Chapter Three
~ Connor ~
I woke to sunlight warming my face and the feel of sheets so soft they had to be illegal in at least three states.
My head throbbed with the remnants of whatever drug my mother had slipped me, but the memories were starting to filter back—running through hotel corridors, hiding from Harris, and then...him, the man who had protected me.
The man whose bed I was currently occupying.
Great job, Connor, one drink and you're in a stranger's bed.
Mom would be so proud.
I blinked against the brightness, slowly taking in my surroundings. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking city view that people probably paid extra for.
The suite was massive, with sleek furniture that screamed money and taste. Nothing like my cramped apartment with its secondhand IKEA rejects and milk-crate bookshelves.
The memories hit me in waves—urgent hands, heated kisses, whispered encouragements. My face flushed hot as fragments of our night together crystallized in my mind.
I remembered straddling him, remembered his hesitation turning to hunger, remembered the unexpected passion that had erupted between us.
Oh God. I had sex with a complete stranger while drugged out of my mind.
And not just any stranger. A gorgeous, successful, clearly wealthy stranger who had hidden me from the people trying to sell me off like some piece of property.
"You're awake."
The deep voice startled me, and I jerked upright, clutching the sheet to my chest like some Victorian maiden protecting her virtue.
About twelve hours too late for that.
He sat in a wheelchair by the window, already dressed in what had to be a custom-tailored shirt and pants, watching me with those intense dark eyes that had captivated me even through my drug haze.
Julian Montgomery. That was his name. It came back to me now, along with other, more intimate details that made my cheeks burn hotter.
"Yeah, I..." My voice cracked embarrassingly, and I cleared my throat. "I'm awake."
Brilliant conversation starter, Matthews.
Julian's gaze was steady, assessing. "How much do you remember from last night?"
I swallowed hard. "More than I probably should, less than I'd like to.
" I ran a hand through my hair, wincing at how tangled it felt.
"I remember you protecting me. I remember.
..us. And I remember promising to take responsibility for you, though I'm still a little fuzzy on why I thought you needed taking care of. "
The corner of his mouth quirked up, not quite a smile but close. "You seemed quite convinced that I needed your assistance."
"Right." I nodded, then stopped when it made my head throb. "That. I said that, didn't I?"
"You did." Julian wheeled closer to the bed, his movements confident and practiced. "Rather insistently, in fact."
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "I'm so sorry. I don't normally break into hotel rooms and make ridiculous promises to strangers. Or, you know, climb into their beds."
"I gathered as much." There was a hint of amusement in his voice now. "You were quite obviously drugged."
"Courtesy of my loving mother," I muttered, dropping my hands to my lap. "Still trying to wrap my head around that one."
Julian's expression hardened momentarily before returning to its previous calm. "We should discuss that, but first—your promise."
Right. That. The promise I'd made while high as a kite, convinced I needed to take care of a man who clearly had more money in his watch than I had in my entire checking account.
"Look, I should probably explain," I said, fidgeting with the edge of the sheet.
"I'm not exactly CEO material. I work two jobs—campus bookstore and weekend shifts at a café.
I'm taking night classes, one at a time because that's all I can afford.
I live in an apartment the size of your bathroom with three other guys, and my most valuable possession is a secondhand laptop that overheats if I run more than two programs at once. "
Clearly I'm CEO material. Just without the C, E, or O.
Julian's lips twitched, amusement flickering across his features. "That's quite a detailed inventory of your limitations."
"Just painting a clear picture," I said, shrugging. "I meant what I said about taking responsibility—I always keep my promises, but I'm not sure what I could possibly offer someone like you."
"Someone like me?" His eyebrow arched elegantly.
I gestured vaguely at the room, at him, at everything. "You know—successful, wealthy, put-together. I'm none of those things."
"And yet," Julian said, wheeling even closer until he was right beside the bed, "you made a promise."
The proximity sent a jolt of awareness through me that had nothing to do with my lingering headache. Even in daylight, even knowing how far apart our worlds were, I was still drawn to him.
