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
