Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 2) (5 page)

“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 could 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.

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.

Trying to act natural, I reply, “I got some dinner for us and thought we could take the night off from spreadsheets and numbers.”

She shrugs. “Sure. Let me grab a quick shower, then I’ll be right out.”

I expected more of a fight. Maybe the gods are looking down on me tonight with pity.

Toeing off her hot pink tennis shoes, Olivia heads toward the bathroom. When I hear the spray of the shower, I head into the kitchen to finalize everything.

The food arrives by the time I hear the shower shut off. I arrange the contents of the takeout containers on a couple of small plates, to keep with the tapas theme.

There’s goat cheese with roasted figs, seared scallops, and a potato-and-gruyere gratin. It smells great. I pour two glasses of cabernet sauvignon and carry everything to the coffee table in the living room.

I hear Olivia’s footsteps on the wood floor and look up. Fresh out of the shower, she’s dressed in a pair of black leggings that hug every last curve of her shapely legs and round ass, along with a gray sweatshirt that’s cut to hang off one bare shoulder, exposing her lightly freckled skin. She looks dewy and flushed from the shower, and I want to touch her to see if she feels as warm and soft as she looks.

“Wow. What’s all this?” she asks, sitting down beside me on the couch.

“Just a casual dinner. I thought we deserved some relaxation, considering the pressure we’re under at work.”

She accepts the glass of wine I hand her, and takes a sip. “How thoughtful.”

The sweet scent of her honeysuckle-and-vanilla body wash hits me square in the face, making me want to lean in and taste her skin, her lips, her breasts.

Shit.

I need to get it together. My plan is to win her over, to woo her, not to push myself on her with unwanted advances.

She may have a tough exterior, but I’m starting to learn that she’s actually a little timid when it comes to getting physical with me. Which is not at all what I’m used to. Most other women would love a ride on Noah Tate.

Olivia helps herself to a portion of each dish—cutting off a little bite of sea scallop, letting out a little murmur of pleasure as she chews, blowing on a steaming forkful of potato gratin before closing her lips around it.

“So good,” she says with a moan. “How did you know I love tapas?”

I shrug. “I may have pumped Camryn for information.”

Her eyes flick over to mine as she takes another sip of wine. “Why would you do that?”

Returning her gaze, I decide to make myself vulnerable. “Because I like you, Olivia. I want this to work.”

And I don’t just mean that in the sense of taking back our company and making a fuck-ton of money. I genuinely think that if she is willing to try, we can have a shot at being a real, happy couple. But I don’t clarify all that extra stuff. Olivia appreciates honesty, but there’s such a thing as baring too much too soon. Or possibly at all.

I already know we’re compatible when it comes to the major stuff—politics, religion, and work ethic—but I’m starting to think that together in the bedroom, we’d be explosive. She tries to deny it, but the way her body responds to me is ridiculous. Not to mention the desperate way I crave her luscious ass and her perky tits, even her smart mouth is ridiculous. I’m normally a hit-it-and-quit-it type of guy. Once I’ve had a taste, I’m done and on to the next course. But something tells me that with Olivia, once wouldn’t be nearly enough.

First, though, I need to know how she’s feeling about all of this. With the threat of Brad’s blackmail looming over us, demanding all our attention, I’ve barely gotten a chance to talk to her about the wedding, the contract, and especially the baby-making that needs to happen. We need to discuss this elephant in the room like mature, responsible adults.

“So, how do you feel about kids?” I ask.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Kids?”

I nod slowly, now confused as well as nervous. Why is she so shocked?

“I, um . . . well, I guess I haven’t really thought about them,” she stammers.

My stomach grows uneasy. How in the fuck has she not thought about it? This is Olivia, the woman who weighs every decision with a list of pros and cons. Her childhood letters to Santa were probably formatted in official memo style with bulleted requests.

“Why? You’re not thinking about . . .” She’s so flustered that she leaves the rest of her sentence unfinished.

Of fucking course I’m thinking about it. We have a contractual obligation to fulfill. Period.

Then realization slams into me all at once.

Holy. Fuck.

“On the day of our wedding, did you read the contract or did you just sign it?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She shrugs, curling her legs under her on the couch. “Signed it. I already knew what it said. Dad and Prescott must have explained everything a hundred times at all those meetings we had.”

I never expected Olivia of all people to sign a contract without reading it. I’m so stunned that I just stay quiet as the minutes tick past and we continue sipping our wine.

I try to calm down and think through this. But I’m stumped. The contract is finalized now—we’re legally bound. We’ve
been
legally bound for almost a week at this point. And now that I’ve been quiet about it for so long . . . how do I tell her without making it seem like I was lying all along?

Plus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’ll rip up the contract and storm off, and the deal will fall apart. I can’t let that happen. No inheritance means no second chance from the board. Which, in turn, means that everyone at Tate & Cane—innocent people like Rosita, who depend on the jobs we provide—will be royally fucked.

I can’t let anything happen to jeopardize this deal. I can’t afford to take even the smallest risk. I’ll just have to win Olivia over with my charm and let it all happen naturally. Well, as natural as impregnating your fake wife can be.

Besides, even if I told her about the heir clause and she miraculously didn’t go nuclear, that would just put pressure on her to get pregnant for our company’s sake. Having a kid wouldn’t be a free choice. It’s better if I pitch her the idea on its own merits.

I’m up to the task, right? I’ve already done something similar; she used to hate my guts, and it took me less than a month to woo her into marrying me. Changing her mind about kids will be a lot tougher, but I just have to take things up another notch. Really put my back into it. Be my most charming, appealing self. If anyone can make a woman fall in love, deep enough to start a family . . .

But Olivia isn’t just any woman. I suppress a despairing groan. Fuck me sideways . . . I’ve got my work cut out for me.