Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) (4 page)

“I know what I’m getting myself into, Noah. Besides, my focus is going to be on saving this company, not pretending to be the happy little wife to my fake husband.”

“Correction.” I lean closer. “Soon to be
real
husband. I’ll win you over, Snowflake. This
will
happen.”

Olivia

Win me over
, Noah says.
Real husband
.

There’s nothing real about this. He can call this trial period “dating” if he wants, but all I’m after is reassurance that we’ll mesh as co-CEOs. No need to confuse the issue with love or sex, no matter how dangerously attractive he is. I just have questions that need answers.

For instance, what made him take me to the mail room today? He practically dragged me downstairs. Whatever his reason, he thinks it’s important. Was he trying to give me a reality check, remind me that I’m not the only one with problems around here, so I should suck it up? Or was he just trying to show me his warm fuzzy side?

If the latter was his goal, it kind of worked. I have to admit that Rosita and Noah act adorable together. Almost like mother and son. The most stone-faced person on Earth would smile at their affection. And it’s not like I ever thought Noah lacked integrity or kindness, just the finer points of self-discipline. I have plenty of evidence to believe that getting closer to him won’t be so bad.

But while I can hazard guesses all day, I want to hear Noah’s explanation in his own words. And we’re overdue for a topic change anyway.

“Why did you introduce me to Rosita?” I ask.

“To show you what’s at stake.”

Despite fully anticipating it, his holier-than-thou tone still makes my lip curl. “As if I had no clue about the gravity of our situation. That’s the whole point of doing this trial period—to see how well we can play ball together before committing to a team-up. I’m doing my best to become friends with you, so . . .”

He tilts his head with a half smile. “Just friends? I’ve got my sights set a little higher.”

Gee, I never would have guessed, what with his constant attempts to steer the conversation toward sex.

I quirk one eyebrow in skepticism. “Friendship is all we need to pull this thing off. And we’re pretty much starting from square one . . . I would call us acquaintances, at best. Don’t you think you’re being a little overambitious?”

“Nope,” he replies, cocky smile still firmly in place.

I roll my eyes. “Wow. Your arrogance truly has no limits.”

“If I can put my money where my mouth is . . .” His lustful smirk makes it clear exactly where he’d like to put his mouth. “Then it’s not arrogance. Just confidence.”

“What makes you think I would want more with you, anyway? You aren’t exactly my type.”

I expect him to just give me a knowing look, or maybe toss back some mild innuendo. What I absolutely did not expect was, “Because I have a nine-inch cock.”

I almost choke on my martini for a third time. I splutter, “Is that number supposed to impress me?” Does he seriously expect me to believe that kind of porn-star bullshit?

“It’s the truth,” he purrs, leaning slightly closer. “And I know how to use it. Along with my tongue, my hands . . . just ask any woman I’ve been with.”

“Spare me the play-by-play. You’ve fucked half of New York City. I’m willing to believe that you learned
something
in the process.”

“First, I haven’t fucked half of New York. Believe it or not, I’m pretty discerning. Second, instead of hearsay, why not just see for yourself?”

I give him a skeptical look. “You want to show me your dick?”

“If it’ll help convince you.” He drains the last drops of his Scotch and stands up. “Come on, let’s go.”

I stare after him as he walks away.

Is he serious? He’s just going to whip it out? I look around to see if anyone is watching me, then I get up and follow him to the bar’s back hallway, near the restrooms, unable to comprehend why the hell I’m humoring him.
This is ridiculous.

Once we’re safely in a private corner, Noah undoes his belt, opens his fly . . . and pulls out a fucking fire hose.

Holy mother of God.
My hands fly to my mouth. I want to gasp in shock, but there’s no way I’m giving him the upper hand.

He was right. His cock is nothing short of massive, and it’s not even fully erect right now. Nine inches may actually be a conservative estimate of what it might look like hard. He must destroy men’s egos every time he walks into a locker room. And I don’t even want to think about what he destroys with women . . .

“Meh. I’ve seen bigger,” I force out, fighting to maintain my composure.

Noah chuckles. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Well, th-that
monster
is not coming anywhere near my uterus. No, thank you. I prefer to keep my organs intact.”

