Contract Bride
Kat Cantrell
This boss is about to get a lot more than he bargained for!CEO Warren Garinger knows better than to act on his fantasies about his gorgeous employee Tilda Barrett, but when she needs a green card marriage, he volunteers to say, ‘I do.’ Once he’s her husband, keeping his distance is no longer an option!
She’s marrying her billionaire boss…for a green card
All work and no play for reasons he won’t talk about, CEO Warren Garinger keeps his company at the top. And he needs his ace marketing consultant, Australian Tilda Barrett, to stay in the States despite an immigration mix-up. His solution: a marriage in name only. New problem: beneath Tilda’s staid suits and severe buns lies the sexiest woman he’s ever met. Now their brief wedding kiss is all he can think about and Warren vows to not only marry his convenient wife but bed her, too…
Her new husband was looking at her as if she were a fascinating, maddening mix of temptress and puritan.
“We’re dancing around some things,” Warren said. “And we need to settle it. I just want to have an honest conversation with you.”
“Me, too,” she said. “I didn’t know what to say after leading you on, so it seemed easier to stay away from you.”
His brows lifted but he schooled his expression quickly. “You didn’t lead me on. I went too far and you have every right to call a halt to something that was making you uncomfortable.”
That was so much the opposite of what she’d expected him to say that she blinked.
“But I asked you to kiss me.” And oh God, had she wanted him to.
“I don’t care if you asked me to strip you naked and put my tongue between your legs. You’re allowed to say stop at any time. I will always honor that, Tilda.”
She could barely tell him to stop at all.
* * *
Contract Bride
is part of the In Name Only trilogy:
“I do” should solve all their problems,
but love has other plans...
Contract Bride
Kat Cantrell
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
USA TODAY bestselling author KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. She’s a Harlequin So You Think You Can Write winner and a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart® Award finalist. Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas.
Contents
Cover (#uabf5b6a1-e718-57ae-8986-1edb4b28ae72)
Back Cover Text (#u1fbb8685-deaf-5f69-b56c-b37a859479b7)
Introduction (#uf5ab237b-3101-5da6-8e0e-c55debf9af20)
Title Page (#u6862429f-1f3d-5e16-b0e6-31a2ebf9a5d4)
About the Author (#ua45e4405-97bd-599b-8fc7-6c2abb4c79ac)
One (#u468b7e89-f4c5-5090-9264-b7d8cd664c86)
Two (#u889f9314-4c27-58ee-a0fd-d42780c0cc5d)
Three (#u8a44589d-ca31-571d-8dd4-7a608f229450)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#uec5d5d29-710c-54ea-8c8c-6e8202d01643)
Women must have some kind of manual they passed around to each other, opened to the section labeled “How to Dump a Man.”
If so, it would explain why for a record fourth time in a row, Warren Garinger had received the same text message: You’re the world’s worst workaholic. I hope you and your company will be very happy together.
He didn’t think the women meant it as a compliment. Nor did they understand what it took to run a billion-dollar conglomerate. The Garinger family bottled and sold nearly half the world’s pick-me-ups. You couldn’t escape the logo for Flying Squirrel, the number one energy drink, no matter where you looked.
Women did not appreciate the effort that had gone into that kind of success.
Tilda popped her head into his office. “Got a minute?”
Except that one. He nodded instantly.
Tilda Barrett was the one woman he always had time for. Partly because he liked her Australian accent more than he should. “Sure. Come on in.”
But mostly Warren liked Tilda because, as his marketing consultant, she’d exceeded his expectations. And that was saying something. His expectations were always sky-high, for himself and for everyone in his orbit. Flying Squirrel wasn’t performing as well in the Australian market as he’d like, and Tilda was changing that. Slowly but surely.
“I saw the numbers on the new campaign. They’re promising,” he said, as Tilda strode into his bright corner office overlooking downtown Raleigh. Of course, he rarely glanced out the window unless he needed to gauge the weather in advance of a sporting event Flying Squirrel had sponsored.
Today was no exception. Tilda commanded his attention easily, both because of her professional role and because of the one she played in his head. Yeah, he’d had a fantasy or two starring Tilda Barrett, and he refused to be ashamed that he’d noticed she was very feminine beneath her buttoned-up exterior.
Not one strand of swept-up hair dared escape her severe hairstyle and, not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if it did. Most likely, her sheer will would tame it back into submission. She was the most hard-core professional woman he’d ever met. They got on famously.
“The numbers could be better,” she countered. Nothing ever satisfied her save absolute domination, and the fact that she was on his team made him downright gleeful.
Tilda took the straight-backed chair to the right of his desk, as was her custom when they had briefings. The company’s main competitor, Down Under Thunder, owned the Australian market, and Tilda’s strategic expertise filled a gap in Warren’s roster that he’d been thus far unable to bridge any other way.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” she said—and hesitated.
Tilda never hesitated.
Something was up. The dynamic between them had shifted. Normally they worked so well together that he scarcely had to speak before she’d already read his thoughts, and vice versa. But he couldn’t get a bead on her blank face.
Warren leaned forward to steeple his hands on the desk that had nothing more on it than his laptop and cell phone. Paperwork was for other people to handle, a hallmark of the CEO philosophy that had allowed him to focus on ideas and game plans instead of minutiae. Thomas had taken to the role of chief operating officer like a duck to water, and Warren had never questioned letting his younger brother assume the reins of daily control while Warren got to have all the fun in the corner office.
“Please speak freely,” Warren said, a little concerned he’d had to clarify that when Tilda had spent hours in his company during this project. Normally, he preferred people respect the distance and reserve he deliberately injected into all of his professional relationships. But he hadn’t insisted on being so formal with her. There’d been no reason to. Tilda had always struck him as the female version of himself—dedicated, professional and, above all, never overtly familiar.
In this moment, however, things felt different, and he didn’t like it.
“Right-o. The thing is, I’m not sure how free I am to speak about this issue,” she began cautiously, her accent rolling through him accompanied by inappropriate heat, especially given the gravity of her expression. “At this point, all I can say is that I’m being pulled from this project.”
“What?” Warren shot half out of his seat before catching himself. He sat back in his chair with deliberate care. “You cannot be pulled from this project. The contract I have with your firm is for a full year and we’ve barely covered a quarter of that.”
She nodded once. “The contract doesn’t specify that I will be the consultant for the full year, and unfortunately, there’s an issue with my visa that they’ve chosen not to address. I’m being chucked back to Australia and they’ll provide you with an American replacement.”
Outrageous. Warren clamped down against the flow of obscene words on the tip of his tongue. He’d hired the best consulting firm on the planet precisely so that “issues” with visas did not impede his progress. “That’s a breach of contract. I need an Australian expert who has been immersed in the culture for the whole of her life, not an American who’s read some things on the internet.”
