Page 15 of Hitched to my Boss

"Didn't know she was taken," the drunk man mutters, already backing away. "Sorry, man."

He disappears into the crowd, leaving Jason and me standing close enough that I can feel his heart beating against my arm. My lips still tingle from his kiss, and I'm trying to remember whymaintaining professional boundaries seemed so important five minutes ago.

"Thank you," I say, though I don't step away from his protective embrace. "Though I could have handled him."

"I know you could have." His arm tightens slightly around my waist. "But you shouldn't have to."

The simple statement, combined with the way he's still holding me like I belong to him, does something dangerous to my equilibrium. This is supposed to be professional support, a business arrangement between consultant and client.

But the way Jason is looking down at me right now has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the attraction that's been building between us since that coffee spill in his kitchen.

"Well," a voice behind us says, amused and approving. "I definitely need to meet this young man."

We turn to find Marcus Hartwell watching us with interest, along with Dr. Martinez and two other conference attendees who'd witnessed the entire exchange.

"Jason Wallace," Hartwell says, extending his hand. "I'm Marcus Hartwell. After watching you handle that situation, I'm even more interested in our conversation tomorrow."

Jason shakes his hand, his other arm still around my waist. "Mr. Hartwell. Looking forward to discussing your wolf situation."

"I'm sure you are. But right now, I'm more interested in buying you and your girlfriend a drink." Hartwell signals the bartender. "Any man who steps up like that is someone I want to know better."

And just like that, we're in. The protective boyfriend moment has accomplished what hours of strategic networking might not have. We've gained Marcus Hartwell's genuine interest and respect.

"Champagne?" Jason asks me, his thumb tracing a small circle on my hip that sends shivers through my entire body.

"Champagne sounds perfect," I manage, trying to ignore the way his touch is affecting my ability to think clearly.

An hour later,after Hartwell has introduced us to half the conference, Jason and I find ourselves at a quiet corner table, multiple empty champagne glasses between us and a warm, dizzy feeling settling over our conversation.

"You're good at this," I tell him, noting how naturally he's been engaging with potential clients once the initial ice was broken. The champagne has made everything feel softer, easier.

"I'm good at talking about my work when people actually want to hear about it." He leans back in his chair, more relaxed than I've ever seen him. "Though I think most of the credit goes to my fake girlfriend's excellent networking skills."

"Your fake girlfriend?" I raise an eyebrow, emboldened by champagne and the way he's been looking at me all evening. "Is that what I am?"

"What would you prefer to be?"

The question hangs between us, and I realize the champagne has made me braver than usual. "I don't know. This whole fake relationship thing is... confusing."

"Confusing how?"

"Because it doesn't feel fake when you touch me." The admission slips out before I can stop it, champagne loosening my carefully maintained professional boundaries. My hand flies to my lips. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Jason's eyes darken. "Maybe because you can tell it doesn't feel fake to me either."

"We should probably slow down on the champagne," I say, even as I reach for my glass again.

"Probably," he agrees, but he's already signaling the waiter for another bottle.

The conversation flows as easily as the alcohol. Jason tells me about Afghanistan, about the mountains that saved him when he came home broken. I tell him about building my career from nothing, about always feeling like I had to be perfect to be worthy of success.

"You know what's funny?" Jason says, his words slightly slurred as he leans closer. "I've spent four years avoiding people, and here you are, making me want to be around someone again."

"That's not funny," I say, my own speech softer than usual. "That's... that's really sweet."

"You're really sweet," he says, reaching for my hand. "And beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?"

"Once or twice." I'm giggling now, which I never do. "You clean up pretty nice yourself, mountain man."

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