Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) (3 page)

Noah’s crooked smile is just a little bit too smug.
What was that you said earlier? Something about not marrying me?
it seems to gloat.
How’s that humble pie taste?

A muscle tenses in my jaw. He didn’t even have to say a word and I’m already irritated all over again. Goddamn it, he’s so annoyingly attractive—with his charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and merlot-colored tie, all expertly tailored to fit his six-foot-two frame—and the fact that he can get under my skin so easily just annoys me even more.

His entire demeanor screams confidence. From his deep, inquisitive eyes that see too much, to his strong hands with neatly trimmed nails, to the thick column of his throat that bobs when he smirks at me. He’s the thing my teenage fantasies were made of. Woodsy male scent. Muscular, yet trim frame. A quick wit that always finds a way to pull me into a debate.

Ignoring the pounding of my heart, I force my eyes away from Noah and address the room. “Thank you all for reconvening on such short notice. I have a proposal to make.”

“I thought that was my job,” Noah interjects.

Pointedly ignoring his joke, I explain. “I’ll sign the inheritance contract at the end of the month . . .”

Everyone blinks at me. Dad and Prescott look pleasantly surprised. Noah’s annoying smile is gone, replaced with a slightly furrowed brow.

“But only,” I continue, “if Noah can show me that a relationship between us could work. After all, Tate & Cane’s fate hinges on our ability to cooperate as both business partners and spouses.”

“A trial period?” Dad asks.

“You could describe it like that. I also think that getting to know each other better will help the company’s public image. We need to make our relationship believable; it’ll look strange if nobody ever sees us together before we marry.”

It’s also a chance to dip my toes in before diving straight into the deep end. An attempt to inject a little normality into a deeply abnormal situation.

But I don’t say that part out loud. I don’t want to admit right now that marriage still scares me a little. Not with Noah blinking curiously at me, and Prescott looking frustrated at the prospect of even further delays.

Noah finally speaks up. “So, essentially, you’re asking me to date you.”

I nod at him. “Yep, that’s the idea. At least take me out for a drink before I consider taking your name.” I look straight at him, waiting to see his reaction before I hit him with my next clause. “Oh, and another thing. Refrain from having sex . . . with anyone.”

Noah

She wants me to woo her?

Of all the scenarios I imagined—from the most likely, where Olivia rips up the contract, to the even crazier, where she actually signs it—this wasn’t one of them.

She’s laid down her own stipulations, ensuring that I’ll have to work to win her over. Though I probably should have expected a curveball. This is Olivia Cane, after all.

“If there are no further questions, I should get back to work,” Olivia says. When nobody responds, she turns and struts out of the conference room, her round ass swaying as her heels click across the floor. The door swings shut.

“That was interesting,” I say under my breath.

Fred stops beside me as I stand, trying to process what just happened. “It sounds like the ball’s in your court, son. But don’t worry. I know you can pull this off.”

“Thanks.” I nod, then take off toward her office. She doesn’t get to drop a bomb like that and then saunter away.

She’s inside, perched in her cream-colored leather chair, stilettos kicked off under her desk. Her toenails are painted light blue, and she’s tapping her foot in time to whatever tune she’s humming. Something on her computer screen has her complete attention.

Startled at the sound of the door opening, she looks up, her wide crystal-blue eyes finding mine. “Did you need something? I have work to do.”

She mentioned us going for a drink. Which is perfect, considering I need to prove how compatible we can be. But first, I need her to see something. This isn’t just some game; I need her to understand exactly what’s at stake if we don’t succeed.

“Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”

I tug her up from her desk chair, allowing her a moment to slip her delicate feet back into her heels, then tow her from the office before she can argue.

“Where are you taking me?”

I grunt and mumble, “You’ll see.”

“Don’t be such a caveman; use your words.”

“We’re going to the mail room.”

She scoffs. “What on earth for?”

I don’t answer, just punch the button for the elevator. We cruise down to the basement floor of the building with an eerie silence hanging around us. When the doors open to the basement, I take a deep breath.

