Connor noticed, his pupils dilating slightly at the contact. His eyes met mine, and I saw the same heat there that had consumed us in the hotel room—a recognition of the chemistry that defied our unusual circumstances.
"Careful, Mr. Montgomery," Connor murmured, leaning slightly closer so only I could hear him. "Someone might think you like me."
His teasing tone held a note of challenge that stirred something in me—a competitive edge I usually reserved forboardroom battles. I allowed my lips to quirk upward in the ghost of a smile.
"Wouldn't that be unfortunate," I replied, my tone making it clear I meant the opposite.
Connor's eyes widened slightly at my response, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the store's temperature. He didn't pull his hand away, and neither did I, our fingers still touching over the shopping bag as if magnetized.
The air between us practically simmered with unspoken desire, a silent promise of what awaited when we returned home. I found myself wondering if I could recreate the miracle of last night—if my body would respond to him again or if it had been a one-time physiological fluke.
Only one way to find out.
"I think we're done here," I said, finally breaking the contact to accept the credit card the sales associate had returned. "Have everything delivered to the penthouse."
Connor watched me complete the transaction, a new awareness in his eyes—not just of the wealth I commanded so casually, but of the current running between us that had nothing to do with money.
"Ready to go home?" I asked, the question weighted with meaning beyond its simple words.
"Home," Connor repeated, as if testing the word. "Yeah, I think I am."
As we left the boutique, I was acutely aware of him walking beside my wheelchair, of the wedding ring on his finger, of the heat that had ignited between us with a simple touch.
Whatever this was—this arrangement, this marriage, this unexpected connection—it was evolving into something neither of us had anticipated.
And despite my best efforts to maintain control, I found myself looking forward to discovering exactly what that might be.
Chapter Five
~ Connor ~
I stepped into the penthouse like I was walking onto a movie set, still not quite believing that this place was now technically my home.
The weight of the shopping bags in my hand felt like evidence of a life I hadn't earned, but here I was anyway—Connor Matthews, no, Connor Montgomery now—wearing clothes that cost more than my rent and a wedding ring that probably had its own insurance policy.
Julian wheeled in behind me, the soft whir of his chair on the marble floor already becoming a familiar sound.
"The staff won't be back until dinner," Julian said, his voice carrying that authoritative tone that seemed as natural to him as breathing. "Make yourself comfortable."
Comfortable. Right. Like I could ever feel comfortable in a place where the couch probably cost more than my entire college education.
Still, I had to start somewhere.
I headed toward the master suite—our suite now—my new dress shoes clicking against the marble floor. The closet was bigger than my entire apartment, with Julian's clothes taking up only half the space. The empty half waited for me like a blank canvas, intimidating in its vastness.
"You can put your things anywhere," Julian said from the doorway, watching as I hesitated.
I nodded, setting down the shopping bags and reaching for my pathetic duffel bag. My entire life fit into this one worn bag—a few changes of clothes, a dog-eared paperback, my ancient laptop, and a framed photo of my grandparents, the only members of my family I actually liked.
Next to Julian's tailored suits and designer shoes, my belongings looked like they'd wandered into the wrong zip code.
"Not much to unpack," I said, trying to keep my voice light as I placed my clothes in a drawer that could have held ten times as much.
When I turned, I caught Julian watching me, his dark eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that sent heat crawling up my neck. It wasn't a clinical assessment, like he was checking if I was settling in properly.
No, this was something far more primal—the look of a man remembering exactly what lay beneath the expensive clothes he'd just bought.
I cleared my throat, suddenly very aware of how the tailored slacks hugged my thighs. "I think I'll make some coffee. Want some?"