Noah’s grin widens. “I doubt that, but just to be on the safe side, I’ll ease it in nice and slow. Piece of cake. Plus, you’ve got good health insurance, right?”

“That is not funny, Noah. Now, put that thing away or I’ll remove it.”

I try to sound stern, but my shaking voice and bright red cheeks surely give me away. Why the hell can’t I stop staring?

He chuckles—yeah, the jerk can definitely see right through me—but he obliges, tucking the beast back into its lair.

I try to compose myself as we head back to the bar. Once seated, as coolly as I can, I say, “This doesn’t change my opinion, you know.”

“Really? Not at all?” He raises his eyebrows.

Of course, seeing his dick made an impression. How could it not? But I’ll be damned if I stroke his . . . ego any more than I already have.

“Look, this whole dating thing is just to prove that we can live and work together. You don’t need to go for extra credit.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Noah . . .”

“Would you at least be willing to try it? We could start super slow. Set strict limits. Like, say . . .” He waves his hand vaguely. “Nothing past first base.”

“A trial run within a trial run,” I say slowly, tasting the idea. I’m a little skeptical, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to fool around a little. I can always call
game over
if I’m feeling underwhelmed.

“Exactly. Just testing the waters. We can pretend we’re back in high school or something.”

I take a long sip of my drink, considering. Then I reply, “I’ll think about it.”

Noah

Game on.

Olivia

Oh, joy.
The renowned marketing firm of Wesson, Burke and Barsol has sent a vulture. And for some godforsaken reason, our board of directors agreed to let him blow hot air through his yellowing teeth for an hour and call it a “negotiations meeting.”

Tate & Cane has been rivals with WBB from day one. So, naturally, its CEO started salivating as soon as he smelled blood. Officially, the vulture is an “acquisitions representative,” but the formality of that title is just a smoke screen. He’s here to try to pick the carcass before it’s even stopped moving.

Holding back an aggravated sigh, I shift in my seat at the conference table. I don’t have time for this bullshit; I have an entire company to rehabilitate. “Meeting with potential buyers” is about as far down my to-do list as it gets. Especially since I have no idea what this jerk is even doing here, other than wasting everyone’s time and sending my blood pressure through the roof. It’ll be ninety days—no, eighty-six now—until the board even decides whether they want to sell Tate & Cane, let alone who they’ll sell it to.

Maybe all this stress is just making me hysterical, but I can’t keep my mouth from twitching at the sight of the rep’s hair. He has, without a doubt, one of the greasiest, scraggliest, saddest comb-overs I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been part of the elite corporate world since I was old enough to hold Dad’s hand at company dinners. Trust me, I know my bad comb-overs.

How appropriate . . . a bald vulture. Maybe I should check his hands for talons.
I take a sip of coffee just to hide my smirk.

Dad clears his throat to interrupt the rep’s rambling. “Excuse me, Mr. Valmont, but I’d just like to clarify a few points.”

The rep blinks a few times, as if he’s forgotten that there were other people in the room. “Yes, Mr. Chairman?”

“Your purchase offer seems very low. Our company’s total value has been estimated at over twice this figure. And your planned policy changes are quite extensive.” Dad peers over his glasses at his copy of WBB’s proposal. “Not to mention the universal layoffs—surely you don’t have to fire
all
of our current employees?”

“Freshly acquired companies always undergo some restructuring.” The rep adjusts his tie. “It’s standard industry practice, as I’m sure you already know. Buyers have to make sure that their new asset fits into their, ah . . . their corporate culture.”

“Of course,” Dad says. “Just making sure the board understands.”

Oh yeah, the board understands, all right.
Nobody sitting at the conference table has even the trace of a smile.

I steal a glance at Noah, who’s sitting just to my left. He looks absolutely miserable—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight, shoulders tensed around his ears. His body language is shocking, especially for a man who’s normally as cool as a cucumber.

A pang of sympathy tightens my chest. I feel the unexpected urge to reach out and take Noah’s hand. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but the underlying ache remains. God knows I’m not his biggest fan, but with potential buyers in the room, my choice is a no-brainer. Of course I’ll stand firm with Noah. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Except Noah isn’t just the enemy of my enemy. We really are on the exact same side here. We’re both doing this for the same reasons—for our fathers, our futures, for all the people who depend on T&C’s jobs to feed their families. And we stand to lose the same high stakes. I know Noah won’t give up without a fight.

