Hitched: Volume Two, Page 4

  Noah pours the two flutes full, then raises his with a deliberately overdramatic flourish. “To Tate & Cane Enterprises, may you rise again. And to Snowflake, my brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous wife who’s going to pull our asses out of the red.”

  My cheeks flush a little. I clink my glass against his, trying to hide my smile. “I thought this toast was going to be about business.”

  He chuckles. “But you’re so cute when you’re flattered, Snowflake.”

  “Don’t give yourself so much credit,” I mutter. But he’s totally right. He does get me flustered easily. I take my first sip of champagne, then add, “Thanks, Noah.”

  He looks up with a devilish grin. “It’s our wedding night. Not even a kiss? What happened to first base?” The tip of his tongue traces slowly over his full lips, bringing mental images that are a lot more explicit than just kissing.

  Dammit, I’m staring at his mouth. “S-stop screwing around and help me work,” I snap.

  • • •

  Early the next morning, I wake up in my desk chair with a nagging headache and keyboard prints on my cheek. I sit up with a pained groan—my spine did not like being hunched over my desk for six hours. I can practically hear it creak.

  Something soft and heavy slides off my back. I look around, confused, and see a blanket pooled on the floor behind me. I definitely didn’t do that. If I was lucid enough to get a blanket last night, I would have been aware enough to stop working and get to bed before I fell asleep. Noah must have covered me up.

  And where is he, anyway?

  Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stand and look around. I’m disappointed to see no sign of him. I guess he slept in the master bedroom after it became clear that I wouldn’t be touching his dick.

  Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I can speed through my morning routine without any interruptions and get to the airport with plenty of time.

  When I arrive downstairs in the kitchen, Noah is at the stove, frying up half a dozen eggs over easy. I have a flash of déjà vu back to our first morning in our new penthouse apartment. Although he’s wearing a shirt this time . . . too bad. He wears the bed-head look well.

  Who am I kidding? The sexy jerk wears everything well.

  “Have a nice wedding night?” he asks without turning around, sounding amused. Teasing me yet again.

  I guess this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life. I comment breezily, “Well, there was this one asshole who kept hanging around while I was trying to work . . .”

  “Sounds like a problem. Maybe I should have a word with him after we eat.”

  I walk over and stop behind him. I hesitate, then loop my arms around his firm waist, resting my cheek on the base of his neck. His movements pause for a second; he obviously wasn’t expecting that.

  “Hey,” I murmur. “I wanted to thank you again. For helping me handle Brad.” As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know what I would have done without Noah. “And for . . . I don’t know. Everything. Putting up with all my shit.” I tend to get a little bat-shit crazy when it comes to work.

  His chuckle rumbles through his back and into my chest. “Don’t be silly, Snowflake. What else are husbands for?”

  Gratitude washes through me. I breathe deeply, inhaling his clean, faintly spicy scent, and sigh it out into his hair. That was so easy. Everything about being with Noah is so much easier than I ever thought a relationship could be. Although I admit I don’t have the best examples to work from. Noah has seen me at my worst and yet he’s still here, cooking me breakfast, letting me hold him. Forgiving me like it’s nothing.

  For a moment, I just indulge in this atmosphere of warm, calm security. Then I reluctantly peel myself off my new husband’s back and start preparing our coffee and tea.

  We take our breakfast outside to eat on the front porch while watching the sailboats bobbing in the harbor. I meant to enjoy the view, but only about ten minutes pass before we’re deep in shop talk. Noah floats several new ideas for our proposal that I wish I’d thought of. I make a mental note to add them to our draft while we’re in the air.

  In the air. Wait a minute. I squint through the window to check the kitchen’s wall clock—and then I jump up from the patio table.

  “Shit, we’re going to miss our plane!”

  Noah shrugs, taking another leisurely sip of his tea. “No big deal. We can always catch the next one.”

  My withering look says it all.

  “All right, all right.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Back to the grindstone.”

  • • •

  We arrive back at the Tate & Cane building after lunchtime. My empty stomach feels tight as I walk down its halls. I’m almost certainly being paranoid, but it feels like I’m doing a walk of shame. Like everyone knows that last night was my wedding night. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t even fuck Noah—everyone must assume I did, right?

  Jeez . . . maybe I should have. If I was going to endure an awkward morning after, I might as well have enjoyed a fun night beforehand.

  Wait, hell no. Don’t even entertain the thought of fucking Noah. That way lies madness. Even though he clearly wants me and part of me wants him back, because his damn sexy face and voice and body and wicked words always hit me right in the . . .

  Cheeks burning, I hurry to my office. I e-mail Dad the draft of our proposal, pour myself a giant cup of coffee, and check my backlog of messages. The tedious task works almost as well as a cold shower.

  Half an hour later, I get a reply from Dad.

  Proposal looks great. Let’s discuss? I’ll order in pastramis from Sal’s.

  I smile to myself. Dad knows that place is my favorite deli. And evidently, he also knows that I haven’t eaten since before our flight. I close my laptop and walk to his office.

  As I open his door, Dad beams at me from behind his desk. “Your work is top-notch as always. When did you even find the time to write this?”

