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“Have a glass of wine with me,” he said without preamble as the housekeeper picked up their dishes. Her gaze flew to his and he shrugged with a solid smile. “I have a beautiful terrace overlooking the garden and I never use it. Sit with me and let’s continue the conversation.”
She shouldn’t say no. Not when a lot rode on playing the part of a wife. And maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it was okay to stop being such a sook and admit she didn’t want to say no.
And not all of her reasons had to do with green cards.
CHAPTER FOUR
The terrace was one of Warren’s favorite parts of the house. He’d bought this historic home in an exclusive Raleigh neighborhood for many reasons, mostly having to do with boring concepts like asset management, resale value and tax write-offs, but he’d made the decision to sign on the dotted line the moment he’d stepped through the double French doors.
Wrought iron curlicued through the railing like an endless black vine, affording an unobstructed view of the half-acre garden that the groundskeeper kept thriving through some alchemy that baffled Warren. Dollar signs, he understood. Living things, not so much.
Tilda would be one such example. She had turned into a quiet mouse the moment she crossed the threshold of the terrace. She’d been off-kilter all night. He’d been trying to change the dynamic, move them past boss and employee for God knew what reason. She clearly wasn’t on board. Gingerly, she took a seat on one of the wicker chairs with bright orange cushions. The thing swallowed her; it was big enough to seat an elephant or two cozy lovers, which they definitely were not.
Which didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t slide into the chair next to her and see if he could coax a little more cheer out of the woman he’d married. Funny, he’d never even noticed the size of that chair. Perhaps because he seldom came out here. A shame.
And now that was all he could think about. Giant chair. Pretty woman. Beautiful view. Lots to enjoy.
He cleared his throat and extended the wine bottle dangling from his fingers. “Red okay?”
She nodded, relaxing not an iota as she shifted in the chair. He had the distinct impression she would have agreed in exactly the same manner if he’d casually suggested paint thinner as their after-dinner drink.
It was nearly painful how thick the tension had grown, and that was not going to work come Monday morning when they’d spend hours in each other’s company doing the job she’d married him for. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it. Though the miniscule bit of intel he’d gleaned during dinner had only whetted his appetite to draw out this puzzle of a woman from her workaholic shell and see what made her tick.
There was a part of him that wondered if he’d figure out what made him tick in the process. The point wasn’t lost on him that there were two uncomfortable people on the terrace, neither of whom had a lot of practice at putting work aside. Why couldn’t they practice with each other? The fact that they needed to get comfortable—for more than one reason—was just a bonus.
He uncorked the wine that his housekeeper had already opened and then poured it, handing Tilda the glass of deep red wine by the stem—deliberately. Their fingers brushed and he wasn’t a bit ashamed to enjoy the blush that worked across her cheeks. The setting sun threw all kinds of interesting shadows across the terrace and the atmosphere was far more romantic than he’d fully anticipated. Seriously, he’d just hoped to spend a little more time with Tilda before it was back to all business, but this had turned out better than he could have dreamed.
And he’d done a lot of that. Fantasies were harmless. The problems cropped up when he couldn’t figure out how to engage the real woman, especially since he didn’t have the possibility of dropping them both into one of his sensually charged imaginary scenes.
Bad thing to be thinking about. And still be thinking about. His lower half had gotten uncomfortably tight in half a second, and she was going to clue in that his groin was stirring if he didn’t reel it back.
Not that there was anything wrong with a healthy attraction between two people. They just happened to be the two worst people on the planet to indulge in any kind of attraction, healthy or otherwise. They needed to be relaxed around each other, not hot and heavy. Though he was markedly better at the kind of conversations that he had with her in his head, the imaginary ones where all the words were sexy and led to both of them getting naked very fast.
Get a grip with a capital G right now.
Instead of taking one of the smaller chairs near the railing, he pulled over the footstool that went with Tilda’s chair and perched on it, sipping his wine as he contemplated her.
