Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) (11 page)

“Forgotten? Snowflake, I jack off regularly to the memory.”

Her cheeks go bright pink. “Be serious, would you?”

“I am being serious. Does it make you uncomfortable to know that at night, in the dark, I pump my hard cock to thoughts of your sassy attitude, smart mouth, and gorgeous tits?”

Her mouth falls open. Her cheeks are full-on flaming now.

I press on. “One kiss. Hell, you may even end up having fun today.” I’m teasing her because I can tell that even though she was tense and awkward when we arrived, she’s enjoyed herself today. She just needed a little time to feel at home.

Placing one hand on her waist, I pull her a fraction closer.

Her breathing grows shallow and her lips part, whether in surprise or because she’s readying herself for my kiss, I’m not sure.

I lower my mouth to hers, feeling the warmth of her breath ghost over my lips, my cock beginning to swell, when a loud shriek pierces the silence.

“Bee sting. Coming through,” Rosita calls, carrying a crying birthday girl through the kitchen.

Stepping away from Olivia, I clear off a space on the counter. “Set her here.”

Tears leak from Maria’s eyes as quiet sobs rack her chest.

“Shh. I’ll make you good as new, princess,” I tell Maria.

Olivia and Rosita gather first aid supplies while I distract Maria with a story of the time I wandered into a beehive. Olivia watches me work with a quiet, contemplative gaze, and I can’t help but wonder if she would have let me kiss her.

Bringing her here today was no mistake. It goes without saying that people like Rosita and this little girl are one of the main reasons why Olivia and I have to pull this off.

We
have
to.

Olivia

Dear God, watching Noah with Rosita, and even more so, with little Maria? It was ovary-melting.

I need to keep my cool. Because otherwise? I could easily see myself losing my head over this man.

Noah

Olivia is always so put together, well dressed in tailored skirts and blouses, manicured from head to toe. It only makes me want to muss her all up and get her dirty. I act like I don’t notice her in her business apparel, but of course it affects me. I’m only a man. A man who’s apparently taken a vow of celibacy since we began
faux-dating
, or whatever it is we’re doing.

God, what are we doing?
Any normal Friday night, I’d be out with Sterling chasing tail. Instead I’m sitting at home in sweatpants with a beer and my tablet, doing things I never get to do—like looking up genealogy about my family ancestry and reading random articles on CNN. It’s pleasantly relaxing.

But having Olivia here, in my personal space, in our
shared
space all the time is getting distractingly difficult. Like right now, she’s perched in a dining chair, legs folded underneath her, a pair of square black-framed glasses balanced on her delicate nose as she stares at her laptop.

It’s fucking adorable. She always wears her contacts, and I’ve rarely seen her like this. It feels good to know that she’s comfortable enough to let her guard down with me.

And the fitted Henley that hugs her curves, with its little buttons dotting her chest between her breasts? Don’t get me started on those little buttons. I want to undo every last one, bare her to me and nibble my way from one round, perky breast to the other.

“What should we do for dinner, Snowflake?” I call into the dining room where she’s busy typing away on her laptop.

“Hmm?” she asks, her gaze taking a moment to drift over to mine.

“It’s seven,” I tell her.

“Oh, well, don’t feel like you have to stay in and cater to me. You can go out or whatever.”

She chews on her lip as she says this, though, and something in me knows she’d be out of sorts if I went out without her. Hell, I’d feel the same way. There’s a certain peace that comes with working hard with her all week, and now relaxing together.

“I’m in my pajamas. I’m not going out.” I chuckle at her.

“Right.” She gives me a sly look. “So . . . pizza?”

She normally eats so healthy, and I do too, for that matter, but I like that she doesn’t mind cheating and enjoying something just because.

“Hmm, I don’t know.” I rub my chin. “I think that’s the true test of a marriage—can you both agree on the same pizza toppings.”

“Okay.” She motions for me to go ahead. “You first.”

I shake my head. “Same time.”

Our gazes lock and she opens her mouth. “Ar—” she starts.

“Artichoke,” I say.

She grins at me. “Exactly.”

“And maybe sausage?”

She chuckles. “Sure. Why not? Variety is the spice of life.”

Maybe that’s what marriage is all about—not being the same on every point, but learning to compromise.

I coax her away from her computer when the pizza arrives, waving the warm pie and two bottles of cold beer in front of her.

“Dear God, this is good,” she says moments later, moaning around a slice of New York-style pizza.

I nod in agreement. Who knew? Artichokes aren’t half bad.

“Here.” I hand her a napkin for the smear of sauce on her lower lip.

“Did I get it?” she asks.

“Sure did.”

