Kat Cantrell - Contract Bride

“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.