It seemed that all of this had been a roundabout way for him to make his point clear.
Myra looked at Lyndon, then Tilda, and finally gathered the courage to speak.
Im not that close to him, so he probably wouldnt take my advice.
But he did mention that, even though he hasnt moved on from Tilda, he only wants her to be happy.
Mr.
Fernandez, will you promise to always make Tilda happy? Lyndons expression darkened slightly at her words but then quickly returned to normal.
He picked up a piece of meat and offered it to Tilda. Here, try this.
Tilda leaned back slightly to avoid it.
I can serve myself.
Let me spoil you a little, Lyndon urged gently.
Tilda watched Lyndon with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Was this little display for Myra? Was he trying to prove to Myra that he could be the ideal husband, devoted and attentive? The thought amused Tilda.
How delightfully childish! She leaned forward and let him feed her a bite, allowing herself to play along.
Lyndons smile softened, his hand reaching instinctively for a napkin to dab her mouth.
Across the table, Myra squirmed at their display, her cheeks tinged with an awkward flush.
Did they really have to be so affectionate in public? Yet she understood Lyndons intentions.
Mr.
Fernandez, youre so good to Tilda, she said, forcing a smile.
So considerate.
Lyndons eyes glinted with satisfaction, as if hed been waiting for her to notice. Well, of course.
Tildas my wife, he replied, with an almost theatrical emphasis.
Tilda rolled her eyes and lifted a forkful of stir-fried pork to his mouth.
Less talking, more eating, she quipped, a glimmer of sarcasm in her tone.
Lyndon leaned forward and accepted the bite with elegance, turning his attention back to Myra.
See, Myra? Your friend spoils me just as much.
Were hopelessly in love, he said with a wink.