"Oh." Our contract did mention maintaining appearances in public. "Do we need to go?"
"Maintaining our cover would be wise, given your ex's legal challenge." He runs a hand through his damp hair. "But it's your call."
The thought of playing happy couple in public while privately negotiating whether to become intimate sends my head spinning. "I've never been to a small town Christmas event."
"It's exactly as sickeningly cheerful as it sounds." But there's something almost fond in his tone. "Hot chocolate, carols, children everywhere."
"Sounds... nice, actually." The normalcy of it appeals after the chaos of recent weeks.
He studies me, then nods once. "I'll tell Micah we'll attend."
As he steps away to make the call, I wonder what Dario Wallace looks like under Christmas lights, surrounded by seasonal cheer rather than storm warnings and rescue missions. The domestic image clashes with the dominant I glimpsed in the basement, creating a contradictory whole that intrigues me more than it should.
Our arrangement may be temporary, but the feelings developing within me don't feel temporary at all. They feel dangerous, unpredictable, and thrillingly real.
Like standing on the edge of a precipice in a snowstorm, knowing I should step back to safety but tempted to leap into the beautiful unknown below.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DARIO
Three days after the rescue operation, I can't stop thinking about my conversation with Judith. Her simple "yes" when I asked if she'd thought about submission echoes in my mind during quiet moments in the workshop. The awareness between us has shifted from polite distance to a current running beneath every interaction.
I sand the edge of a mahogany console table, focusing on the repetitive motion to ground myself. Normally, working with wood centers me. Lately, my thoughts keep straying to the woman currently occupying my guest room.
The woman who hasn't given me an answer yet.
I've been careful to give her space, to maintain the boundaries of our arrangement. But each time our eyes meet across the dinner table, each time our fingers brush as we pass the salt, I feel that boundary weaken.
Micah called this morning to confirm details for the tree lighting ceremony tomorrow night. The entire town will be there, watching us play the happy newlywed couple. The thought of Judith pressed against my side, pretending affection whilethis unresolved tension simmers between us, tests my control in ways I hadn't anticipated.
I set down the sandpaper, running my palm over the smooth wood surface. Like everything in my life, I approach furniture making with precision and care. Each piece meticulously designed, methodically executed. No room for error or impulse.
Unlike the situation with Judith, which feels increasingly unpredictable.
The workshop door opens, letting in a blast of cold air. Judith steps inside, bundled in one of my sweatshirts that swallows her slender frame. The sight of her in my clothing does things to me I'm not prepared to examine.
"Sorry to interrupt." Her breath clouds in the cold air of the workshop. "I was wondering what time we need to leave tomorrow. For the tree lighting."
"Six." I set aside my tools, giving her my full attention. "It's about an hour drive, weather permitting."
She nods, but doesn't leave. Instead, she moves further into the workshop, eyes taking in the various projects in progress. Her curiosity is something I've come to appreciate. She observes everything with sharp intelligence, cataloging details others might miss.
"These are beautiful." She runs her fingers along the curve of a half-finished chair back. "You're very talented."
"It's just practice."
"False modesty doesn't suit you." Her lips curve. "You know exactly how good you are."
I study her face, the slight flush on her cheekbones, the way her eyes hold mine with newfound boldness.
"Have you made your decision, Judith?"
"Yes." She draws a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I've been thinking about it."
"And?"
"And I want to know what it's like."