  “Noah and I worked together last night.” As much of a nuisance as Noah made himself, he deserves due credit.

  Dad’s expression morphs from pride into pity. “Last night? Oh, sweetie—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, interrupting him. I don’t want to hear two different men protest about my wedding night in less than twenty-four hours. And even though my sex life is nonexistent, discussing it with my own father would still be just way too gross. “So, what were your thoughts on the proposal?”

  Dad sighs, but takes the hint. “It looks better than anything I’ve come up with. I guess I made the right decision, putting you kids on the case.”

  Something in his tone makes me narrow my eyes. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “I’m not sure where we’re going to get the money for all this training.”

  “What do you mean? I double-checked our budget. Unless . . .” I trail off, worrying my lip. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

  He nods grimly. “Red Dog Optics pulled out. Halfway through a project. They’re paying us for the deliverables we finished, plus our early termination fee, but everything we had in progress . . . labor down the drain. And of course, we can’t count on that future income anymore.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose hard, trying to ward off an impending stress headache. That’s one of our biggest clients—well, it was, anyway. Son of a bitch. I’m out of the office for less than two full workdays, and look what I miss.

  Thank God I didn’t let Noah persuade me to catch a later flight.

  “Why the hell would they do that?” I ask. “We’ve lost clients before . . .” By which I mean, we’ve been steadily bleeding them for years now. “But never so suddenly. Why not ride out our current contract and then just avoid signing another one?”

  Dad shakes his head. “No idea. Our work on that project seemed up to our usual standard, as far as I could tell. The only explanation I can think of is that something spooked them.”

  “What, they thought we’d collapse before we c
ould even finish their project?” I lick my raw lip nervously.

  Tate & Cane certainly isn’t doing great, and I knew our reputation would take a hit after the board started meeting with buyers and word got around . . . but our situation isn’t nearly bad enough to make Red Dog react like this.

  I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I’m being paranoid. Some dumbass probably just made a careless comment to his golf buddy, it got misinterpreted, and the rumor mill spun out of control. If anything suspicious happens again, then maybe we should investigate. But for now, we don’t have the time or resources to spend on a wild goose chase.

  “Then we’ll just have to find a consultant who’s willing to handle our training for cheap,” I say with a lot more confidence than I feel. Hopefully we won’t get what we pay for. “And we can concentrate on winning back some old clients before we try to court new ones.”

  “Sounds like a plan, sweetie. I’m behind you kids all the way.” Dad leans forward on his desk. “I’m counting on you to get creative and save this thing we’ve built together . . . not just for the sake of your futures, but for your children too.”

  I give him a confused look. “Children? That’s a pretty long ways off, Dad.” Reproducing isn’t on my radar at all. I haven’t wanted babies since I learned they weren’t really brought by storks.

  Dad gives my confused look right back. “Not that far off . . . ?”

  My phone chimes. I pull it out and see a text.

  Noah: You hear about Red Dog?

  “Sorry, Dad.” I sigh, not very sorry at all to get off the topic of children. Thanks for the conversational escape hatch, Noah. “I should probably go meet with Noah to get started on this. Can you tell the delivery guy to take my pastrami to my office when he gets here?”

  Dad nods good-bye and I hustle to Noah’s office, far away from any ten-pound hints about starting a family. That last part of our chat was surreal. I’m sure Dad has a whole fairy-tale ending envisioned for Noah and me, but seriously? I’m not even close to the motherly type.

  Okay, back into work mode. We have to figure out how to start implementing our business plan on the cheap and recovering at least a few old clients. Noah can definitely help on both of those fronts. Persuasion is his specialty . . . sweet-talking, haggling deals, calling in favors. And if there’s a woman in any position of influence, he can turn on the playboy charm and use his handsome face to help sway her. Like he did with Estelle Osbourne at Clair de Lune.

  I set my jaw as I walk a little faster. Remembering that dinner still pisses me off way more than it should. It’s not like Noah is really my husband. Hell, I never wanted him to be “mine” at all, in any sense of the word.

  At least, I didn’t want that a month ago. Maybe even two weeks ago. But now, maybe . . . I think I might. God, I don’t even know. My feelings have gotten so complicated lately. I think of Noah’s mischievous smile, his low, smooth voice saying my name . . .

  Then I push those thoughts right out of my head. We are professionals. I’m a professional. Our job is to get our company through this quagmire. That one single problem is what we’ll eat, sleep, and breathe until we convince the board to reverse their decision about selling Tate & Cane. We have no room for emotions or desires.

  Maybe Noah is right about me being an ice queen sometimes. But right now, with over six thousand futures hanging in the balance, that’s so much safer than being human. I just need to maintain my focus and composure, and pray that we’ll get through this.

  Chapter Five

  Noah

  When Sterling texted me asking how the wedding night went, rather than answer, I asked him to meet me for lunch.

  My best friend has a way with the fairer sex, and I’m hopeful he has some advice for me about how to proceed after my less-than-stellar wedding night. It wasn’t that I expected Olivia to drop to her knees and service me, or spread her legs in our marital bed, but a good-night kiss would have been nice. Sheesh.