We each enjoy a second slice and the comfortable silence that’s settled between us. When we’re through, I take the plates into the kitchen and return to the living room. Olivia licks her thumb, leaning back against the couch.

I study her in the way an artist studies his muse. All this time, I keep looking for signs, keep wondering if this could actually work, and while I’m not any closer to an answer, something new has taken shape. I like being near her. I look forward to our time together.

Before I get all fucking mushy, I decide to change the topic to something lighter.

“So . . .” I lean in closer. “This trial period, making out with me, all of it. What are your thoughts so far?”

“Objectively speaking?” she asks, her mouth twitching.

“Of course. I’d like to gauge my performance so far as a fake boyfriend.”

“It hasn’t been as bad as I would have imagined.” Her voice is soft, and she’s looking down at her hands.

Camryn’s words about Olivia always wanting more—to fall dramatically in love and be swept off her feet—ring loudly in my head. I might not be able to give her everything, but I know I can be a good co-CEO, a good friend, and a good lover. If she’ll let me.

Maybe that’s not enough, but it’s what I have to offer.

“Come here,” I murmur, drawing her over onto my lap.

Olivia obeys, straddling my thighs, and places her center right in line with my very interested and semi-erect cock.

I wonder if she’s still processing my words from the birthday party—when I asked her to try.

“Closer.”

She scoots forward until our lips are inches apart and her warm center is flush with my groin.

I lean in and take her mouth, starting out softly at first so as to not scare my timid princess away. Her lips part for me and I take my time, exploring her mouth with my tongue, sucking on her lips and nibbling lightly.

Olivia’s tiny moan of satisfaction makes my pride swell, as well as other things. Growing bold, she circles her hips, and I plant both hands on her waist, urging her to grind down on me. She does—harder this time—and I grunt as my now fully hard shaft is treated to her warm friction.

Tearing my mouth away from hers, I gaze down at her. Those little glasses perched on her nose, her chest flushed and heaving, and those tempting buttons straining over her breasts. She’s beautiful like this.

“What is it?” she asks, slightly breathless. “Why’d you stop?”

“I was just thinking. Maybe I can be of service.”

She squints her eyes. “Meaning?”

I grip her hips and settle her right over the firm ridge in my pants. “If you’d like to ride this, work out all that frustration from work as you lift and lower yourself on my cock, I’d be game.”

“Would you now?” Her tone is light, teasing.

I shrug. “I’d volunteer as tribute.”

She laughs, deep and throaty, and it’s wonderful.

“And have you win our bet? No way.” She shakes her head.

“Okay then, let’s call a spade a spade, because we already broke that first-base rule when I had my fingers in your—
delicate flower—
at the restaurant.”

“You think my flower is delicate?”

“I do, actually. I think despite that tough-girl act you put on that you’re actually sweet and tender and soft on the inside.”

Her cheeks grow pink and she looks down.

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, right?”

She nods without hesitation.

That’s good. It means she’s beginning to trust me.

Maybe it’s a start.

Olivia

Our whole building buzzes with activity. Even with my office door closed, I can hear the constant low hum of conversation and quick footsteps and ringing phones. I like that white noise; it helps ease me into a productive groove, and it tells me just how many people are working hard alongside me.

Against all odds, we won a small contract from Parrish Footwear—more of a trial period than anything—and also managed to charm back an old client. But will it be enough? We don’t have time for any false steps.

And not everyone is making their best effort.

I refresh my in-box and frown. Damn it, Harrison still hasn’t sent me that expense summary. I asked him yesterday afternoon, and again when I came in at seven this morning. What the hell has he been doing all this time? That information is at his fingertips; it should have taken him maybe fifteen minutes to round it up.

I consider e-mailing him a third time, then decide against it. The time for nagging has passed. I want him to explain himself in person. Maybe Noah was right about him all along.

I speed-dial the accounting department and ask Harrison’s secretary to send him up. And while I wait for him to arrive, I have a very illuminating chat with her about his recent schedule.

He knocks at my door five minutes later. Harrison is in his twenties, and I’m sure many girls find attractive. But to me, he’s mostly just unremarkable. The kind of guy people pass on the street every day and don’t even remember. Good job. Modest good looks. Average intelligence. None of Noah’s wit or charm.

Wait, why am I thinking about Noah?

As Harrison enters, he closes my office door behind him. Can he tell that he’s about to get chewed out? Or does he just want privacy to make yet another pass at me?

“Hello, Olivia,” he says. “You look beautiful as always.”

I should have known.
“Is there some reason why you still haven’t completed the work I asked you for yesterday?” I ask him in my frostiest tone.

