Kat Cantrell - Contract Bride

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.

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