And that was as telling a comment as any. “You are aware of the fact that you live here, yes?”
She smiled. “Not permanently. And, yes, I don’t seem capable of forgetting the fact that I now live here. With you.”
The landscape lighting did her no favors when it came to hiding the blush that sprang up, spreading across her cheeks and into her hairline. It was as becoming as it was intriguing. She clearly didn’t like to discuss personal matters, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on whether it was because she didn’t like to give up details or because she worried that she’d say the wrong thing.
“Yes, that’s an important part of the equation. We live here together. Have you not ever lived with a man before?”
She shook her head and, lo and behold, one rebel strand of hair escaped her severe hairstyle, floating down to graze her cheek. And of course that made him wonder why she always shellacked her hair into place when there was at least part of it that didn’t want to conform to its mistress’s will.
The hank of hair caught his gaze and he couldn’t stop thinking about what her hair might look like down. Better yet, what it might look like with his fingers shoved through it.
And that was the tipping point. He wanted to touch.
He reached out to sweep the strand from her cheek. But she jerked backward before his fingers connected, moving out of reach. Her hand slipped from his and the softening vibe between them shattered.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. “You had this piece of hair—”
“No, I’m sorry,” she cut in, more color rushing into her face. “That was uncalled for.”
“It’s fine. We’re not at the place where we can act like a couple yet. We only got married yesterday.”
“But we are married.”
She looked so miserable that he almost reached out again, but he caught himself this time. She didn’t want him touching her. That much was obvious. “Yes. Are you regretting that?”
“No!” A horrified expression replaced the embarrassment of a moment ago. “I’m just… I told you I don’t date, and you surprised me. Not that you can’t—I mean, I’m not that much of a… Sorry. I’m rambling.”
Shutting her eyes, she waited about four beats, as if collecting herself, and then opened them. He gave her that time because he was busy reading her nonverbal signals. Her arms had stolen around her midsection defensively, though he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which she’d have to be defensive. Was she afraid of him? Or did she object to him personally in some way?
His first instinct was to blaze through this problem, the way he would any challenge that came across his desk.
But this was not a thorny personnel problem with Flying Squirrel or an accounting discrepancy that someone needed to explain. It was Tilda. He respected her. He’d married her. Warren forced his shoulders to relax and bit back the first phrase that had sprung to his lips, which sounded a lot like what he’d said to Marcus. Get over it.
Whatever had been going on with Marcus prior to his suicide was not something he could just get over, no matter how logical a solution that had seemed to Warren at the time. What he’d really meant was move on. Forget about it. Focus on something else. Whatever worked.
Marcus had needed compassion, not directives. Warren had missed that. He couldn’t make that mistake again, which was why he limited his personal interactions as much as possible. Distance was his friend for a lot of reasons. But he needed Tilda for his project. And maybe to assuage the sudden protective instinct that had sprung up out of nowhere. Tilda was his wife and it was not okay that she was so skittish around him. He had to figure out how to change things between them—without his CEO hat on—or his project would go down in flames.
* * *
The terrace had been a bad idea.
Or rather, the terrace was fine. It was Tilda who was the problem. What had she been thinking when she’d agreed to a glass of wine and getting cozy with Warren? Well, that was no mystery. She’d assumed he’d never breach that physical distance between them, that the natural reserve he’d always exhibited would be her saving grace. Big mistake.
The hand-holding had been one thing. That, he’d allowed her to ease into, which was precisely what she hadn’t known she’d need. Though it had been entirely unwitting on his part, she suspected. But then he’d lifted his hand toward her face. She hadn’t been fully prepared for it and now he was looking at her with a mixture of hesitancy and concern. Because he thought she was slightly crazy, no doubt.