The Billionaire’s Blind Wife

Chapter 6

Matias

I had never met anyone who could make me forget my own name with a single, sharp tongued comment, but this woman called Juniper Kensington now Stone was doing it on a daily basis. I stared down at her. Without her sunglasses, her gaze was unfocused but incredibly striking. Her amber eyes were bright, framed by thick, dark lashes. For all her bravado, her talkative nature, and her endless supply of sarcasm, she looked remarkably delicate standing in my oversized kitchen.And she was entirely still. It was the first time since I had met her that she wasn't talking, humming, or tapping her fingers it didn’t feel right ."What?" she whispered, her voice lacking its usual bite. "Why are you quiet again? You're doing the staring thing. I can feel it."

"I am staring," I admitted, my hand still resting near her temple. I didn't want to pull away. The softness of her skin was so addictive. "I'm trying to figure out how someone so small can cause so much chaotic damage to my life in less than twenty four hours." A slow, wicked smirk began to curl the corners of her lips, and just like that, the quiet, vulnerable moment was gone. The brat was back. "It’s a talent, darling . Some people play golf; I break boundaries. Now, are you going to feed me, or am I going to have to start chewing on your expensive oak cabinets?" I stepped back, clearing my throat and shoving my hands back into my pockets to keep from reaching for her again. "What do you want?"

"Waffles," she said instantly. "With strawberries. And whipped cream. The real kind, not the stuff out of a spray can. I want to hear the whisk hitting the bowl, Matias. Show me your domestic skills."

"I don't make waffles, Juniper . I have a private chef who prepares my meals."

"Well, your chef isn't here, and your incredibly talented artist of a wife is hungry. Surely a man who can navigate a hostile corporate takeover can handle a waffle iron." She tapped her cane against the floor, turning toward the kitchen island. "Come on. I’ll supervise. I’m excellent at delegating."

"I am the CEO of a global conglomerate," I muttered, already walking toward the pantry to see if we even had flour. "I don't take direction from supervisors who can't see the measuring cups."

"That’s exactly why you need me!" she called out, sliding onto one of the high barstools at the island. "I have highly developed senses, husband . I can tell if you’re measuring incorrectly just by the sound of the pour. Try me." And for the next forty five minutes, my immaculate, minimalist kitchen became a disaster zone. My wife sat on the stool, swinging her legs and chattering non stop. She told me about her vocal coach in Milan, her intense hatred of velvet fabric, and how she once accidentally walked into a men’s locker room at a country club and refused to apologize because "they should have had better signage." And despite myself, I found myself listening. I found myself laughing actually laughing more times in under an hour than I had in the last five years and it felt good and I liked feeling like that."No, that sound is too heavy!" she yelled as I poured the batter into the waffle iron. "You've overfilled it, Matias! It’s going to overflow!"

"It is not going to overflow," I said, confidently closing the lid. Three seconds later, a thick wave of waffle batter began to ooze out of the sides, dripping onto the pristine marble countertop.

Juniper went dead silent. Then, she tilted her head, listening to the sizzle of the burning batter."Did it overflow?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "No," I lied, quickly grabbing a towel to wipe up the mess.

"Matias."

"It's a controlled release of excess steam," I corrected, quickly wiping down the marble.Then she burst into a fit of bright, musical laughter, throwing her head back. The sound echoed through the high ceilings of the penthouse, warm and full of life. It was a beautiful sound wilder and far more captivating than her opera practice.I stood there, towel in hand, batter dripping onto my sleeve, and found myself smiling like an absolute goofy idiot."You're a terrible liar, husband," she gasped, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "But I suppose I'll forgive you if the burnt parts taste good."

"They will be perfect," I promised, stepping closer to her and placing the plate of freshly made waffles in front of her. "And if they aren't, I'll buy the waffle iron company and fire the engineering department."

"Ah," she sighed, reaching for her fork with practiced accuracy. "There’s the arrogant billionaire I married. I was starting to think you were turning soft on me." I leaned against the counter, watching her take a bite. "Never, darling . I have a reputation to uphold."

"Of course you do," she mumbled around a mouthful of strawberry. "But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. And Barney." I looked over at the sofa. The golden retriever was still asleep, his tail giving a single, lazy thump against the cushions.

My life has officially turned chaotic. My kitchen was a mess, my suits were in jeopardy of being ruined by waffle batter, and my peace and quiet had been permanently evicted. And as I watched my wife happily eat her breakfast, humming a quiet tune to herself, I realized with absolute certainty that I didn't want it back.