eleven thirty, someone knocked gently on the study door.
“Come in.”
Marissa entered carrying a tray.
“I thought you might want lunch in here today. Mrs. Dalton said you have calls most of the afternoon.”
Adrian looked at her.
For the first time since she had begun working in his home, he studied her beyond the simple categories he had unconsciously assigned to her.
Housekeeper.
Employee.
Young widow.
Mother.
She appeared tired.
Not dramatically tired.
Not in any way that would have made someone immediately ask whether she was all right.
It was the quieter exhaustion of someone who had learned to function while carrying more than anyone around her could see.
A faint shadow rested beneath her eyes.
Her brown hair was neatly pulled back.
Her expression remained professional.
Adrian wondered whether she had borrowed the twenty-eight dollars from her mother.
He wondered how much formula remained at home.
