The Right Side of the Wrong Bed || Bruno Mars

Chapter 13

Faye

Over the thick layer of silence that wrapped us in the dining area, were the clinking sound of utensils against glass and porcelain, and the rough sipping of coffee. I was used to this kind of atmosphere during breakfast. Back home in New York, especially in London when my family still lived there, it had always been what defines my morning. Sitting at the rectangular table, I was stirring my tea with a teaspoon, Phoebe next to me was enjoying her toast, and Bruno who was opposite me was taking large gulps of coffee from a mug that said BEST DAD IN THE WORLD.

A moment later, Bruno moved to slide what looked like a white envelope across the table towards me. My teacup made a tiny clang when I put it down, landing its bottom on the saucer. Then my eyes flicked to him.

"My letter to Gabrielle," he said, answering my unasked question.

I snuck a peak at Phoebe to check if she was listening and found her still engaged with eating breakfast. I turned my gaze back to Bruno and whispered, "I shall give it to her tomorrow. Then you come to Phoebe's recital as you promised."

"Fret not, my lady. I keep my promises. I can assure you that," he said in an attempt to impersonate an English bloke which I admit he didn't fail at this time. He looked at me with a smugged face.

I let out a chuckle. "Nice try, Sir Bruno Mars."

He smiled down the table showcasing his dimples. I felt my hear cart-wheeled at the sight of him. Inwardly, I sighed. How can I be so daft to think that he can't make me swoon? He was fit, for crying out loud! Tell me about that smile he flashes every time he finds something amusing and that I could only stare at.

I pushed the thought away and tore my gaze away from Bruno, my teacup frozen halfway to my mouth.

"You look different today with what you're wearing," he suddenly commented after drinking from his coffee.

I tipped my head down to check my clothes as if I haven't seen myself in them yet: a leather jacket over a white tee and a pair of black jeans. This was not the type of outfit I'd wear to the office, certainly. But I had no choice. My closet didn't hold anything that I was used to wearing like floral dresses and chiffon blouses. They were all denim shorts, tank tops, skinny, skinny jeans and statement shirts my mother would faint at when she sees me wearing one. I shifted my eyes back to him. "Do I look bad?" I asked with a twisted face.

"No. You look great," he said.

"I've nothing else to wear. There's nothing there in my closet that I'm comfortable with. Everything is too blooming short and skinny."

"But I like you in your Rolling Stones shirt. Last night you were wearing it," said he. He leaned forward as if to examine me harder. Heat seared my cheeks. "You look great—You look different," he almost got tongue-tied. I can sense there was something else he wanted to say he just couldn't find the right words.

"Different's alright?" I smiled sheepishly.

"Different's better," he smiled back.

.

Taking in a deep breath, I made my way towards the double doors to Amanda's office where she usually kept her guests. She had asked me to take Gabrielle to the studio that was on the next floor where she'll be dolled up for her photoshoot. After that, I can have my lunch.

The memory of what happened yesterday was still worming its way into mind. I was afraid that if Gabrielle sees me, she'll go hysterical again. And I'll be blamed for it even if I've done nothing. She scared me, but it wasn’t because of her bratty attitude—I didn't even think she was a brat at all. It was her panic attacks that frightened me. Sure enough, there was something physically wrong with her. She was ill. Bruno has never mentioned anything about her being sick though.