Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) (9 page)

Olivia

On Noah’s tuxedo-clad arm, I walk into Clair de Lune, a five-star French restaurant overlooking the East River. Escargot, caviar, white tablecloths, hundred-dollar bottles, the whole nine yards.

Even though this event is purely business—a dinner meeting meant to win over a new client—Noah brought me a bouquet of peonies when he came to my office to pick me up. He was polite and attentive, and it almost made me forgive him for getting me riled up the other day.

Who am I kidding? The man riles me up every five minutes.

The hostess guides us to our reserved table, where Miss Estelle Osbourne, the forty-something chief marketing officer of Parrish Footwear, is already seated with a glass of champagne in front of her. She looks regal in her lavender-gray chiffon evening gown, its sheer capped sleeves appliqued with silver lace—a sexy, yet sophisticated touch. I suddenly feel both underdressed and frumpy in my simple knee-length black sheath.

I read Miss Osbourne’s business profile online while studying up on her company for this dinner. After completing her Ivy League education, she landed a job with fashion giant Luxor Brands and has been climbing the corporate ladder ever since. She just took over Parrish’s esteemed head of marketing role last year, and so far she’s doing great things.

Talented, successful, beautiful, with keen business instincts . . . she’s exactly the kind of woman I strive to be. Which only makes the prospect of trying to impress her more nerve-racking.

“She got here early? Now it looks like we’re late,” I hiss under my breath.

“Relax, Snowflake,” Noah murmurs as he pulls out my chair for me.

Easy for him to say. How does he always stay so cool? I’m balanced on a knife’s edge of excitement and anxiety. Getting hold of this new client in the first place was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune. If we manage to charm this woman, her company’s contracts will go a long way toward digging us out of the red. Tate & Cane desperately needs this business dinner to come off without a hitch.

After everyone shakes hands and introduces themselves, Noah and I sit down. The waiter materializes with the wine list and three menus. I order the beef bourguignon and a glass of last year’s Beaujolais nouveau.
Bring on the red wine.

The waiter departs and I take a sip of ice water to clear my dry throat.
Don’t worry, you’ve got this.

“So, as I was saying earlier on the phone, Tate & Cane is currently implementing a solid plan for—”

“Oh, surely business can wait until after the main course.” Miss Osbourne, or Estelle, as she’s told us to call her, interrupts with a smile that says she’s clearly accustomed to getting her way. “How long have you two been together?”

“Uh . . .”

How the hell do I explain that we’re in the trial phase of an arranged marriage? We only started dating a few days ago, but in a sense, we’re sort of . . . pre-engaged? I should probably just make something up. And I have to do it fast because I’ve already paused for way too long. But I also have to make sure my lie won’t come back to bite us in the ass later.

“For as long as we can remember,” Noah says, smoothly covering the awkward silence. “Our fathers were close friends and business partners, so we spent most of our childhoods together. It was meant to be.”

“How sweet.” Estelle simpers, looking between us with curiosity.

“In fact, that reminds me of a story from when our families summered together . . .”

Oh God, here it comes
. Noah deploys one of his secret weapons: a cute anecdote about how he once saved a puppy from drowning in Shinnecock Bay. It’s an old tale, wildly embellished over the years, guaranteed to make women fawn and panties disintegrate.

I start tuning it out in favor of concentrating on the fragrant food that just arrived. I’ll let Noah have his playtime for now. It’s probably a decent strategy to let our prospective client get a few drinks deep before pitching our business anyway.

Eventually, Noah finishes his story amid Estelle’s approving murmurs. I start listening again when he leans slightly toward her, his manner conspiratorial, as if he’s about to say something intimate and profound. But all he asks is, “Tell me . . . would you happen to be named after Estelle Carmen, the Hollywood designer?”

Estelle actually giggles. “You and I both know I’m too old for that to be true. She was only a girl when I was born. But I appreciate the attempt at flattery.”

“Really? I would have sworn otherwise.” He flashes her a thousand-watt grin.

“Stop it,” she says in a coy lilt that tells him to do no such thing. “But I’m surprised you know that name at all. Are you a student of fashion, Mr. Tate?”

“I’m always interested in what beautiful women are wearing . . . or not.”

“You ought to be more careful with that fresh mouth of yours,” she says, scolding him playfully.

What the hell is happening here? Did I suddenly turn invisible to them?

I shoot a glance at our waiter, who’s cleared the main course dishes and asked twice if we’d like dessert. He looks almost as irritated as I feel, which is both reassuring and terrifying.

At least I know I’m not just going crazy here, but I hate that Noah and Estelle’s antics are so visible. With the way they’re carrying on, anyone would assume they were old friends . . . or maybe even a couple. I’m the odd man out. My only companions are an empty wineglass and the first hints of an oncoming headache.

“Sorry about that,” I tell the waiter. “Yes, please go ahead and bring us the dessert menu. And the cocktail menu too. Thank you.”
Gotta buy time to get this dinner back on track . . .

I seriously have no idea what’s going on. Noah and I reviewed our game plan at the office just a few hours ago—talk numbers, explain why Estelle should trust her company’s advertising campaigns to Tate & Cane, and get a commitment, even an informal one. But he’s gone totally off script.

They’ve covered a wide range of topics from their favorite sushi bar (they share the same one), to the best Vegas hotels, to last year’s dip in the stock market—which Parrish Footwear weathered quite well, thanks to Estelle’s forward thinking—but nothing to do with securing her business. No hard facts, no persuasive arguments, no recognition of the entire fucking reason we came here tonight.