“Ahh . . . you smell that?” I grin at her.

Her mouth turns down into a frown. “Mildew?” Her gaze darts around the large open space stacked with boxes. “The health department would have a field day down here.”

This is my favorite place in the whole building, so I don’t take too kindly to Olivia turning up her nose at it. “Don’t be such a grouch. Come on.”

I lace my fingers with hers once again and tug her farther down the fluorescent-lit hallway. When we reach the mail room, I wonder for a moment if Rosita is on her break.

“Now, what is it that you wanted to show me?” Olivia raises her eyebrows and places one hand on her hip, obviously not impressed.

Wide shelves line all four walls. They’re numbered with the corresponding floors of the building and hold various envelopes and packages. It’s not a high-tech operation, but it gets the job done.

“Not what, but who.” I tip my chin toward the Latina cheerfully humming a tune to herself. Rosita’s back is to us as she sorts mail at the far end of the room.

“Rosita,” I call out.

She swivels around, clearly not expecting anyone, and her shoulder-length hair swings. A look of surprise is painted across her pleasant features, especially her large dark brown eyes, and a hint of pink comes to her round cheeks.

Rosita immigrated here from Mexico when she was just eighteen, taught herself English, and worked hard to support her growing family. Now, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

A company of this size usually employs a mail-room staff of three to four people. But Rosita said they’d just get in her way, so she runs the whole operation herself. She took ownership of both the position and the space, and made it hers—even hung cheery posters on the wall. One of a monkey dancing. Another of bright orange poppies.

“
Mi amor
!” she cries, already heading toward us. “
Abrazo
.” She opens her arms to me, expecting our customary hug.

“
Gracias, Mamacita
,” I reply, giving her a light squeeze.

It’s the same way she’s been greeting me for the past six years. I know about a whopping four words of Spanish, but I always use them with her. I want her to feel at home, I guess.

Coincidentally, Rosita and I started work here on the same day. We even attended orientation together. I was a fresh college grad, still wet behind the ears, and Rosita, fifteen years my elder, was skeptical about the owner’s son. Unlike Olivia, I haven’t worked here since I could walk. I had other jobs during college and made a point of interning at another firm so I could see how the competition worked.

When I met her, I thought Rosita might assume I was some rich, privileged punk who didn’t have to earn his paycheck. It made me all the more determined to prove her wrong. And Dad always was big on learning the ropes from the ground up, anyway. So for my first two weeks at Tate & Cane, I began working right alongside Rosita in the mail room.

It was during that time we cemented our relationship. We delivered packages and memos side by side, and shared jokes and stories. But when I really fell in love was when she shared her empanadas with me at lunch.

Rosita’s eyes widen slightly as they swing from mine to Olivia’s. “Miss Cane,” she says, her voice soft and quizzical. It’s not every day the CEO’s daughter wanders down to the mail room.

“Please, call me Olivia,” she says, correcting Rosita with a smile meant to ease. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Everyone at the company knows Olivia, even if they haven’t met.

“Did you . . . need something?” Rosita looks between me and Olivia again.

I shake my head. “Nope. Just came to say hello.”

Rosita’s posture relaxes and she smiles. “Did you get my invite for Maria’s birthday party?”

“Of course. Two weeks from Saturday, right? It’s already on my calendar.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” She smiles and reaches out to smooth one hand over my silk tie. “I worry, you know.”

I smile. “I’ve eaten. Thank you.”

Sometimes when I’m busy, I’ve been known to skip lunch—that is, until Rosita forces herself into my office with a sandwich from the deli down the street. It’s like she can sense when I’ve missed a meal. She often blurs the line between coworker, friend, and mother.

I’ve brought Olivia down here today because I want her to see there’s more to this company than what the numbers say. Some things can’t be learned from a spreadsheet. The perspective Olivia has perched in her corner office chair all day is quite different from the perspective one gets on the ground floor of this operation.

Standing here, looking into Rosita’s rich mahogany eyes and feeling the warmth and care that pours from her very soul, it’s impossible for us not to be aware of the importance of our responsibility. We can’t fail at this. If we fail, we take all these people down with us.

