Finley waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. This is my house, not hers. I don’t need her permission.”
