"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.
