Contract Bride Read online

  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 arri
ved, 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.