  “That bad, eh?” Sterling asks when I slide into the chair across from him.

  “The wedding night? A fucking disaster.”

  He doesn’t have to reply because his eyes say it all. In those honey-colored depths fringed in dark lashes that women go nuts over—the lucky bastard—is a mixture of pity and curiosity. But he says, “Tell your good mate all about it,” leaning back in his seat with his fingers laced behind his head.

  Thankfully I’m saved from his Dr. Phil-style self-help entertainment with the approach of our waitress.

  “What can I get you gentlemen?” she asks.

  When I asked Sterling to lunch, he agreed on the condition that we go to his favorite British-style pub. Despite having English blood pumping through my veins, I despise the food. Sterling was born and raised in the countryside outside of London. He still has a taste for it—reminds him of his youth, I guess.

  He places an order for the ploughman’s lunch, and I choose the least noxious thing I can find on the menu—fish and chips. Tea is the one thing we can agree on.

  When the waitress saunters away, he’s back to smirking at me expectantly. “So, do tell. How’s the wifey?”

  If he bats those fucking eyelashes at me one more time, like we’re having girl talk, I’m going to slug the son of a bitch.

  “At least let me get my tea before you badger me,” I mutter.

  The waitress delivers a little porcelain kettle with piping-hot brew. It reminds me of the one I have at home. I think of Olivia and something inside me pinches. She tapped away on her keyboard until late last night; whether she was determined to get her thoughts on paper or to keep her distance from me, I wasn’t sure.

  “I’m not trying to badger you,” Sterling says with a sigh. “Just wondering what’s the problem. I take it the wedding night wasn’t all you dreamed it might be?”

  “You could say that.” I take a sip of my tea and find it’s the perfect temperature.

  “Is she still as icy as ever, or is she warming to you?”

  “We spent all night going over a new business plan,” I say.

  “Christ on a cracker. The woman is a ballbuster.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  It’s true that Olivia is relentless in her pursuit of perfection. She’s smart and determined, and she never wavers in confidence. It’s sexy as hell. Frustrating. But admirable.

  Nothing fazes the woman. She’s smart as a whip, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I’ve never once seen her back down from a challenge. What I have seen is her effortlessly dominating executive meetings filled with industry veterans—men old enough to be her grandfather, who were in business suits before she was out of diapers. And she doesn’t even notice or care how beautiful she is . . .

  I realize Sterling is still watching me and snap out of my thoughts. They were getting too gooey for my own good, anyway.

  “She sure as hell doesn’t act like anybody’s wife,” I mutter.

  He shrugs. “So she isn’t a romantic.”

  Actually, according to her friend Camryn, she is. But I don’t tell that to Sterling at the risk of sounding like a total cliché.

  “She fell asleep at her desk sometime after midnight.”

  “You don’t become that successful at the age of twenty-six by taking your eye off the ball.”

  “I guess.”

  “So I can assume that baby-making isn’t going well?” He chuckles.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What are you going to do? A woman’s never refused you before, and now your own wife won’t fuck you.” He makes a disappointed noise in his throat.

  When I merely flip him off, he excuses himself for a visit to the restroom. When Sterling is gone, I pull out my phone and check my messages.

  There are three e-mails from Fred, all of them about the dire situation of the company, and another from Preston informing me that the board is having an “exploratory meeting” with a rival firm next week.

  Fuck.

  I close out my in
-box. Since Sterling still isn’t back, I pull up the business news app on my phone to scroll through the headlines, hoping to take my mind off all the bed news at work.

  “Can Manhattan’s New “Power Couple” Turn a Marketing Dinosaur Around Before It’s Too Late?”

  I begin reading the top article, only to discover that it’s about Olivia and me. Financial advisors are speculating about the future of the company and predict a plummet in our stock price as leadership changes are shaken out.

  Well, fuck that. I won’t watch our company go down in flames. But the truth is, we’re not even close to being out of the woods yet. And all this bad press is bound to hobble us even more.

  Frustrated, I slam my phone down on the table just as Sterling approaches.

  “What now?” he asks, sliding into his seat and laying his napkin across his lap.

  It feels like my work life and personal life are both imploding. I’m not used to failing so miserably. Feeling so helpless.

  Then I realize something—the solution to both my problems is winning over Olivia. We have to work together to save this shipwreck, and I’m tired of her rejections, her pessimistic idea that we can never work. Fuck that.

  “I know what I need to do,” I blurt.

  “And what’s that?”

  “I need to seduce my wife. I need to show her how good we can be together.”

  Sterling nods. “So, what are you going to do? Plan some big elaborate date to woo her?”

  I think it over, then shake my head. “No. Olivia’s much too skittish. It’ll take more finesse than that.”

  • • •

  When Olivia arrives home from the gym at seven, I’m ready. I turned down the lighting in the penthouse and put on some smooth jazz to play softly in the background.

  She sets her gym bag on the floor, giving me a skeptical look. “What’s going on?”

  She’s probably reading the mood as a romantic one, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. My goal is just to get her to relax tonight.