Pretend they were in love. “And to business,” she added, for herself as much as him. “Only.”
THE glint of gold caught Finn’s eye before he was fully awake. It took a second before he remembered why he had a ring on his left hand. And why he was waking up in a room he didn’t recognize.
Last night. Marrying Ellie Winston. The rooftop dinner. The rings he’d given them—purchased earlier that evening by his assistant and delivered to the terrace before they arrived—so the two of them had the outward evidence of a marriage.
Then, after a dinner that alternated between tense and friendly, bringing her to her townhouse, and by mutual agreement, he’d spent the night. In the guest room.
Of his wife’s home.
From outside the room, he heard the sound of music. Something upbeat … a current pop hit. He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants from the bag he’d brought with him and padded out to the kitchen. Everything about Ellie’s townhome was like her—clean, neat, bright. Lots of whites and yellows with accents of blue. It was the complete opposite of his heavy oak, dark carpet apartment. Softer, more feminine. Nice.
Ellie was standing at the kitchen sink, her hips swaying in time to the music as she filled a carafe with water. She was already dressed for work in a pale blue skirt and a short-sleeved white sweater. Her hair was curled, the tendrils curving over her shoulders and down her back in tantalizing spirals. Her feet were bare, and for some reason, that made him feel like he was intruding. It was such an unguarded, at-home kind of thing.
And oh, so intimate.
In the light of day, the reality of moving in with Ellie presented a bit of a dilemma. Like how he was going to resist her when she was right there every day, in bare feet, humming along to the radio. How was he going to pretend he hadn’t felt anything with that kiss in the courthouse?
Because he did. He’d thought about it all last night, tossing and turning, a thousand percent aware she was also in bed, and mere feet down the hall. He’d made a concerted effort to keep their celebratory dinner more like a board meeting than a date, but still, a part of him had kept replaying that kiss. And had been craving another.
Hadn’t he learned his lesson already? Getting distracted by a relationship left him vulnerable. Made him make mistakes, like nearly marrying someone who wanted only to destroy him. He saw where that kind of foolishness got a person—and it wasn’t a path he wanted to travel.
So he forced his gaze away from her bare feet and her tantalizing curves, and cleared his throat. “Good morning.”
She spun around, and nearly dropped the carafe. “Finn. Oh, hi. I almost forgot …” A flush filled her face. “Good morning. Do you want some coffee?”
“Yes. Please.”
She busied herself with setting up the pot, then turning it on. When she was done, she pivoted back to him. “I’m sorry I don’t have much for breakfast. I’m usually running out the door with a muffin in my hand.”
“A muffin’s fine. Really. This whole … thing was unexpected.” His gaze kept straying back to the ring on her hand. He was now the husband of Ellie Winston. No … Ellie McKenna.
Just a few days ago he’d been thinking how he wanted a relationship without any drama. One based solely on common interests, none of that silly romantic stuff that clouded his brain and muddled his thinking. Now, he had that—
And for some reason, it disappointed him like hell.
What was he thinking? He didn’t need the crazy romantic notion of love. He needed something steady, dependable, as predictable as the columns in his general ledger. The problem was, there was a part of Ellie that Finn suspected, no, knew, was far from predictable. And that was dangerous.
The song shifted from pop to a ballad. The love song filled the room, stringing tension between them.
“I have, uh, blueberry and banana nut.” She waved toward the breadbox. “Muffins, I mean.”
He took a step farther into the kitchen. The walls were a butter-yellow, the cabinets a soft white. No clutter that he could see, merely a few things that added personality—a hand-painted ceramic bowl teeming with fruit, a deep green vase filled with fresh daisies, and a jade sculpture of a dragon, probably picked up in China. It seemed to suit her, this eclectic, homey mix.
Beside him, the coffeepot percolated with a steady drip-drip. The sun streamed in through the windows, showering those curls, those tantalizing curls, with gold. He wanted to reach up, capture one of those curls in his palm. “I’d love one.”
“Which?”
It took him a second to realize she meant which flavor, not which he wanted—her or the muffins. “Blueberry, please.”
“Sure.” She pivoted away, fast. The breadbox door raised with a rattle. Ellie tugged out the plastic container holding the muffins, then spun back. The package tumbled out of her grasp and dropped to the floor. Muffins tumbled end over end and spun away, spinning a trail of crumbs. Ellie cursed.
Finn bent down, at the same time Ellie did, to reach for the runaway muffins. They knocked shoulders and Finn drew back. When had he become so clumsy? This wasn’t his usual self. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s my fault.” She reached for the muffin closest to them, at the same time he did. Their hands brushed. She staggered to her feet, nearly toppling, and reached out a hand to steady herself. It connected with his bare chest, just a brief second, before she yanked her palm away.
A jolt of electricity ran through Finn. His gaze jerked to her face. Ellie’s eyes were wide, her lips parted. “Sorry,” he said again.
“No, I am.” She looked away from him, back at the floor. “I can make toast, if you prefer.”
Toast? Muffins? Had she been affected at all by that accidental touch? “I’m not hungry. I should get to work.”
Yes, get to work, get to the office and get on with his day. Rather than indulge in any more of this craziness. Get his head clear—and back on straight.
“I’ll clean this up,” she said, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “If you want to hop in the shower and get ready.”
“Sure, sure.” He dumped the crumbs in his hand into the trash, then turned to go.
“Finn?”
His name rolled off her tongue, soft, easy. For a second, he wondered what it would be like to hear her say his name every day. Every morning. Every night. He turned back to face her, taking in those wide green eyes, the sweet smile that curved across her face, and yes, those bare feet. “Yeah?”
She shot him a grin. “Coffee’s ready.”
Coffee’s ready.
A heavy blanket of disappointment hung over Finn while he got ready. Hell, what had he expected her to say? Stay? Kiss me? Take me back to the bedroom?