So far, I haven’t managed to get out a single sentence of the sales pitch I spent three hours preparing. Not to mention that the way he’s flirting with her makes me want to puke. Aren’t we supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Because Noah sure as hell hasn’t been playing the part.

We can’t walk away tonight until we have a firm idea of whether or not Parrish is with us, which means I have a long damn way to go. And the first thing I need to do is have a word with my dear sweet boyfriend. Preferably someplace private, where our client can’t hear me ripping his balls off.

I check my phone, pretending that I heard it ding, then interrupt their lovefest with a plastered-on smile. “Honey, can I steal you away for a moment? My father just texted me with an important question.”

Without waiting for a response, I push out my chair and stand up, grabbing Noah’s hand. I drag him all the way to the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen’s swinging doors. A passing waiter gives us a curious look.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl, trying to keep my voice low despite burning with rage.

Noah blinks in surprise. Then a smug grin begins to dawn over his face. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of me paying attention to another woman. That’s so cute. Don’t worry, Snowflake. You’re the only girl I have eyes for.”

I correct him with barely restrained fury. “Don’t you dare try to flirt your way out of this one, you self-obsessed ass. I couldn’t give a damn about where your eyes go. I’m pissed because you’re making our relationship look like a joke, and I don’t appreciate being the punch line. You were practically licking the béarnaise sauce off her fingers!”

Another waiter passes by. This one looks amused. I don’t really blame him—we must look ridiculous, a pair of socialites dressed to the nines and feuding outside the kitchen.

I grind my teeth. I’m already humiliated and mad enough that everything just makes me feel worse.

Noah scoffs at me. “Oh, come on. It’s called networking. Greasing the wheels. She knows it’s nothing serious. I’ve done this kind of thing a million times.”

Why am I not surprised?
“That hardly makes me feel better. And our waiter seemed confused as to who the couple was here, me and you or you and her.”

“Who gives a shit what he thinks? She’s the one holding the purse strings. She’s who we’re here to impress.”

“I’m asking you to give a shit what
I
think!”

He blinks. “What? Of course I—”

“No, you clearly don’t, because otherwise you’d be listening good and hard right now.”

He throws up his hands. “Okay, fine. I’m listening. Just explain what the problem is.”

I suck in a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm down enough to put my thoughts in order. “Let me spell it out for you. You’re the one who made such a big deal about putting on a good performance, keeping up appearances, making our relationship look real. And now you’re acting like the same manwhore you’ve always been. Except now, I’m here to catch your collateral damage, and it’s embarrassing. You
disrespected
me.”

His eyes shoot open wide. “I never meant—”

“It doesn’t matter! Your intent doesn’t change the results. Maybe it never even occurred to you that I’d have a problem with your bullshit. I can give you that benefit of the doubt. But I’m standing here now, telling you how I feel. So, please knock it off.”

He covers his mouth with one hand, pulling down hard, and lets out a loud, harried sigh. “I . . . didn’t look at it like that. I was just trying to woo the client. Like I always do.”

Wow, he actually looks taken aback.

Somewhat shocked, I let my voice soften. “Well, if I’m in your life now, that can’t happen anymore.”

“In my life, huh?” He considers me with an expression I can’t quite read. “So that goes both ways, I guess. I’m in your life too?”

“Seems that way.” I sigh. “We’re stuck together for a good long while, at least.”

Now I can read his face—the first flickers of that familiar sinful smile. He reaches up, and at first I think it’s to cup my chin. But then he just runs his finger down my neck, that long stretch of exposed skin, all the way over the curve of my shoulder. I can’t help my shiver.

“You make it sound like a jail sentence,” he teases.

I smile. Only slightly, but it’s there.

He leans even closer and asks, “Are you sure you weren’t jealous at all?”

My two glasses of wine have lowered my guard. That’s my excuse for why, instead of telling him to shut up, I admit, “Maybe a tiny bit.” Then I regain my senses and add, “But that doesn’t change my original point.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

My cheeks start to warm as he regards me. Why did the jerk even ask, if he was just going to stand there staring?

“What?” I’m starting to get embarrassed again, but it’s different from before—a ticklish, almost excited twist in my stomach, instead of an upset, painful tightening. And the defensive tone of my own voice only intensifies the feeling.

“Nothing. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

I roll my eyes in an attempt to stop staring into his. “Come on, don’t give me that. You know the effect you have on women.”

That grin is full-blown now. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“No. I refuse to play travel agent for your ego trip.”

“If you want, I can take my turn first.” Before I can stop him, Noah starts listing my pros. “You’re the smartest, most diligent person I’ve ever met. Watching you work is fucking hot—in your element, poised and confident, the way your pretty blue eyes flash when you’re about to tear some poor schmuck apart. I can’t help wondering if you’re just as fierce and tireless and creative in bed. You’re honest to a fault . . . is your body honest too? Do you wear pleasure on your sleeve? Or would you try to hold back, make me work for it? Believe me, I’m up to the challenge.”

His words knock me breathless. What the hell just happened? And why does it have to make me tingle in the worst way?

The half praise, half dirty talk strikes a weak point I didn’t even know I had. Or maybe I only feel this way because it’s Noah who’s saying such sweet, filthy things, gazing at me so fervently. His husky voice softens and warms me, and I suddenly feel so exposed. Unshielded. But not in a bad way, not like a naked-at-the-important-meeting nightmare, because I know that Noah would never hurt me. He would never take advantage of my vulnerability.

Or maybe he would, but only in the ways that I secretly want.

Noah takes my hands, turns my palms up in surrender, his thumbs rubbing light circles onto the soft thin skin under my wrists. When I can’t repress the shiver that races through me, he grins like a wolf. Oh, he saw that reaction, all right. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I both hate it and love it.