“I’m afraid I can’t speak to the specifics,” she intoned, as if the entire project wasn’t now in complete jeopardy. “My superiors seem to believe replacing me is well within their contractual rights. I do apologize for the short notice.”
Warren ran a hand through his hair as he contemplated contingencies that didn’t exist. This project needed Tilda. Period. “How short?”
“I’m to wrap up with you today and be on a plane by Friday.”
“Friday? As in the day after tomorrow?”
This was a disaster. And only in being presented with a looming deadline could Warren admit that he needed Tilda, as well. He couldn’t work with another consultant who didn’t get his style the way she did. He could be gruff, short and to the point, and she took it all with grace.
Plus, he liked listening to her talk. Sometimes, when they worked through dinner, she relaxed enough to laugh and he could indulge in a very harmless fantasy about what her chestnut hair might look like when it was down around her shoulders. He’d undone enough hairstyles in his day to know that hers likely hit her midback and would be shiny and smooth under his fingers.
Warren was as adept with a well-shaped fantasy as he was with running Flying Squirrel.
Harmless fantasies fueled a man who was still at the office during the hours other men might indulge in all things female. Harmless fantasies worked for him on so many levels because he’d never act on them. Tilda’s expertise on this project was too important to add her to the list of women who would eventually gift him with an unoriginal text message.
Tilda folded her hands together in that no-nonsense way he’d always secretly appreciated. Her slender fingers locked in place with strength of purpose. No stray movements, as if she never accidentally got into an uncomfortable position worth correcting. Lack of mistakes was as much a part of her personality as her incredible efficiency.
“Yes, this Friday,” she said. “I have about four hours to get my things in order. My replacement should be here in the morning to pick up where I left off.”
“That’s not happening.” As if Tilda could be replaced. It was ridiculous to assume even for a moment that this was a done deal. “Who do I need to speak with at your firm about this? If nothing else, I’ll sponsor your visa.”
Surely that was doable. Tilda gave him the name and number of her superior and strode from the room to update the project plan in the event his call didn’t go as planned.
It didn’t. The contact at the consulting firm cited a mix-up in renewing Tilda’s visa and then informed Warren that Tilda had to leave the country before her immigration papers expired on Saturday, or she wouldn’t be permitted to return once the renewal had been sorted out. He cited several clauses in immigration law that the firm couldn’t in good conscience violate, which was entirely too much legal jargon for one o’clock in the afternoon.
Warren ended the call and immediately consulted an immigration lawyer. What was the point of having a lot of money if you couldn’t spend it where you needed to most? Two hours later, he was out of time and out of options. Save one. A green-card marriage.
The lawyer cautioned Warren about the dangers of fake marriages for residency but allowed that the immigration department was overrun with work, so likely wouldn’t be examining things too closely.
Warren was just desperate enough to pitch the option to Tilda. Odds were good she’d say no so fast his head would spin. But he had to try.
She had an all-business persona that lent itself to an in-name-only relationship. She’d definitely welcome the continued distance and reserve he would insist upon. He didn’t do deep dives beneath the surface. Not anymore. He worked like a fiend for a reason—his relationship skills left a lot to be desired. The more he worked, the easier it was to forget he’d been responsible for his college roommate’s death.
Marriage was the last thing he should be contemplating. Not given the pact he’d made after Marcus died; Warren had sworn to never fall in love. Jonas and Hendrix, who’d also been friends with Marcus, had vowed, too, but they’d broken the pact by falling for their wives. Warren refused to dishonor Marcus’s memory that way.
But surely, with a woman as professional as Tilda, if she said yes, he’d have no problem keeping their relationship one hundred percent business. A green-card marriage was the only solution he could pull together before it was too late.
He had to try this last-ditch alternative. Down Under Thunder had a large piece of Warren’s pie and he wanted to crush the competition. Tilda was his magic bullet. He would convince her to stay, no matter what it took.
* * *
When Warren called Tilda back into his office later that day, she had to do a serious gut check to see if she’d gotten the wild swing of emotions under control. Thank God she hadn’t actually burst into tears in Warren’s office earlier.
That would have been highly unprofessional. Tilda relied on the aloof front she’d erected to prevent anyone from getting too close. Displaying the slightest vulnerability felt squicky.
Of course, it wasn’t any more professional to have a minibreakdown in her own office, either. Telling herself that hadn’t stopped the panic that had welled up right after her boss, Craig, had called to drop the news. Not only was her visa expiring, the firm had decided against getting it renewed. Too difficult a climate right now, too expensive, he’d said. Sorry about the mix-up, but she could have a job in Australia, no problem.
Except there was a problem...named Bryan McDermott, her ex-boyfriend who was evil personified, a man with police force clearance, friends in all the right places and zero conscience. He didn’t technically have the powers of God, but he sure put on a good enough show to make her believe he did. That’s why she’d left Melbourne. Why she could never go back.
This time, he might make good on his threat to kill her with his bare hands if he caught her with another man, never mind that they’d been broken up for over a year.
Okay, not doing so hot on getting her emotions under control. Warren was waiting on her to reappear in his office. There was no way he’d sorted out the procedure for renewing her visa in a couple of hours, though if anyone could do the impossible, it was Warren Garinger. He took no prisoners, left no stone unturned and put whip-wielding oxen drivers to shame in the motivation department. In other words, he was every inch the chief executive officer the plaque on his door claimed him to be.
She might have a little crush on him. Who could blame her? He was gorgeous, never hit on her and could buy and sell a man like Bryan before lunch. She was pretty sure Warren could clock her ex and easily be the one to walk away from the fight with nary a scratch.
What was wrong with her, that the ability of a man to cause bodily harm to another man turned her on?
Deep breath.
She stuck her head into his office. “You rang?”
Warren waved her in, clicking his laptop shut the moment she crossed the threshold. That was one quality that set him apart. He never multitasked, except in his head. His brain worked in fascinating ways she could scarcely comprehend, describing the big picture as easily as he did the details many people overlooked.
She was going to miss him more than she’d let herself admit.
“Sit, please,” Warren said. “We have much to discuss.”
As was his custom, Warren stayed behind his desk, keeping them separated by glass and wood. He never breached that space between them, never let his gaze stray to her nondescript suit, which displayed none of her assets by design.
That was another of his qualities she admired. Other men never seemed to understand that familiarity wasn’t easy for her. That she didn’t want a man anywhere close to her, not after Bryan. He’d been so successful at sucking away her confidence that the first time he’d smacked her across the face, he’d somehow spun it as being her fault.
The worst part wasn’t having abuse in her past. The worst part was when she woke up at 2:00 a.m. in a cold sweat because a small part of her might believe it was her fault Bryan had hit her. And she couldn’t exorcise that small part, no matter what she did.
She squared the tablet computer in her hands. “I’ve taken copious notes for my successor—”
“Not necessary.” Warren waved that off. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The wildest bloom of hope sprouted in her chest before she could stomp it flat. “You got Craig to agree to fix their screwup?”