He blinks. “I . . . had other things on my docket.”

“Ahead of a top-priority request from your CEO?”

“Top priority? I didn’t know it was that urgent.”

I click on my Sent Mail folder, turn my computer screen around to show Harrison our recent e-mail chain, and point at my last sentence.

“Can you read that aloud to me?”

He leans over to squint at the screen. Reluctantly, he recites, “Please send ASAP. I need this report to finish drafting our new budget before the board progress meeting on Thursday.”

Then his gaze flicks back to me. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to fulfill requests in the order they come in. First-come-first-served is the only fair way to—”

“If you can afford to come in late, take two-hour lunches, and leave early every day, you can afford fifteen minutes to send me a report that I’ve asked for
twice
.” I spin my screen back into position. “Given the company’s current crisis, most people at your level of management have been pulling overtime lately. I won’t ask you to do that, because I respect my employees’ private lives, but if you wish to continue drawing a full-time salary, you will put in full-time hours. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Ridgefield?”

His eyes wide, he licks his lips nervously. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“And the next time you can’t finish something with the promptness I need, you should tell me so I can find someone who can. Don’t just let my messages sit unanswered in your in-box while I wonder what in the world is going on with your department.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. “I will. I’m sorry. You’ll get that report by the end of the day.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Before lunchtime, if you can.”
And if you can’t, you’d better have a damn good excuse.

He turns and starts to walk away. But at the last second, with his hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back.

I quash a flash of irritation.
Just go do your job and let me do mine.

“Um, speaking of lunch . . .” He rubs his neck sheepishly, as if some transparent
aw shucks
act will pacify me. “I feel bad about this misunderstanding. Let me take you out today to make up for it.”

I level a withering blank stare at him. “This is the fifty-fourth time you’ve invited me out to eat with you since we met. I’ve kept count. My answer has always been and will always be no. So instead of trying to distract me from your failures by hitting on me, I suggest you divert some of that energy into your work.”

He draws himself up, his hairy nostrils flaring. “Excuse me? Hitting on you? You can’t just go around flinging accusations like that. Sexual harassment is a serious—”

“I can do whatever the hell I deem necessary,” I snap. “I’ve tolerated your excuses for long enough. This company is teetering on the edge, and if we want to have any chance of pulling it back, I need to see some serious hustle.”

I lock eyes with Harrison, daring him to challenge me. He needs to understand that I’m not just the boss’s daughter anymore—let alone some naive intern whose blouse he can peer down while he pretends to help her.

“But if you’re not interested in helping me save your job, then by all means, keep testing my patience.”

Our staring contest lasts for almost twenty seconds. Finally, his deep brown gaze falters. He looks confused and more than a little pissed, but I think I managed to put the fear of God into him. Then again, only time will tell if he really got the message.

I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he’s gone. My first time bringing down the hammer on an employee went about as well as it could have. But the encounter has still left me irritable and thrown off-kilter.

With my blood pressure already up, I suppress a huff when I see a fresh message in my e-mail in-box. It’s Camryn, as the newly minted head of Tate & Cane’s newly minted social media team, offering her “top ten picks” for training consultants to hire.

I’ve never heard of this project. If I had, I would have wanted to be in charge of it. How are they already at the short-list stage? And why is this coming in ahead of the expense estimation that I actually asked for?

Does the universe just not want me to finish this budget today?

Wait a minute . . . maybe I do have an inkling of what this is about. Noah and I revisited the subject of social media training a couple days ago, but I didn’t think we actually made a firm decision about anything. That discussion was just brainstorming . . . right?
Evidently he didn’t see it that way.

I call Noah’s secretary, only to be reminded that he’s out at some executive brunch trying to woo back some more old clients. Too impatient to wait, I call his personal cell instead.

It rings six times before Noah answers dryly, “Yes, dear?” I can hear car engines and rushing wind in the background; he must be on his way back already.

“Since when was Camryn’s team researching consultants?” I ask.

“Since we needed to hire some. And since her team is, last time I checked, in charge of social media concerns.”

“You know what I mean. Why did you give her the go-ahead on a project that we never finished talking about? Why was this prioritized over my other tasks? And why is she managing it instead of me?”

Noah makes an incredulous noise that sounds way too much like a chortle. “Are you serious? You wanted to be a talent scout?”

“Why not? It’s an important decision. Why are you laughing at me?”

He sighs into the phone with a rush of static. “Let me ask you something. Do you think Camryn is an idiot?”

“Of course not.” I gasp. “How could you even say that? She’s my best friend.”

“Because you don’t seem to have very much faith in her competence. For Christ’s sake, Olivia, learn to delegate. Your time is so much more valuable than this. Either you or I have to sign off on the final decision anyway, so what’s the harm?”

