Sun Chara - Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

“Hold it, Ms. Ryan,” Stan said.

Stella paused, every nerve in her body tensing.

“Time you met my son, Troy.” He pushed himself to his feet and whispered to the boy.

“Ho-ow do you do, Ms. Ryan.” Troy drew closer to his father and clutched onto his pyjamas. Slowly, he stretched out his thin hand.

Stella reached out and the moment her fingertips brushed his, he snatched his hand back, hiding it behind his back.

“What’s cracklin’, Troy?” Stella smiled, and squatted to match the child’s height. “Your room’s cool, dude.”

Intrigued, Troy stared at her but remained glued to his father’s side.

Stella patted her hands on her thighs and stood. Her gaze skittered from the son to the father, and settled on him for a heartbeat.

An erratic beat.

A troubled beat.

She glanced down at her bare feet, then wished she hadn’t. A blush warmed her cheeks. That, and the flimsy nightgown she wore made her feel vulnerable.

A distinct disadvantage.

Abruptly, she turned and walked away, the carpet cushioning her footsteps.

“We’ll see you at breakfast, Ms. Ryan,” Stan called after her as she slipped out the door.

An hour later, Stella bounced down the stairs to the dining room. She had to go without makeup, even lipgloss. She’d swept her hair up and fastened it in a ponytail with an elastic she found on the dresser. Unable to bring herself to wear her sweat-stained jogging suit again, she succumbed and slipped on the Karate gui she found on the bed that first day; the whisper of silk, a seductive caress over body. The scarlet shade complimented her fair complexion. She tied the sash around her waist and chuckled. It’d be flashy in a tournament, but so inappropriate for working out. She preferred her well-worn guis and her hard-earned black belt strapped around her waist.

The instant she entered the room, Stella felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass. Both father and son gaped at her. She wiggled her shoulders and stood her ground.

“Perfect timing, Ms. Ryan.” Stan rose from his chair, his gaze strobing over her silk-clad curves. “The uniform fits.”

“Gui,” she corrected, plunking down in the nearest chair.

“Independent to the hilt—” He resumed his seat, his muttered words for her ears alone.

“Have to be,” she fired back, smiling to take the sting from her words with the child still staring at her. “Especially these days” –she paused— “and in these circumstances.”

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