Warren could sell hay to a farmer. Getting Tilda’s boss to admit he’d made a mistake had probably been child’s play.
But Warren waved that off, too. “No, of course not. You were right. Your boss is an ass who can’t be trusted with a box of animal crackers, let alone my campaign to expand in Australia. So I fired him and threatened to sic my lawyers on him if he so much as breathed the phrase cancellation clause.”
“Oh.” She’d have paid good money to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. “So, I’m at a loss on what to say next. Dare I hope you found a way to get my visa renewed in two days?”
If by some miracle he had, she wouldn’t have to go back to Melbourne. She could stay here and work, burying herself in this job that had come to mean so much to her—
“Not exactly.”
Of course not. Warren wasn’t here to make all of her dreams come true, especially not the ones where she imagined him riding to her rescue like a modern-day knight in a shining Tom Ford suit.
Deflated, she fought to keep her face blank. Wouldn’t do to communicate an iota of her emotional state. That was how men got the ammunition they needed to hurt you. “Please elaborate.”
Warren leaned into his steepled hands, a move he made often, which she’d come to recognize as his game stance. It meant he was ready to get serious.
“I spoke to an immigration lawyer. He assures me the best option here is to immediately file for an extension and renewal. But, as you may be aware, that can take months and you would have to travel to the nearest consulate to get the renewal, which would be either Canada or Mexico, depending on your preference, but that means—”
“I would be out of status when I went.” The reality of the legal ramifications swamped her and her shoulders slumped. Ruthlessly, she straightened them. “They wouldn’t let me back in the country if the extension wasn’t in place yet.”
“You see the problem, then.” Warren nodded once. “The project would be on hold again and you’d be stuck in whichever country you traveled to. It might as well be Australia, at that point. The key is that you can’t be out of status when you go to the consulate.”
She felt like Warren was leading her somewhere, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out where.
“Then I would have to go before Saturday, and the renewal paperwork isn’t even filed yet.” Thanks to her employer’s snafu, she would be in a lot of trouble if she stayed long enough to let her paperwork expire. “That would be a wasted trip.”
As he’d said, she might as well go back to Australia. Maybe she could sweet-talk the firm into assigning her a job in Queensland instead of Victoria. Brisbane might be far enough away to escape Bryan’s insidious reach. Of course, if he had friends on the police force there, her precautions wouldn’t matter. He’d set up surveillance on her phone and house, like he had last time, and she’d have no recourse because he was too slippery to get caught.
She shuddered. The problem was that she didn’t want to go back to Australia. She felt safe here. Valued. As if her contributions mattered for the first time since she’d escaped a relationship where she constantly was made to feel less than. This job had saved her and giving it up was unfathomable.
But what other choice did she have? Warren wasn’t presenting any alternatives that justified his hope-inducing opening comment that she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Yes. Completely wasted. If you were out of status.” His gaze locked onto hers. “The lawyer suggested the easiest way to ensure you’re not out of status at that indeterminate point is if you already had a green card.”
“Green cards are even harder to get than visa renewals,” she blurted out. The rules were inconsistently applied, pending which way the immigration office interpreted them. And Warren was talking about a green card, the Holy Grail for someone in her circumstances. “I would never be able to file for a green card so quickly.”
Warren held up a finger. “There’s one way. If you marry a US citizen. It would be easy enough for us to go to the courthouse Friday morning and get this taken care of. The marriage would be in name only, of course. Our professional relationship would continue as is.”
The sound in her ears increased to a dull roar as she processed his meaning. He was offering to marry her in the most unromantic proposal she could have imagined. They’d be lawfully wed with no hope of any sort of physical relationship. Warren would be her husband, yet never even try to touch her.
Something was definitely wrong with her, because it sounded so perfect she feared the tears pricking the backs of her eyelids might actually fall.
But she’d fallen prey to the illusion of perfection in the past. The only way to ensure there were no repeats was to spell out every possible contingency she could think of.
“We’d be married in name only. That means no intimacy,” she said briskly. “None. Forgive me if I find it hard to believe a man of your stature would accept such a thing.”
At that, Warren actually smiled, a tilting of his lips that lanced her through the stomach as sharply as if he’d actually touched her.
“That sounds vaguely like it should be a compliment. Don’t worry about me. I can handle a few months of no intimacy.”
The way he caressed the term with his American accent did not settle the swirl still heating her core after being treated to his smile. One minute into their business discussion about resolving the issue with her visa her body had already betrayed her. She cleared her throat. “And when my visa is renewed, we will dissolve the marriage.”
He nodded. “An annulment. My lawyers will take care of everything. I’ve already laid out the pertinent points to them in an email. I just need your agreement before I hit Send.”
This was moving far too fast. She could feel the threads of control slipping from her fingers. If she married Warren, he could easily change his mind about the no-intimacy clause. They’d be legally married and she hadn’t a clue what kind of recourse she might have if he decided they would consummate the marriage whether she liked it or not.
If he knew she wore racy lingerie beneath her staid suits, would he change his mind?
She shook off those thoughts. Warren wasn’t offering this solution so he could take advantage of her. They’d worked together late into the night many times, long after the last of his employees had gone home. He’d never been anything but the soul of propriety, which was why she loved this job. He listened to her, valued her opinion. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone to these lengths to keep her on the project.
That alone went a long way. Her knees might be weak at the thought of putting herself at his mercy. But she was also continuing in a positive environment that was good for her battered psyche.
There wasn’t really a choice. She could never accept her employer’s mistake and take the offered job in Melbourne. She’d have to agree to become Warren’s bride by contract.
The thought unleashed a shiver she couldn’t control. They’d be living together. Wouldn’t they? How could they convince the authorities they were married unless she moved into his house? But that would make it so much harder to keep her normally vivacious personality under wraps, lest she accidentally give Warren the impression she welcomed his advances.
The complications rose up in her throat like a big black rock, cutting off her air.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Tilda.” Warren’s quiet voice cut through her angst easily. “Do you want to keep this job or go back to Australia? If it’s the former, let’s work through this from the top and mitigate all of the potential landmines.”
As frequently as they’d been on the same wavelength over the course of this project, it shouldn’t be such a shock that he’d picked up on her reservations. Could he see the panic, too? Surely not.
She’d tried hard to hide what was really going on beneath the surface for the entire length of their acquaintance, adopting the granite-hard professionalism that she’d been convinced no one could crack.
Warren Garinger managed to crack it without breaking a sweat. Likely without even realizing it. This was her opportunity to retake control.
“All right.” Deep breath. “I want to keep this job.”
That meant she had to take the issue of her visa seriously and consider his offer. Marriage. It was a dizzying proposition, rife with pitfalls, both legal and personal.
But still viable, nonetheless.
“Good. I want you to keep it. What else concerns you about this plan?”
