Chapter Four #2
I found myself staring at his hands—the same hands that had mapped every inch of my chest last night—and quickly shifted my gaze to the desk drawer.
Focus, Julian. For God's sake, focus.
I retrieved a folder and slid it across the polished surface of the desk. "You signed this earlier, along with our wedding paperwork. You seemed a bit distracted at the moment so I wasn’t sure you actually knew what you were signing."
Connor's cheeks instantly flushed pink, the color spreading up from his neck in a way that shouldn't have been as endearing as it was.
I had a sudden memory of the last time I’d seen his face flush, of his body moving above mine, his lips against my neck. It hit me like a physical wave of heat.
"I was not distracted," he countered defensively, though the pink in his cheeks deepened. "I was... focused on other things."
"Indeed," I replied, my voice dropping an octave lower without my permission. "Very focused."
Our eyes locked across the desk, and the air between us suddenly felt charged with electricity. I could see his pupils dilate slightly as he held my gaze, neither of us willing to be the first to look away.
The memory of our night together hung between us like a living thing—his hands on my skin, my unexpected response, the sounds he'd made when he'd come apart in my arms.
You'd think we'd invented sex, the way we're looking at each other.
But that was just it—for me, it had been like inventing it all over again. My body had been dormant for so long that every touch, every sensation, had felt brand new and overwhelmingly intense.
I finally broke the tension by reaching into my desk drawer and producing a sleek black credit card. The movement required me to look down, severing the connection that had made it difficult to breathe.
"Unlimited funds," I said, sliding the card toward him. "Try not to buy a small country."
Connor stared at the card as if it might bite him. "That's... I can't accept that."
"You already accepted my last name," I pointed out. "The credit card is significantly less binding."
His fingers reached out hesitantly, and as he took the card, our fingers brushed. The contact, brief as it was, sent an unexpected jolt through my body, making my breath catch slightly before I could regain my composure.
This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager who's never been touched before. But, I guess, in some ways, that's exactly what I was—at least, this new version of me, the one whose body could feel things it hadn't felt in three years.
"Quit your jobs," I continued, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Full-time school. I'm paying."
Connor's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Just like that? Why?"
"I'm a very wealthy man, Connor. Your tuition is less than what I spend on wine in a month."
"That's not what I asked," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Why do you want me to quit my jobs? Why pay for my school? What do you get out of this arrangement?"
The directness of his question caught me off guard, even though it was the same bluntness he'd shown in the living room. Most people in my world would have simply taken the money and asked questions later—if at all.
My mind flashed involuntarily to Connor's body moving above mine the night before, awakening parts of me I thought dead since my accident.
The way his touch had somehow bypassed the nerve damage, creating sensations where doctors had told me I would never feel again.
The physiological impossibility that had somehow become possible in his arms.
How could I explain that? How could I tell him that for three years, I'd been a half-man, resigned to a life without physical intimacy, only to have him waltz into my hotel room and somehow unlock what medical science had declared permanently closed?
"That's... complicated," I managed, my usual eloquence failing me.
Connor set the credit card down on the desk and leaned back in his chair, studying me with unsettling intensity. "I think I deserve a straight answer, don't you? Given that I just married a man I met yesterday."
He had a point. But the truth was too raw, too new for me to articulate even to myself, let alone to him.
"Last night," I began, choosing my words carefully, "something happened that shouldn't have been physically possible."
Connor's eyes widened slightly, understanding immediately what I meant. "The doctors told you that you couldn't...?"
"Yes." The single syllable felt like it cost me something to say aloud.
"And with me, you could."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway, feeling uncomfortably exposed. In the boardroom, I was known for my unflappable composure. Yet here I sat, discussing the most intimate aspects of my disability with a virtual stranger who was now, improbably, my husband.
"So this is a science experiment?" Connor asked, his tone unreadable.
"No," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "This is..." I gestured vaguely between us, "protection. For you, from your mother and whoever she was trying to sell you to. And for me, from..."
