Who flinched just because a man’s hand had come toward her face?
Only the victim of previous abuse. And unless she wanted to start explaining that to him—which she’d rather not do—she had to pull it together. A woman who could handle a project the size of Flying Squirrel did not flinch. For any reason.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated a little more strongly. “It’s a difficult transition from employee to wife.”
His expression softened. “I’m not making it any easier, either.”
“You absolutely are.” Oh, God, now he thought that he was the problem. None of this was his fault. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. Extremely patient.”
“Really?” he asked with a wry quirk of his lips. “Because from my side of the table, it seemed like I was rushing you.”
This was a disaster. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the idea of Warren showing her his garden. It was sweet. Low-key. Exactly the kind of thing she’d have loved if it had been the tail end of a real date. For a moment, she’d let herself pretend that was what was happening. That he’d closed the distance between them because he’d correctly perceived that she needed to practice touching. There wasn’t anything threatening about it, yet her instincts had triggered automatically.
That was not who she wanted to be. Not around Warren. Rationally, she knew she could trust him. They’d been acquainted for two months. He’d been more than fair in their agreement. What more incentive did she need to use this opportunity to get over her fear?
“You’re not rushing me,” she said. “This is important. We have to work together and we have to convince people that we’re married for reasons that have nothing to do with green cards. If anything, we’re taking it too slow.”
Surprise filtered through Warren’s expression. “Would you like another glass of wine, then?”
“Yes,” she told him decisively and held out her glass. “Let’s start over. Tell me a funny story from your childhood.”
That was the kind of thing that seemed like a good segue. Finally, she felt a little more in control and her lungs expanded as Warren filled her glass, then his, with the remainder of the wine. This, she could do. If she knew what to expect, could guide the conversation, then she’d be okay.
Warren obliged, recounting a time when his brother had let Warren cut his hair. By the time he got to the part where their mother had caught Warren with the shears and tufts of Thomas’s hair under his bed, her smile was genuine. He let one of his own bloom and it did funny things to her stomach. Or perhaps that was the wine.
“It sounds like you were a mischievous little boy,” she said.
“No,” he corrected with a laugh. “I was always in charge. If I wanted to do something, I did it. That’s how I ended up as the CEO. It was the only job I was interested in.”
“I didn’t think work talk was allowed,” she teased and bumped him with her elbow. See, she could initiate contact without freaking out.
“That’s not work talk. It’s personal. I like getting what I want.”
The way he was watching her lent an undertone to the statement that made her shiver. In a good way. It was a little decadent and a lot delicious. What would happen if she stopped being such a weirdo about her boundaries and let her professional veneer drop away? Warren wouldn’t fire her. He certainly wasn’t going to hurt her.
She was still in control. Which meant she got to guide where things went next.
“Curious,” she murmured. “What were you going to do with my hair?”
His gaze shifted to the strand that was still grazing her cheekbone. That errant lock had set them off on the wrong track earlier. Maybe now it could get them on an entirely different track. One that would get them over this hump that caused them to be so cautious with each other.
“Tuck it back,” he said simply. “I should have just mentioned it.”
The floodlights from the garden played over them as they stood at the railing. A few stars had started to twinkle in the sky but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his face. They were in the middle of a vibrant city, but here on this terrace, they were insulated from everything else—bad, good or otherwise—and it was easy to pretend they were the only two people in the world.
“You commented on that in the car. After the wedding. Is it bothering you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, surprising her. “You’re normally so perfectly put together. It’s like this little piece of you is begging to be free of the confines you’ve imposed. It’s extremely distracting.”