Oh, God, everything about this plan concerned her. One hurdle at a time. “No issues with your wife working for you?”
“None. This is a family company through and through. Thomas’s wife is head of accounting and all of the shareholders are named Garinger.” Warren flashed her another brief smile. “If you like, I would be happy to give you a block of shares as a wedding present.”
She swallowed as the black rock grew in her throat. The gesture had probably been an act of good faith, but no one had ever offered to make her a part of a family with such decisiveness. It felt...nice. She got to belong for no other reason than because Warren said so. She nodded, since speaking wasn’t possible.
“What else?” he prodded gently. “I have a master suite at my house that connects to a smaller bedroom via the bathroom. The door locks from the other side. You may have that one or one on the first floor if you like. My staff is paid well to exercise discretion, so we don’t need to worry about them tattling to the immigration bureau that the marriage is fake. Of course, we will need to put on some appearances as if we’re happily married.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.” She cut in before thinking better of it. How could she explain that she didn’t think she could let a man touch her without jumping out of her skin? She didn’t have to. Warren didn’t miss a beat.
“I don’t mean with public displays of affection.” His smile turned wry. “No one who knows me would be shocked if I never touched my wife in public. What would be shocking is if I put my cell phone down long enough to do so.”
That did it. Her lungs loosened, allowing her to breathe. Finally. Sweet air rushed into her system and she went a little lightheaded from relief. She found herself matching his smile without fully realizing he’d affected her enough for that. “I see your point. They would probably call the authorities much faster if you showered me with attention. Perhaps we’ll let them think of us as having an affair of the mind.”
They shared a moment of understanding that grew sharper the longer they stared at each other. The man was brilliant, sexy without being in your face about it and respectful of her boundaries. How much closer could they become if she lowered a few?
Warren cleared his throat first and looked away. “What I meant was that you might have to accompany me to family functions so as not to raise eyebrows. The last thing we need is immigration questioning whether we married strictly for the green card. The attorney I consulted said they do investigate red flags.”
She nodded. “I got you.”
“Also, you should know that I’m not warm and fuzzy in a relationship. Acting like I’m in love is frankly outside my skill set. I wouldn’t know what that looks like, nor do I intend to learn.”
“That’s fine with me.” Perfect, actually. She didn’t know what love looked like, either, and trying to fake it would only bring up issues she’d rather leave in the dark. Boundaries were her friends. Always. “In that case, I accept your proposal.”
“Great. I’ll have some papers for you to sign tomorrow, a standard prenuptial agreement and the marriage license application. We’ll go to the justice of the peace on Friday, as mentioned, and then it will be done.”
Warren reached out a hand and she clasped it. A handshake to seal the deal. Should have been innocuous enough and seemed appropriate under the circumstances.
But the moment their flesh connected, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm and her awareness of him as a man settled deep inside. Not just a man. One who would be her husband.
Her little crush might be wholly inadvisable, but as Warren held her hand, she didn’t for a moment believe she had the will to stop finding him inconveniently and enormously attractive.
Two (#uec5d5d29-710c-54ea-8c8c-6e8202d01643)
Jonas Kim and Hendrix Harris met Warren at the courthouse on Friday. Predictably, his best friends since college didn’t miss the opportunity to give him a hard time about his impending marriage. Warren had fully expected it after the equally hard time he’d given both of them when they’d gotten married.
The difference here was that Warren wasn’t breaking the pact the three of them had made their senior year at Duke University. Jonas and Hendrix had. They’d broken the pact seven ways to Sunday and without shame, no less. After Marcus had committed suicide over his irreparably broken heart, the three surviving friends had shaken hands and vowed to never fall in love.
Warren would stick to that until the day he died. His friends might have found ways to excuse their faithlessness to themselves, but Warren was still working on forgiving them for putting their hearts at risk in their own marriages.
“Well, well, well.” Jonas crossed his arms and gave Warren a once-over that held a wealth of meaning as his two friends cleared the metal detector at the entrance to the Wake County Courthouse in downtown Raleigh. “I do believe this is what eating crow looks like. Don’t you agree, Hendrix?”
“I do.” His other friend shot Warren a grin that sharpened his already ridiculous cheekbones. “It also looks like I should have put money on whether Warren would eventually get that mouth full of feathers when I had a chance.”
“Ha, ha. It’s not like that,” Warren growled.
It wasn’t. His marriage did not compare to his friends’ situations; both of them had married women they already had relationships with. Jonas had married his friend Viv to avoid an arranged marriage with a stranger, and Hendrix had married Roz to end a scandal caused by risqué photographs of the two of them. They’d both sworn they weren’t going to cross any lines, but it had only been a matter of time before things started getting mushy.
Mushy was not even remotely in the realm of possibility for Warren.
“What’s it like, then?” Jonas asked. “Tell us how it’s even possible that you’re getting married after being so high and mighty about it when me and Hendrix came to you with our plans.”
“I’m marrying Tilda because I can’t trash Down Under Thunder without her. This is a Hail Mary designed to keep her in the country. No other reason. End of story.”
“Oh, so she’s a hag you would never look at twice on the street. I get it,” Jonas said with a smart-ass nod.
Hendrix shook his head. “That’s just sad, if so.”
“Shut up. She’s not a hag. Tilda is gorgeous.” The headache brewing between Warren’s eyes stabbed a little harder as his friends gave each other knowing glances laden with a side of I told you so. “This marriage is strictly business. I would never be anything less than professional with an employee.”
“Except you are,” Jonas countered. “You’re moving her into your house tomorrow. Trust me when I say that leads to all sorts of things you might swear on your mother’s life you would never contemplate, but it happens, man. First you’re having a drink together after work and next thing you know, you’re giving your in-name-only bride diamonds and orgasms in the foyer.”
“Or in the linen closet at your wedding reception,” Hendrix threw in helpfully with a gleam in his eye. He and his new wife had pulled just such a disappearing at the social event of the season.
“There are no linen closets here,” Warren pointed out unnecessarily, not that he had to explain himself to his friends. But he was going to anyway, because they needed to be clear that he was the lone holdout in their pact.
Marcus’s suicide was not something Warren had ever taken lightly, and neither was the vow he’d made to honor his roommate’s death. Love had stolen a young man’s life. Warren would never let that be his fate. “I’ve never done anything more than shake Tilda’s hand as a form of sealing our arrangement. She’s working on my project, not working her way into my bed. This is not about my sex life. Period.”
“We’ll see about that.” Hendrix jerked his chin over Warren’s shoulder. “Would that lovely lady be your intended bride? She looks like your type.”
Warren turned to see Tilda striding toward him, her sensible heels clacking on the marble floor of the courthouse, hair swept up in the no-nonsense bun he’d dreamed about again last night and a serene expression on her face that didn’t change when she caught his gaze.