"From what?" Connor pressed when I didn't continue.
From loneliness. From the emptiness of my carefully constructed life. From the parts of myself I'd walled off after the accident.
"From unwanted attention," I said instead, retreating to safer ground. "A husband is an excellent deterrent for the kind of people who see my wheelchair and assume I need saving."
It wasn't entirely untrue, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Connor seemed to sense this, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied my face.
"So we help each other," he said finally. "I get protection from my psycho family and a free education. You get protection from... unwanted attention." The way he emphasized the last words made it clear he didn't entirely believe that explanation. "And we both get whatever happened last night."
The bluntness of his statement sent heat crawling up my neck. "That's one way to put it."
"Is there a better way?"
I studied him across the desk—this young man who had somehow crashed into my life and upended it completely in less than twenty-four hours. Who had made me feel things I'd thought were permanently beyond my reach.
"Not at the moment," I admitted. "We're in uncharted territory here."
Connor nodded slowly, then picked up the credit card again, turning it over in his fingers.
"Okay, then. I'll quit my jobs. I'll go to school full-time.
I'll even carry this ridiculous card." His eyes met mine again, direct and challenging.
"But don't lie to me, Julian. Even by omission.
If you want this arrangement to work, I need honesty. "
The demand should have irritated me. In the boardroom, I would have shut down such insubordination immediately. But sitting across from Connor, I found I couldn't summon the outrage such a request would normally inspire.
"Agreed," I said finally. "Honesty."
I just wasn't sure I was ready for what that might entail.
“And I’ll be honest when I say I want to take you shopping.”
Connor’s eyebrows lifted. “Shopping?”
“As the husband of Julian Montgomery, you have an image to uphold.” I vaguely waved my hand at his current outfit. “This is not it. You need clothes.”
"I don't need designer clothes," Connor insisted. "I'm fine with what I have.”
“Not up for debate.”
An hour later, I sat outside the dressing room of Armani's private showroom, pretending to check emails on my phone while actually counting the seconds until Connor emerged again.
Each outfit he'd tried on had been more distracting than the last, the progression from borrowed clothes to custom tailoring like watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis.
I told myself this excursion was necessary—my husband couldn't very well attend functions in faded jeans and hoodies—but the truth was, I was enjoying the show far more than I should have been.
"Mr. Montgomery, can I offer you anything while you wait?" The sales associate hovered nearby, the perfect blend of attentive and unobtrusive that came with catering to the ultra-wealthy.
"No, thank you," I replied without looking up from my phone.
The boutique had cleared out all other customers for our visit—standard procedure for clients of my status. The hushed atmosphere, with its subtle lighting and plush seating, was designed to make spending obscene amounts of money feel like a spiritual experience.
I glanced at my watch. Connor had been in the dressing room for five minutes now, longer than with previous outfits. Probably struggling with all those buttons. Or having an existential crisis over the price tags.
When I'd suggested shopping after our study conversation, Connor had balked at first. It had taken some persuasion to convince him that appearances mattered in my world—that a Montgomery who shopped at discount stores would raise eyebrows and invite questions we didn't want to answer.
The dressing room door finally opened and I looked up from my phone.
My mouth went dry.
Connor stood in the doorway wearing charcoal gray slacks that seemed to have been painted onto his body. The expensive fabric draped flawlessly, accentuating the lean muscle of his thighs and the curve of his ass in a way that made my pulse quicken.
He'd paired it with a light blue shirt that brought out the color in his eyes, the top button casually left open to reveal the hollow of his throat.
Gone was the awkward college student in borrowed clothes. In his place stood a young man who could easily pass for old money, the kind of effortless elegance that couldn't be bought, but somehow looked natural on him despite his background.
"Better?" Connor asked with innocent curiosity, turning to show the full effect.
Better?
Dear God.
My brain struggled to form a coherent response that wouldn't reveal just how much the sight of him affected me. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly parched.
"It'll do," I managed, my voice slightly hoarse despite my best efforts at nonchalance.