Later that day, I wandered through Julian's high-ceilinged study, running my fingers along the spines of leather-boundbooks that probably cost more than my entire college textbook collection.
After our lunch—a surprisingly casual affair at a tucked-away restaurant where Julian was treated like royalty, but insisted we sit at a normal table rather than some VIP section—we'd returned to the penthouse with the afternoon stretching before us.
Julian had settled behind his mahogany desk, wheelchair positioned perfectly as he returned to CEO mode, while I explored his sanctuary with the curious freedom of someone who now, technically, lived here.
"Some of these books look like they've never been opened," I observed, pulling out a pristine first edition of something that probably belonged in a museum.
Julian glanced up from his laptop. "The ones on the top three shelves are investments. The ones I actually read are within reach."
Made sense. Even Julian Montgomery couldn't defy gravity.
I moved to a display case filled with what looked like ancient artifacts. "Is this legal to own?"
"Perfectly," Julian replied without looking up. "Though the British Museum has made several generous offers for that particular piece."
Of course they have.
I was about to ask if there was anything in this penthouse that didn't cost more than my entire existence when Julian's phone buzzed. He checked the screen, his expression neutral as he answered.
"Montgomery." His voice was all business, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes as he listened to whoever was on the other end.
I continued my exploration, trying not to eavesdrop too obviously. The study was a perfect reflection of Julian himself—elegant, expensive, and meticulously organized. Even the pens on his desk were arranged by size and color.
"When exactly?" Julian's tone had shifted, a new tension entering his voice that made me turn. "And you're certain they were asking specifically about Connor Matthews, not Connor Montgomery?"
My heart skipped at the mention of my former name. Julian's expression had darkened, jaw clenching in a way I was starting to recognize as his tell when something upset him.
"No, that's all I need to know for now. Increase surveillance at all his previous locations. Yes. Keep me informed." He ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate care that seemed more dangerous than if he'd thrown it.
"What was that about?" I asked, moving closer to his desk.
Julian's eyes met mine, his gaze calculating as if deciding how much to share. "Someone has been asking questions about you at the campus bookstore. One of my security team recognized the description of the man from the hotel that night."
"Harris." The name tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Most likely," Julian agreed. "Or someone working for him."
I shrugged, trying to appear more nonchalant than I felt. "They can ask all they want. Connor Matthews doesn't work there anymore."
Julian didn't smile. "They're looking for you, Connor. It won't take much for them to connect you to me, especially after our marriage certificate was filed."
"So let them," I said, more bravado than sense. "What are they going to do, storm the fortress? You've got better security than the White House."
Julian's expression didn't lighten. If anything, his concern seemed to deepen, his eyes growing distant as he mentally calculated risks I couldn't even imagine.
Time for a distraction.
"I'm going to change," I announced, heading for the door. "These jeans are cutting off circulation to parts of my anatomy I'd prefer to keep functioning."
That earned me a brief flicker of a smile, which I counted as victory.
In the bedroom, I shed my clothes quickly. Julian's closet was a wonderland of expensive fabrics and perfect tailoring. On impulse, I bypassed my own new wardrobe and selected one of his crisp white dress shirts. It hung loose on my frame, long enough to cover the essentials but short enough to make a statement.
When I returned to the study, Julian was still behind his desk, frowning at his phone. He looked up as I entered, and his expression transformed instantly. The concern didn't vanish completely, but it was overshadowed by something darker, hungrier.
"That's mine," he said, his voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down my spine.
I lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug that made the shirt slip slightly, revealing more collarbone. "So am I, according to our marriage certificate."