“Dad always taught me that the best way to get something done right is to do it yourself.”

Another disbelieving noise, this one more like an outright scoff. “Amazing. You’re such a control freak.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if I could trust people to keep me in the loop!” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m being irrational, but I’ve temporarily lost my ability to care.

“Just calm d—” Someone blasts their horn and Noah swears under his breath. “Look, I can’t really talk now. I’ll be back in ten minutes and we can discuss this.”

He hangs up. I drop the phone back in its cradle and massage my forehead. Christ, I don’t know how much more disorganization I can take in one day. This clusterfuck is going to give me an ulcer.

After a few minutes of trying to settle down, I give up and push back my chair. Hopefully a little walk and a change of scenery will help.

I head for the cooler near the front desk and pour myself a cup of ice-cold water. A huge, silvery bubble rises through the tank with a loud
bloop
. Not for the first time, I wonder how dispensing such a small amount of liquid creates such a big bubble.

My time is almost up, and I’m still no closer to knowing for sure if Noah and I will actually work as a married couple. Sure, we’ve shared some sweet moments, and some smoking-hot ones too.

There were a few of both at Maria’s birthday party this weekend. At first, I’d felt like I was intruding on their private family gathering. I hadn’t exactly been invited, after all. I was just Noah’s girlfriend—and who brings a date to a kid’s party, anyway?

But Noah was so reassuring, and everyone welcomed me with open arms. Some of Noah’s charisma must have rubbed off on me. Although I could have done without Rosita’s little congratulatory winks.

Once again, I was reminded of a mother doting proudly on her son. Noah was definitely part of her family. He made a point of catching up with everyone at the party, not just the general “how’s work?” kind of icebreaker, but specific questions like “Is your cousin out of his leg cast yet?” or “Did you get that promotion you were planning to ask for?” He obviously tries hard to remember the details of their lives.

But maybe that isn’t so surprising. Even though Noah can be self-absorbed sometimes, he’s a real people person. That gift of gab sometimes makes me jealous . . . when it doesn’t sweep me off my feet like everyone else he interacts with. He’s always so comfortable in his own skin, so at home in any situation. He looked just as natural in shorts and a silly paper hat, roughhousing with kids in a muddy backyard, as he does in a three-piece bespoke suit at an executive luncheon.

Watching him laugh that day . . . it’s definitely persuaded me to let him get closer.

Okay, so Noah is a decent man. A pretty great one, even. But does that mean I have to let go of my dream of falling madly in love someday?

What I need is a sign.

I let my gaze drift across the reception area as I drink my water. The front door swings open, and for a second, I think Noah must have made it back in record time.

Then I recognize the man and I almost choke.
Oh no. No, no, no . . .

My stomach clenches as every nerve lights up with a fight-or-flight impulse. I can’t even tell if I’m terrified or furious—this feeling is just raw, undifferentiated adrenaline.

It’s Bradford Daniels, my ex-boyfriend from hell, standing just a few yards away. What the fuck is he doing here? I thought I was done with him forever. I thought I’d escaped. But now he’s in my building, my sanctuary, and I had no warning at all and
I’m not ready
.

Stunned, my heart hammering in my chest, I watch him like a deer in the headlights as he checks in at the front desk. He leans close to the receptionist. I can’t hear what he says, but I can guess by his flirtatious smile and her answering giggle.

It’s not her fault. Brad’s handsome face and country-club manners once tricked me too. She can’t know any better. Can’t see the slimy soul hiding underneath.

I started dating Brad in college because he was hot, he came from a prestigious family, and he was the first guy I’ve ever met who shared my hard-driving ambition. But I discovered too late that his competitive spirit was untempered by any sense of fair play. All the privilege he was born into, as staggering as it was, still didn’t satisfy him. He felt entitled to more—by any means necessary.

His father was the only person he felt true loyalty to. Everyone else in the world existed to use for his own benefit. And what made him really dangerous was his ability to disguise his predatory selfishness. He blatantly used his inferiors because he knew he could get away with it, but he sucked up to his superiors and manipulated his peers so skillfully that nobody with any power to stop him ever caught on to his games.

I still hate to admit just how long I let Brad use me. He had me convinced that he was trying his best to love me and I was the one being “difficult.” I clung to the scraps of affection he rationed out when and only when he wanted something from me.

It took me over two years to realize that Brad—not my “difficult” personality, not the stress from my classes and internships and club duties—was the reason I was so miserable all the time. It took another six months for me to do something about that revelation. I broke up with him at our graduation ceremony so I’d never have to see him again.