The ache in my chest deepens, softens into something that feels almost like loyalty. Solidarity.

Noah’s eyes flick over to mine; he must have sensed my gaze on him. As subtly as I can, I incline my head and give him a small, tight-lipped smile. I don’t want the vulture or even Dad to see what I’m doing. This message is meant only for the two of us.

Don’t worry. We’re going to outsmart these fuckers. I swear on our mothers’ graves, we’ll win.

The vulture gets up from his chair with a creak. Noah looks back at him, breaking our brief connection.

“My employers urge you to consider committing to this sale as soon as possible,” Valmont says. “Our offer is quite generous, and it won’t be on the table indefinitely.”

“We’ll be sure to keep WBB in mind if we ever decide to sell,” Dad replies smoothly, ignoring the man’s limp-dicked attempt at a threat. “Thank you for coming to visit us today.”

I give a tiny mental cheer.
Hell yeah! Dad said if, not when.
Small victories.

The rep doesn’t look impressed by Dad’s carefully neutral non-smile. Probably because he knows that “we’ll keep you in mind” is just a polite translation of “go piss up a rope.” But what did WBB expect, trying to sneak in ahead of the competition like this?

The meeting is adjourned. Dad excuses himself—probably to wash up after shaking the rep’s slimy hand. As I head back toward my office, Noah catches up with me in the hall.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

Noah’s asking
me
that? He was the one who looked on the verge of strangling that prick back there.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I sigh. “Just pissed off.”

“I thought you were always pissed off,” he teases.

“Only when I’m around you,” I fire back automatically, but without any real feeling. I’m still too distracted and stressed out.

Noah just chuckles, as if we’re playing tennis instead of trading insults. I have to admit, his laugh is a nice sound—and I like seeing him this way a lot better than what I saw at the meeting. Even if he can be an annoying little shit when he’s cheerful.

We walk together for a minute, with only the soft pad of our footsteps and the low murmur of office chatter in the background.

“What about you?” I finally ask. “Are you okay?”

“I feel a lot better now that I’m talking to you.”

More flirting. Why does he have to keep messing with me like that? And why does my stomach always have to give a little flip in response? I hate how easily he can make me react.

“But back there, not so much,” Noah continues. “I thought I was going to punch that asshole in his smug face. This company isn’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. These are people’s lives they’re planning to fuck up.”

“Right . . . like Rosita. You care so much about her.” From yesterday, I already knew that they were close, but seeing Noah get so upset really drives home how important she is to him.

His sigh is deep and troubled. “How could I not? She’s one of the sweetest people to ever walk the Earth. And she has a family to worry about.”

Suddenly he stops and faces me, the corners of his mouth picking up again, but his eyes telling me he’s still troubled about the meeting and what we learned. “Well, this is me. I guess it’s time to get back to work.”

I look around and see he’s right—we’re standing outside his office door.

Here already? When did we walk all this way? Time must have flown by.

I feel an odd twinge of disappointment, unwilling to end this conversation yet. I don’t know what else to say; I just feel like talking to Noah a little longer.

Or maybe I just don’t want to be alone right now. I want to hang on to that moment we shared at the meeting. The reassuring, invigorating sense that we’re fighting by each other’s sides. Allies in the trenches.
Misery loves company, I guess . . .

But my to-do list is too long for me to pay attention to such a tiny, nebulous feeling. So I shake off my reluctance and nod good-bye at Noah.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Not too much later, I hope.” With a wink, Noah disappears into his office.

Gah . . . tummy flip, right on cue.
Screw him—no, wait, don’t screw him. I mean, forget him. And his monster penis. I have a million things to do and I’ve already wasted half the day.

I turn on my heel and head for my office. Maybe my feelings will settle down once I start working. I’ll bury myself in tough financial problems, get a good flow going, and let all distractions slip away.

But the idea of solitude, normally blissful, still rubs me the wrong way for some reason. And as my mind wanders, so do my feet. I find myself in front of Dad’s door instead of my own.