Good. She’d been edgy in his office the other day and he’d half expected her to back out at some point. After all, he hadn’t really had to sell her on the idea of a marriage to keep her in the country. It had been remarkably easy to talk her into it, and for some reason, he’d become convinced that she’d change her mind after she had a chance to think about it. Marriage was a big thing to some women and maybe she’d dreamed of falling in love with a capital L.
But she was here. His shoulders relaxed a bit, releasing tension he’d been carrying since Wednesday. This was going to work. Down Under Thunder was toast. And if he had the opportunity to develop a few more harmless fantasies starring his wife, no one had to know.
Tilda halted in front of him smelling fresh and citrusy. Funny, he’d never noticed her scent before and his imagination galloped toward the conclusion that she’d wanted to do something special for the occasion.
“We have a conference call at one o’clock with Wheatner and Ross,” she said by way of greeting.
A timely reminder. That’s why she was worth every dime of her paycheck. But he couldn’t seem to stop looking at the thin strand of hair that fell from her forehead down across her temple.
It wasn’t more than a millimeter wide, but it followed the line of her face to hit just under her jaw, and he had the strongest urge to slide it along his fingertips as he tucked it behind her ear. What madness was this, that she’d missed that miniscule bit of hair when she’d gotten dressed this morning?
New perfume. Defiant hair. Was it possible she was affected by the gravity of what they were about to do? Because he was. He’d lain awake last night, unable to close his eyes as he thought about the realities of having Tilda under his roof, how he’d see her in the morning before they left for work, have a cup of coffee together, even. Maybe he’d give her a ride. It only made sense that they’d go to the office together since they were coming from the same place. They could talk about things and—
Jonas might have a point about the inherent lack of professionalism that would come with having an easily accessible woman in his house. Too late now. He’d have to bank on the fact that he and Tilda had already discussed the necessary lack of intimacy.
Warren cleared his throat. “Then we should get on with it.”
She nodded with a slight smile. “It helps when we’re on the same wavelength.”
They always were. They were cut from the same cloth, which was what made her so easy to work with. Conversely, it also made it easier to imagine slipping in deeper with her, loosening her up, finding ways to make her laugh more. They’d be good together, if he ever did find himself unable to resist crossing that line.
No.
There would be no line crossing. The project was too important to take those kinds of risks. His vows were too important. He gestured to Jonas and Hendrix as he doled out the introductions.
“Mr. Kim.” Tilda shook Jonas’s hand briskly. “I worked on the campaign for your hybrid printer during the global rollout two years ago.”
Jonas’s brows lifted as he nodded. “That was a great product launch for Kim Electronics. I didn’t realize you were on that team. It was very impressive.”
Crossing his arms, Warren tried not to smile too smugly, failed—and then decided there was no shame in letting it be known that he only hired the best. Which shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.
Hendrix slid right into the space Jonas had vacated, charm in full force as he shook Tilda’s hand for about fifteen beats too long, which wasn’t a surprise to anyone. The man would probably flirt with a nun, given the chance. Regardless, Warren did not like the way Tilda smiled back, never mind that Hendrix was happily married to a woman who could command a cover spot on a men’s magazine.
“We have a marriage to conduct,” Warren reminded everyone briskly before he had to punch his friend for taking liberties with his wife-to-be.
Employee. Wife was secondary. Which shouldn’t be such a difficult thing to remember.
The strand of hair across her temple settled into place, drawing his gaze again. He couldn’t take his mind off it, even as they navigated the courthouse maze to find the justice of the peace who performed marriages.
They stood in line waiting for their turn, an oddity in and of itself. Warren had never given much thought to what should constitute a proper wedding ceremony, especially since he’d started the week with zero expectations of ending it married. Not to mention the fact that his marriage had strict business connotations. But these other couples in line surely had more romantic reasons for tying the knot. In fact, they were probably all in love, as evidenced by their goo-goo eyes and the way they held hands as they waited. A courthouse seemed like an inauspicious start to a marriage that was supposed to be till death did them part.
He shrugged it off. Who was he to judge? It wasn’t like he knew the proper ingredients for a happy marriage, if such a thing even existed. Divorce rates would indicate otherwise. So maybe Warren and Tilda were the only couple in the Wake County courthouse today who had the right idea when it came to wedded bliss: no emotional component, a carefully worded prenuptial agreement, a date on the calendar for follow-ups with proper government agencies so the annulment could be filed and mutual agreement to part ways in the future. No surprises.
Tilda engaged him in a short conversation about the campaign she’d been working through. He fell into the rhythm of their work relationship easily, despite the weirdness of doing it while waiting for the justice’s inner chamber doors to open. They’d enter single and emerge married.
It wouldn’t change things between them. Would it?
All of these other couples surely had some expectations of things changing or they wouldn’t do it. They’d just stay an unmarried couple until the day they died, but instead, they’d done exactly what Warren and Tilda had. Applied for a marriage license and come down to the courthouse on an otherwise unremarkable Friday to enter into a legal contract that said they could file their taxes differently. Why? Because they’d fallen prey to some nebulous feeling they labeled love?
“Warren.”
He blinked. Tilda was watching him with a puzzled expression on her face, clearly because she’d asked him something that he’d completely ignored. God, what was wrong with him? “Sorry, I was distracted.”
Why couldn’t he just talk to Tilda about the project and stop thinking about marriage with a capital M, as if it was a bigger deal than it really was? Like he’d told his friends—business only. Nothing to see here.
Wedded bliss wasn’t a thing. And if it was, Warren Garinger didn’t deserve it. Marcus’s death was his fault and a lifetime of happiness with a woman wasn’t the proper atonement for his crimes.
Flying Squirrel was Warren’s focus, the only thing he could realistically manage. For a reason. A company didn’t have deep emotional scars. A company didn’t waste away while you looked on helplessly, unable to figure out how to stop the pain. A company didn’t choose to end its pain with an overdose after you thoughtlessly said, “Get over it, Marcus.”
That was the real reason Warren would never break the pact. It was his due punishment to be alone the rest of his life.
* * *
The county clerk gestured Tilda and Warren into the justice’s chamber. Her pulse fell off a cliff, skipping beats randomly as her stomach churned. The effort she’d made to talk shop with Warren, strictly to calm her nerves while they’d waited in the hall, had evaporated, if it had even done any good at all.
They were really doing this. What if they got caught in a green-card marriage? Was it like the movies, with instant deportation? She’d be forced back to Melbourne, and after Warren’s unceremonious threat to Craig and the firm she’d worked for over the last eight years, she had no illusions that a job waited for her. She’d be lucky to get a reference. Which mattered not at all if Bryan figured out she’d returned. Finding a job would be the least of her concerns.
