Page 23 of The Marriage Compromise

I dismissed the staff with a nod, and they dispersed to their respective duties, though not without curious glances at Connor. I couldn't blame them. In the three years since my accident, I'd never brought anyone home, let alone a husband.

Connor stood awkwardly in the center of the living room, his secondhand clothes and obvious discomfort marking him as clearly out of place among the custom furniture and priceless artwork. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels as he took in the expansive space.

"So," he said, breaking the silence, "does the Smithsonian know you've stolen their east wing?"

I snorted, surprising myself. "The Smithsonian's design aesthetic is far inferior to mine."

"Clearly," Connor agreed, gesturing to a sculpture on a nearby pedestal. "That looks expensive enough to fund my entire education."

"It probably could," I admitted. "Twice over."

Connor let out a low whistle, then looked back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Why am I here, Julian? Really?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. Most people in my world navigated conversations through layers of subtext and implication. Connor's bluntness was refreshing, if uncomfortable.

"You made a promise," I replied, wheeling closer to him. "And I'm holding you to it."

"Yeah, but there are easier ways to handle that than marriage," he pointed out. "You could have just hired me as... I don't know, your personal assistant or something."

"I already have an assistant," I said, gesturing toward the direction Natalie had gone. "Besides, marriage provides certain legal protections that employment doesn't."

"Right," Connor said, nodding slowly. "Like spousal privilege. In case my mother tries to sue me for running away while she was trying to drug me."

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "Among other things."

Connor's eyes met mine, searching for something. "Is that all it is? Legal protection?"

The question hung between us, weighted with everything we weren't saying about what had happened in that hotel room. About the way his touch had awakened parts of me I'd thought dead. About the inexplicable connection that had formed between us in the span of twenty-four chaotic hours.

"For now," I said finally, "let's just say I keep my promises too."

The flush returned to Connor's cheeks, and I knew he understood exactly what I was promising.

I led Connor down the hallway to my study, trying not to notice how his borrowed clothes still managed to hint at the body underneath—the body that had somehow reawakened mine after three years of nothing.

The memory of his weight on my lap, his hands exploring with such unrestrained enthusiasm, threatened to derail my focus on the business at hand. Because that's what this was supposed to be… business, a transaction a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Not... whatever had happened between us in that hotel room. Whatever had made my dead nerves sing for the first time since metal and glass had rewritten my future.

"This is where I work when I'm at home," I said, pushing open the heavy oak door with practiced ease.

My study was my sanctuary—the one room in the penthouse that felt entirely mine. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound first editions and well-worn law books from my days before I became a CEO. The massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface gleaming under the warm light of the antique banker's lamp.

Connor let out a low whistle as he entered behind me. "Pretty sure I saw this room in a movie once. Right before someone got murdered with a candlestick."

"I prefer the lead pipe myself," I replied dryly. "Less mess."

That earned me a surprised laugh, the sound warming something in my chest that I immediately tried to freeze again. This was not about connection. This was about protection—his from his mother, and mine from... well, from whatever was happening to my body when he was near.

"Have a seat," I said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs facing my desk as I wheeled around to my usual position.

Connor lowered himself into the chair, his movements carrying a casual grace that drew my eye despite my best intentions. He sprawled slightly, one leg stretched out, somehow making the formal chair look comfortable.

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 weddingpaperwork. You seemed a bit distracted at the moment so I wasn’t sure you actually knew what you were signing."