Still hyperaware of how his hands had felt on my skin, how his lips had tasted, how he'd looked at me like I was something precious instead of a drugged-up mess who'd invaded his space.
"So your solution is...what exactly?" Julian asked, his voice cool and measured but his eyes anything but.
I squared my shoulders, determination replacing embarrassment. There was no denying the mess I was in—my own mother had drugged me, I had nowhere safe to go, and I'd made a promise to a man who clearly didn't need anything I could offer.
But a promise was a promise.
"I don't have a solution yet," I admitted. "But I'll figure it out. I always do."
Our eyes locked, and the electricity from the previous night crackled between us, a current of awareness and desire that hadn't diminished in the harsh light of day.
I expected him to look away first—to break the connection and return us to the awkward reality of our situation.
He didn't. His gaze held mine, unwavering, challenging. In those dark eyes, I saw something that made my breath catch—interest, hunger, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of respect.
"I believe you will," he said finally, his voice softer than before.
And God help me, I wanted to prove him right.
"Have you considered marriage?" Julian asked, as casually as if he'd suggested we order room service.
I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. The headache from the drugs must have damaged my ability to process language.
There was no way that Julian Montgomery, CEO extraordinaire, had just proposed marriage to me, a broke college student he'd met approximately twelve hours ago when I'd broken into his hotel room while fleeing from my own mother.
"Marriage?" My voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched. "As in, 'til death do us part, tax benefits, joint checking account? That marriage?"
Julian watched me with that maddeningly calm expression, one eyebrow slightly raised. "That is generally what marriage entails, yes."
"We met last night," I said, stating the obvious because apparently I needed to remind us both of this fact. "While I was drugged. And running for my life."
That part seemed important.
"I'm aware of the circumstances."
"And you think marriage is the next logical step?" I couldn't keep the incredulity from my voice.
Julian's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his wheelchair. "You made a promise to take responsibility. I'm offering you a way to keep that promise while also solving your more immediate problem."
"My more immediate—" I broke off as understanding dawned. "You mean the people trying to kidnap me."
"Yes. As my husband, you would be under my protection. My name carries significant weight."
I bet it does.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process this surreal conversation. "Look, I appreciate what you did for me last night—"
"We did for each other," Julian corrected, his eyes flashing with something that made my stomach flip.
"Right." I swallowed hard, memories of exactly what we'd done for each other heating my skin. "But marriage is... it's insane."
"Is it?" Julian leaned forward slightly. "Unless you'd prefer to break your word?"
Check and mate.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then looked back at the man who had somehow become the center of my universe in less than twenty-four hours.
"This is completely crazy," I said finally. "But okay."
Julian nodded as if I'd just agreed to his choice of restaurant rather than a legally binding life commitment. "Excellent. I've already made the necessary arrangements."
"Of course you have," I muttered.
Two hours later, freshly showered and dressed in clothes Julian had somehow procured in exactly my size—creepy or impressive? I couldn't decide—I found myself sitting beside him in the back of a luxury SUV with tinted windows, headed to the Civil Affairs Bureau.
"How exactly did you arrange this so quickly?" I asked, fingering the soft material of the shirt I now wore—some designer brand I couldn't pronounce.
"I know people," Julian replied without elaboration. "Having money and influence expedites many processes."
Must be nice.
I stared out the window, watching the city rush by and trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd been headed to what I thought was a normal family dinner. Now I was on my way to marry a man I barely knew.
"I still can't believe my mother drugged me," I said, more to myself than to Julian.
His hand unexpectedly covered mine, warm and solid. "We'll deal with that situation after we've secured your safety."
We. As if we were already a team. As if this marriage of convenience wasn't the most ridiculous solution to my problems.
Yet, I couldn't deny the little thrill that shot through me at his touch, at the quiet authority in his voice that promised protection. No one had ever wanted to protect me before.
The Civil Affairs Bureau was a nondescript government building that didn't match the magnitude of what we were about to do there.
Julian's driver helped him into his wheelchair with practiced efficiency, and I followed them inside, feeling increasingly like I was moving through someone else's life.