Warren had stipulated several contingencies in their agreement that meant she’d be well compensated in the event the marriage didn’t resolve her residency issues. But that wasn’t the point. She didn’t want money; she wanted to feel safe and she wanted to do this project with Warren, in that order. This job gave her a sense of purpose that she’d never fully had before. When she’d worked on other projects, she’d never been the lead. The Flying Squirrel campaign was her baby, one hundred percent, especially now that she’d cut ties with Craig.
That went a long way toward getting her pulse under control. She had this. The wedding ceremony wasn’t a big deal. A formality. Warren wasn’t flipping out. He shot her a small smile that she returned because the last thing she wanted was for him to clue in that she wasn’t handling this as professionally as she’d like.
But then, marrying her boss hadn’t really been in the job description. Maybe she was allowed to have minor cracks in the hard outer shell she’d built around herself with severe hairstyles and monochrome suits that hung on her figure like potato sacks.
She just had to make sure any potential cracks didn’t reveal things underneath that she wasn’t ready to share, like the fact that she hated monochrome suits. The lacy red underwear and bra set she’d chosen in honor of her wedding day was for her and her only.
The ceremony began and she somehow managed not to flinch as Warren took her hand with a solemnity she hadn’t expected. Fortunately, the exchange of words was short. Simple. She relaxed. Until the justice said, “You may kiss the bride.”
At which point her pulse jackhammered back up into the red. They weren’t really going to do that part, were they? But Warren was already leaning toward her, his fingers firm against hers, and she automatically turned her face to accept his lips.
The brush of them came far too fast. Sensation sparked across her mouth and she flinched like she always did when something happened near her face that she wasn’t expecting. Not because the feeling of his lips was unwelcome. Kissing Warren was nothing like kissing Bryan. Or any other man, for that matter, not that she had a lot of experiences to compare it to. He wasn’t demanding or obtrusive. Just...nice. Gentle. And then gone.
That brief burst of heat faded. Good. It was over. Back to normal. But she couldn’t look at Warren as they left the courthouse.
She’d walked over from the Flying Squirrel building on Blount Street, but Warren insisted on taking her back via his limo, citing a need to go over some notes for the meeting with Wheatner and Ross. He said goodbye to his friends and then she and Warren were swallowed by leather and luxury as they settled into his limo.
“So,” Warren said brightly. “That went well.”
“Yes. Quite well.”
God, everything was weird. This was supposed to be where they relaxed back into the dynamic they’d had from day one, where it was all business—the way they both liked it. But as she turned to him, a little desperate to find that easiness, her knee grazed his. The awareness of their proximity shot through her and she couldn’t stop staring at his mouth as a wholly inappropriate lick of desire flamed through her core.
Where had that come from?
Well, she knew where. Warren had kissed her. So what? It shouldn’t be such a big deal. She shouldn’t be making it a big deal. But the part she couldn’t figure out was why? There was no law that said they’d be any less married if they skipped the kiss. Had he done it strictly for show or because he’d been curious what it would be like?
She’d had absolutely zero curiosity. None. Not an iota. Or, at least, none that she’d admit to, and now that it was out there, she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d kiss like behind closed doors.
Ugh. She had to get back into her professional head space already.
“Um, so the senior partners themselves are attending the meeting today,” she threw out, mortified to note her voice had taken on a husky quality. “We should press them on the social media presence they’ve presented. I don’t like the ratio of ad placements between the various platforms.”
Warren didn’t seem to notice her vocal quirks and nodded. “I was thinking that, as well. Tell me what you’d do instead.”
Tilda reeled off the changes she’d prepared and then memorized last night at midnight after she’d given up on sleep. The familiarity of talking numbers with the man who was now her legally wedded husband somehow soothed her to the point where her tone evened out.
Until she realized Warren’s gaze had strayed to the side of her face. She faltered. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” His gaze snapped back to dead center. And then drifted again. “It’s just that you have this loose strand of hair—here, let me.”
Her hand flew up defensively at the same moment he reached out to brush her cheek and their hands collided. Oh, God. She’d batted his hand away from her face. Now he’d know she was a freak about people touching her.
Everything shifted back into awkward again as they said “Sorry” simultaneously, and there was no way she could ignore how her skin tingled where he’d touched her. The errant strand of hair he’d made her so very aware of lay across the spot, sensitizing it.
“I’ll fix it when we get back to the office,” she murmured, at a loss for why her stupid hair had generated such interest that he couldn’t keep his focus where it belonged—on her stats.
“Don’t fix it,” he said instantly. “I like it.”
Not what she’d expected him to say.
Heat prickled over her face and not all of it was in her cheeks. Unlike what would have been a becoming blush on anyone else, her whole face got red when she was embarrassed. Like now.
He liked her hair.
It was the most personal comment he’d ever made and she turned it over in her mind, examining it from all angles.
“Oh,” Warren continued. “I forgot that Jonas and Hendrix asked if we could join them for dinner. To celebrate. It’ll be low-key, just them and their wives. Is that okay?”
She nodded, though she’d rather have said no. But refusing would have felt petty when clearly he meant they were supposed to be celebrating their wedding. Social events were a part of the deal, whether she wanted to avoid opportunities for more weirdness or not.
Get a grip, she scolded herself. The weirdness was all on her. Warren wasn’t Bryan and she had to stop cringing as if her new husband was going to morph into someone completely different after lulling her into a false sense of security. Not all men did that.
She hoped.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she forced a smile and slayed the meeting with Wheatner and Ross, earning approving nods from Warren, which shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. He’d always approved of her work. That’s why she was still in the US and not on a plane at this moment, as she’d fully expected to be when she walked into his office on Wednesday to explain the issue with her visa.
Now she was married, complete with a gold ring on her finger that contained nine emerald-cut diamonds sunk into the band. It was exactly the right ring for her, low-key, not at all flashy. How had Warren known what she would like? Luck? She would have been fine with a plain band from a vending machine. This one had weight. She curled her hand into a fist but she could still feel it on her finger.
Warren herded her back into his car at the end of the day to take her to the restaurant where his friends were waiting for them. He’d made it very clear that they wouldn’t have to do any sort of acting like a lovey-dovey couple in public, but she still had a fair amount of trepidation about whether she’d get along with his friends’ wives. She knew how things among men worked, and she didn’t want to fail this important test of fitting into his world for however long she would be required to do so.
“Is it okay to go straight there?” Warren asked politely as they settled into his car for the second time that day. “If you want to go home first to freshen up, that’s fine.”
“No, thank you.” What would she do, shellac the errant lock of hair to her head that Warren had already said not to fix? Not a chance. And she didn’t own any suits that weren’t dove gray or brown, nor would she ever change into something like jeans and a T-shirt to meet his friends, so she was as ready as she ever would be. “I appreciate the offer.”
He dove into a very long summary of the day’s progress, which was fairly typical of how they usually parted for the night. But today they weren’t parting. Would it ever not be weird to realize they were a couple now?
