Contract Bride. Kat Cantrell

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.

      Plus, he’d backed off in a hurry when she’d tried to put parameters around this nebulous thing he’d called “dinner.” Of course, it was crystal clear now that he hadn’t defined it as a date in any way, shape or form.

      Which was good. She was telling herself it was good, even as she tried to figure out what you wore to dinner with your husband who wasn’t really a husband. One of her serviceable dove-gray suits felt too...officey, despite the fact that she’d been wearing one all day. Jeans and a T-shirt, like what she wore to the grocery store, seemed too casual. But then, Warren had mentioned they’d be dining at the house, so maybe casual wasn’t off base.

      In the end, she couldn’t do it. She picked the brown suit and hid a peacock-blue silk bra with corded straps and a matching thong under it. Defiantly. It was her favorite set, bought with her first paycheck from the Flying Squirrel campaign. She’d waltzed right into that high-end lingerie store in downtown Raleigh and bought the classiest, most beautiful fabrics in the place. The clerk had folded her purchase into silver tissue paper, then tucked her lingerie into a foil bag the size of a paperback. Nothing she’d bought needed a bigger package, since both scraps were tiny and revealing.

      Not that she’d ever reveal any of it to anyone. Her little secret. A kick in the teeth to Bryan’s memory, who had never wanted her to wear anything remotely flashy or skimpy. She didn’t dress that way on the outside, but that barrier of boring clothing was for her own peace of mind. Better to avoid attention than to seek it.

      Dinner was exactly as advertised. At home, low-key and not a date. Warren wore the same T-shirt and jeans he’d had on earlier, but of course he looked like a dream in anything. She so rarely saw him in something besides a suit that she took time to enjoy the way his shoulders filled out the soft cotton, graceful biceps emerging below the cuffs.