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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 perhaps in passing—she’d presumed.
That hadn’t worked out. He’d just wandered in while she was putting away her things, perfectly fine having a chat in the bathroom. Why hadn’t she taken the bedroom downstairs? Well, she knew that one. Because she’d had a moment of panic at the idea of being adrift in this huge house. Warren was the only person she knew in this place, the only person who had given her a measure of comfort in the whole of the United States. She shouldn’t have to second-guess choosing the bedroom that meant she’d be closer to him. If she liked the fact that he was convenient, no one had to know. Nor would she ever act on that convenience. He was her boss and she owed him a debt of gratitude for keeping her out of Australia.