At the restaurant on Glenwood Avenue, Warren’s friends had already arrived, crowding into a round booth with a table in the center that was probably meant for six people but seemed quite cozy given that she’d only met Jonas Kim and Hendrix Harris for the first time earlier today.
The two women at the table slid out from the booth to meet her. Tilda shook the hand of Rosalind Harris, Hendrix’s wife, a gorgeous dark-haired woman who could have come straight from a catwalk in Paris. Her friendly smile put Tilda at ease, a rare feat that she appreciated. Viv Kim, Jonas’s wife, immediately pulled Tilda into a hug, her bubbly personality matching her name perfectly.
“I’m thrilled to meet you,” Viv said and nodded at Rosalind. “We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, and when our husbands keep their mouths shut about something, we’re instantly curious.”
Rosalind scooted a little closer and plunked her martini glass down on the table.
“Tell us everything,” Rosalind insisted, leaning in with the scent of something expensive and vaguely sensual wafting from her. “How long do you think you’ll have to be married before your immigration issues will be resolved? Are you going to stay in the country even after you annul the marriage?”
“Um...” Tilda’s butt hit the table as she backed up, and she briefly considered sliding under it. Warren had apparently told his friends the truth about their marriage, so obviously she could trust them, but still. These were things better left out of polite conversation. You could never be too careful.
Salvation came in the form of her husband, who scowled at the two women, clearly having overheard despite his involvement in his own conversation with Jonas and Hendrix. “We didn’t agree to dinner so you could gang up on my wife.”
For some reason, that brought a smile she couldn’t quite contain. In one short sentence, Warren had turned them into a unit. They were together, an integrated front. She was his new wife just as much as he was her new husband, and it apparently came with benefits she hadn’t anticipated. But liked. Very much.
Rosalind scowled back, clearly not cowed in the least. “You have to know that we’re curious.”
“Darling.” Hendrix held out his hand to his wife. “Your curiosity is one of my favorite qualities. Come over here and be curious about the advantages of a round booth when you’re sitting next to your husband.”
An intense smile that held a wealth of meaning bloomed on Rosalind’s face. She clasped his outstretched hand, allowing him to draw her into the booth and over to his side, where he slung an arm around her. He murmured something in her ear and she laughed, snuggling against him with such ease that Tilda got a lump in her throat while watching them. They were so clearly in love, so obviously the kind of lovers that trusted each other implicitly.
The white-hot spurt of emotion in her chest was nothing but pure jealousy. Naming it didn’t make it any more acceptable or understandable. Where had that come from? Longing for that kind of intimacy with a man had gotten her into trouble with Bryan, leading her into dangerous water before she fully realized she’d left the shore behind. Tilda swallowed as she tore her gaze from the two.
“Don’t mind them,” Warren said with a note of disgust in his voice. “They embarrass the rest of us, too. They have no boundaries in polite company.”
“That’s so not true,” Hendrix countered with a smirk, scarcely lifting his gaze from his wife’s luminous face. “We’ve turned over a new leaf. No more public nakedness.”
That broke some of the tension, and Jonas slid into the booth with his wife, which left Warren and Tilda. He sat next to Hendrix, leaving Tilda at the edge. Which suited her fantastically. She liked nothing less than being trapped, and luck of the draw meant she wouldn’t have to be.
Across from her, Viv settled in close to her husband. Viv and Jonas might not have sensual vibes shooting from them the way the other couple did, but it was clear they were newly married and still in the throes of the honeymoon phase.
Happiness in marriage wasn’t a goal of Tilda’s. Burying herself in her job was. That was all she could handle at the moment, all she would allow herself to hope for. Intimacy wasn’t on the table in her marriage, by design, and that was a good thing. After all, she couldn’t trust herself any more than she could trust a man.
Warren had left a solid foot of space between his thigh and Tilda’s. Appropriately so. He would never slide his arm around her and nestle her close, turning his head to murmur something wickedly naughty or achingly sweet into her ear.
And it shouldn’t have taken the rest of the evening for her to convince herself she didn’t want that.
Three (#uec5d5d29-710c-54ea-8c8c-6e8202d01643)
The moving company Warren had hired arrived at his house with Tilda’s things around midafternoon on Saturday, meager as they were. She’d apparently not brought very much with her from Australia, just a few paperback books with well-worn covers, several boxes of clothes and shoes, and a set of china teacups.
He was curious about both the teacups and the books. But asking felt like a line they shouldn’t cross. Too personal or something. If she wanted to explain, she would. Didn’t stop him from thinking it was a strange state of things that he didn’t feel comfortable getting personal with his wife.
The lack of boxes meant she didn’t need any help unpacking and he had no good reason to be skulking about in his bedroom as she settled into her room on the other side of the connecting door in his bathroom. He couldn’t find a thing to occupy his attention, an unusual phenomenon when he normally spent Saturdays touring the Flying Squirrel warehouses with Thomas.
But his brother was on vacation with his wife—somewhere without cell phone reception, apparently, as he’d not answered his phone in several days. That was unfathomable. Who wanted to be someplace without cell phone reception?
If Warren had been occupied with work—like he should have been—then he wouldn’t have heard Tilda rustling around in the bathroom. Nor would he have wandered through the door to appease his sudden interest in what she was doing. She glanced up sharply as he joined her in the cavernous room.
Immediately, she took up all the space and then tried to occupy his, too, sliding under his skin with her presence. He’d been in a small room with her before, lots of times. But not at his house, a stone’s throw from the shower where he’d indulged in many, many fantasies starring the woman he’d married.
The problem wasn’t the married part. It was the kiss part. He probably shouldn’t have done that.
Or, more to the point, he should have done it right. Then he wouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like to kiss Tilda properly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. That short, utilitarian peck yesterday had been ill-advised, obviously. But the officiant had said to kiss the bride. Warren hadn’t seen any reason not to. It was a custom. He wouldn’t have felt married without it, a twist that he hadn’t anticipated. So he went with it.
But it hadn’t been worth the price of admission if he was going to be constantly on edge around Tilda now. Constantly thinking about whether it would change their working dynamic if he kissed her as thoroughly as he suddenly burned to.
He cleared his throat. “Settling in all right?”
She nodded. “You have a lovely home.”
Which she never would have seen, even one time, if they hadn’t gotten married. “It’s yours, too, for now. I have to admit, I was a little surprised you picked the adjoining bedroom. It would have been okay to take the one on the first floor.”
But she was already shaking her head. There were no loose strands in her hairstyle today. He’d somehow expected that she’d adopt a more casual look on a Saturday, but Tilda had shown up in yet another dove-gray suit that looked practical and professional. But it also generated a fair amount of nosy interest in her habits. Even he wore jeans and T-shirts on Saturday, despite the assurance that he would put in an eight-hour day in the pursuit of all things Flying Squirrel before the sun set. Did she ever relax enough to enjoy a day off?