I let myself inside his office, savoring the church-like silence, the calming scents of wood polish and coffee and paper. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt at home in this office. I was practically raised here, after all. I’ve read every volume of every book and business journal on its shelves. I know every inch of this room, and its familiarity soothes my jangled nerves.

The door opens again with a soft click, and Dad says, “I knew I’d find you here.”

I can hear the smile in his voice without even turning around. Which is good, because I’m suddenly too tired to do anything more than breathe.

“Something you want to talk about?”

Bypassing his mahogany desk and the imposing throne behind it, Dad sits on the squat leather armchair by the coffee table. I take the armchair on its other side. It makes the same awkward farting noise it’s made for the past eighteen years.

“No. I mean . . .” I sigh. “Maybe.”

I don’t even know what I need right now. My thoughts are still flying in all directions: The vulture, somehow dismissive and hungry at the same time. The tense misery in Noah’s pose. Dad’s careworn face, its wrinkles deepening by the day. The board’s insane deadline. All the work that lies ahead of me—of us. The mere word “us,” the idea that soon, I’ll become a
we
instead of a
me
.

But maybe that isn’t such a terrible fate. Partnership has its good points as well as bad. I’ve seen that synergy firsthand, in the way that Dad and Bill Tate led this company together.

And I remember the glance I shared with Noah back in the conference room. That split second of mutual understanding, where I saw straight through Noah’s eyes. I could tell exactly how he felt—alone, overwhelmed—and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone and overwhelmed myself. Putting on a brave face for him bolstered my own courage. Even now, I feel stronger and calmer for having smiled at him.

It’s actually kind of amazing just how powerful one glance can be. How much it can communicate. How it can pull me out of despair, even slow down my heartbeat . . . or speed it up. Like what happened between us in the hall a few minutes ago. Or the meeting where he kissed my hand.

For God’s sake, is my libido ever going to shut up? Now is really not the fucking time.
Ugh, wait. Poor choice of words.

“You still there, sweetie?” Dad asks.

I blink back to reality.
Shit, I got lost in thought again.
My thoughts are pretty easy to get lost in these days.

“Sorry. I just . . . I don’t really know where to start.” That’s definitely no lie.

“I’ll pour us some coffee.” He leans forward with a grunt.

“No, Dad, don’t get up. I can do it.” I stand up and walk to the sideboard to turn on the single-cup machine.

He lets out a small sigh through his nose. “I know I’m no spring chicken anymore, but—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Dad is proud and I don’t want to make him feel helpless, but I know damn well how much pain and fatigue he’s dealing with. And to be honest, I’m desperate to get off my ass and
do
something. Anything at all. I just need action.

So I busy myself with the coffee. Hazelnut for me, Colombian dark roast for Dad. Sweetener but no cream for me, cream but no sweetener for Dad. The ritual itself is almost as soothing as the rich scents that steam from our mugs.

I hoped that talking would come easier like this, with my hands occupied and my back turned so I don’t have to worry what crosses my face—or what might cross Dad’s. But the words that leap from my mouth take us both by surprise.

“Why did Bill Tate do this to us?”

Dad sighs again. This one is loud, heavy, rising from deep within his chest.

My mouth snaps open to apologize. But then I close it again. Because you know what? Even if I never intended to demand answers—fuck it, I really do want some. In fact, I have a right to them. I’m the one who was forced to choose between the frying pan and the fire, after all.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dad says. “We never imagined it would turn out this way. We wrote those clauses together, into both our wills, because we wanted to keep T&C in the family, and we knew you kids were meant to be together.”

I nod a little impatiently as I hand him his coffee mug and sit down with mine. I already know most of this part of the story. A joint venture, in more than one sense of the word.

He takes a sip. “Still, we tried to make sure that you had other options. If you and Noah didn’t want to marry by the time we retired—a day we thought was far in the future—then control would default to the board. And even so, you wouldn’t lose the company. You would have been granted board seats and paid highly from T&C’s profits. So we didn’t make this decision lightly. But we never anticipated . . .”

“That there would be no profits,” I say softly. And maybe no company at all.