Well, that didn’t matter. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t take days off, either. Why would having a woman in his house change his ninety-hour workweek? And certainly finding himself in possession of a wife didn’t mean they should take a day off together like he’d been half imagining.
“I know you said the staff is very discreet,” she said and nodded to the open door behind her that gave him only a glimpse of the room beyond. “But taking this bedroom seemed like less of a problem. Less obvious that we’re not, um...sleeping together.”
Well, now, that was an interesting blush spreading over Tilda’s cheeks, and he didn’t miss the opportunity to enjoy it. He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the nondescript marble vanity, which suddenly seemed a lot more remarkable now that it had several feminine accoutrements strewn across it.
“Yes, that was why I suggested it,” he drawled.
But now he was thinking of the reasons it was less obvious they weren’t sleeping together—because of the accessibility factor. This was an older home, designed in the style of a hundred years ago when women had their own chambers but understood the expectations of producing heirs. These women needed discreet ways to travel between their bedrooms and their husbands’, and vice versa, without disturbing staff members.
He’d never even so much as imagined a woman using that adjoining chamber. And now he couldn’t unimagine how easy it would be to steal into Tilda’s bed in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t be wearing a suit, that was for sure. What did she wear to bed? In all of his fantasies, she was naked.
And that was absolutely not the right image to slam into his mind during a conversation with his in-name-only wife while stuck in a netherworld between two beds that were not going to see any action of the sensual variety. A man with his imagination should be putting it to better use dreaming up new ways to sell energy drinks, not undressing his buttoned-up employee with his eyes.
“Did you want to go over the project plan?” she asked, very carefully not looking at him as she pulled open an empty drawer to place her hairbrush inside.
“In a little while. After you’re settled. And only if you want to. I don’t expect you to work weekends just because we’re together.”
The drawer slammed shut, the sound echoing from the mostly bare walls, and she flinched. “Sorry, I’m not used to your house yet. Even the drawer mechanisms are higher end than what I’m accustomed to. Takes hardly any force at all to close.”
He eyed her, not liking the way the vibe between them had gotten more stilted. They’d been easy with each other for so long. He yearned to get that back.
“No problem. I don’t expect you to automatically know how everything in the house operates. You take some time to get acclimated and we’ll have dinner together later. In fact, no work for you today. I insist.”
Dinner. That sounded nice. An opportunity to keep things casual, learn some things about each other. Get used to being married and find their way back to the easiness that had marked their working relationship.
But instead of taking the hint and nodding enthusiastically, she froze. The vibe between them grew icicles and he scouted around for the reason she’d suddenly gotten so tense.
“Dinner?” she repeated. “Will it be like a...date?”
Mayday. Obviously she didn’t want the icicles between them to melt, and if her tone was any indication, the idea of a date was not welcome.
That needled him. Was he so terrible a companion that she couldn’t even fathom having a dinner that wasn’t about business? Lots of women enjoyed his company...right up until they realized his cell phone was an extension of his arm.
This conversation was going south in a hurry.
“No, of course it’s not a date.” Dates came with connotations that he didn’t know how to deal with, either. All of his dates consisted of interruptions due to work emergencies and the occasional late-night booty call that left him feeling increasingly lonely. “Would it be so bad if I did mean it that way?”
Wow, he needed to shut his trap, like, yesterday.
“I, um...don’t...know.”
She looked so miserable that he had to take pity on her. Clearly she didn’t know how to respond to that, and technically, he was her boss more than he was her husband.
“It’s just dinner,” he practically growled. “I want to eat with you. Let’s not attach any more meaning to it than that.”
She nodded, her eyes a little wide.
There was a reason he didn’t have more practice at this. The pact. And, frankly, drawing out his wife for the express purpose of getting to know her wasn’t a good plan. Where could this possibly go? Granted, she already knew he was a workaholic, so that realization wasn’t likely to stall things out before they got started. But in order for that to matter, they’d have to have some type of relationship beyond business.
Now was probably not the right time to figure out that that sounded really great.
* * *
Tilda spent about an hour rearranging her clothes in the closet of her new bedroom. If closet was even the appropriate term when the thing in question was the size of the entire corporate apartment she’d been living in for the last two months as she worked on the Flying Squirrel campaign. She’d expected to stay in that tiny apartment for the entire year. Funny how things worked out.
Not so funny were the second thoughts she’d been plagued with about selecting the bedroom near Warren’s. The reasons she’d given him were sound. The effect of his proximity was not.
Sure, she’d had an academic understanding that the rooms connected via the enormous bathroom. There was an ocean of wide marble tile between the two doors, locks on either side and then a lot of carpet. They never had to see each other except perhaps in passing—she’d presumed.
That hadn’t worked out. He’d just wandered in while she was putting away her things, perfectly fine having a chat in the bathroom. Why hadn’t she taken the bedroom downstairs? Well, she knew that one. Because she’d had a moment of panic at the idea of being adrift in this huge house. Warren was the only person she knew in this place, the only person who had given her a measure of comfort in the whole of the United States. She shouldn’t have to second-guess choosing the bedroom that meant she’d be closer to him. If she liked the fact that he was convenient, no one had to know. Nor would she ever act on that convenience. He was her boss and she owed him a debt of gratitude for keeping her out of Australia.
Plus, he’d backed off in a hurry when she’d tried to put parameters around this nebulous thing he’d called “dinner.” Of course, it was crystal clear now that he hadn’t defined it as a date in any way, shape or form.
Which was good. She was telling herself it was good, even as she tried to figure out what you wore to dinner with your husband who wasn’t really a husband. One of her serviceable dove-gray suits felt too...officey, despite the fact that she’d been wearing one all day. Jeans and a T-shirt, like what she wore to the grocery store, seemed too casual. But then, Warren had mentioned they’d be dining at the house, so maybe casual wasn’t off base.
In the end, she couldn’t do it. She picked the brown suit and hid a peacock-blue silk bra with corded straps and a matching thong under it. Defiantly. It was her favorite set, bought with her first paycheck from the Flying Squirrel campaign. She’d waltzed right into that high-end lingerie store in downtown Raleigh and bought the classiest, most beautiful fabrics in the place. The clerk had folded her purchase into silver tissue paper, then tucked her lingerie into a foil bag the size of a paperback. Nothing she’d bought needed a bigger package, since both scraps were tiny and revealing.
Not that she’d ever reveal any of it to anyone. Her little secret. A kick in the teeth to Bryan’s memory, who had never wanted her to wear anything remotely flashy or skimpy. She didn’t dress that way on the outside, but that barrier of boring clothing was for her own peace of mind. Better to avoid attention than to seek it.
Dinner was exactly as advertised. At home, low-key and not a date. Warren wore the same T-shirt and jeans he’d had on earlier, but of course he looked like a dream in anything. She so rarely saw him in something besides a suit that she took time to enjoy the way his shoulders filled out the soft cotton, graceful biceps emerging below the cuffs.
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