And I, for one, won’t let that happen.

After pleasantries are exchanged, Olivia and I head back toward the elevator.

“She’s important to you, isn’t she?” Olivia asks.

“Very.”

She nods, looking contemplative.

I check my watch as we step inside the elevator and let out a sigh. Olivia looks as overwhelmed as I feel. We’ve been under a mountain of stress lately, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get more intense.

“Today was unexpected,” I say. “Just like that, after weeks of negotiation, you’re actually going to consider this, huh?”

“I will do this on my terms,
if
and
when
I’m ready, Noah. Consider the next few weeks a trial period.”

“That will be easy, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it won’t be easy,” she says, correcting me. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Are you sure about that, Mrs. Tate?”

“I told you not to call me that, either.”

“I know. You told me to take you out for a drink before you’ll consider taking my name.” I smirk at her. “Which I think is an excellent fucking idea. Brilliant, in fact.”

I coax my first smile from her and feel like thumping my chest. Although I have a desk full of work to get back to, the idea of sitting across from Olivia and hearing her tell me about this supposed trial period sounds like a lot more fun. Time to push a little harder.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere, you know.”

“We’ve had a lot going on. I think we could use a cocktail,” she says, amazing me that she actually agreed.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen?” I know she’ll never agree to leave without wrapping up the last of her e-mails.

“Sure.”

Then I watch her ass as she saunters away toward her office.

• • •

Once we’re seated at the elegant Stanton Room, a swanky bar across the street from our office building, Olivia and I place our order with the waitress—a vodka martini, extra dirty for her, and a Scotch on the rocks for me.

“Extra dirty, huh?” I wink at her.

“Surprised?” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

“That the straitlaced Olivia Cane likes it extra dirty? Why, yes, I am.”

“Don’t overthink it, Noah. I’d hate to see you burst a brain cell.”

I scowl at her. If there’s one thing Olivia and I do well, it’s banter. And though she’d like to believe otherwise, sexual tension runs rampant just below the surface.

I lean in toward her, my elbows on the table. “So, how will all this work, exactly? Me and you? I just like to be clear on expectations so I can exceed them.”

Her gaze is cool. Not icy, at least, but still a long way from where I want her. “Well, I haven’t put a lot of thought into it yet, but you’ll have to win me over. Show me that this crazy thing could actually work.”

If there’s one thing I know about Olivia, it’s that she refuses to fail. Something tells me that with everything that’s on the line, Olivia needs to know I won’t fuck up and embarrass her as a husband. We have to work together, live together, and actually pull off this whole coupledom in a big way.

“So you said you want to date? I don’t date, Snowflake.”

“Winning over doesn’t necessarily mean dating.”

She takes a sip from her martini glass and sets it down with an inquisitive look on her delicate features. She may look like your average, sweet girl next door, but at her core, Olivia is a ballbuster. A total triple threat. Sexy, intelligent, and talented. Which is perfect, seeing as those are the qualities I always dreamed my future wife would possess. Well, those, along with a tight—

Olivia clears her throat, interrupting my train of thought.
Fuck
.

“Winning over means that we can be in the same room together without ripping each other’s throats out.”

I nod. “Okay, we’ll be civilized about it.”

“Fine,” she says. “And we should figure out what the hell we have in common.”

I think we already know what we have in common—and to my understanding, it’s a long list. But I’ll go by whatever definition she wants. I’ll win no matter what it is.

“Seeing as we have to put on a show, I agree. I should know a bit about my future fiancée,” I say. “For instance, your favorite sexual position . . .”

She coughs and sputters, choking on the olive in her drink. For a minute there, I think I’m going to have to perform the Heimlich maneuver, until she swallows the damn thing and glares at me.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she croaks out, her voice still hoarse.

I chuckle. “Settle down. I just want to know how to please my future wife, is all.”

“You can please me by buckling down and getting to work at the office instead of taking those three-martini lunches you favor.”

“Darling?” I blink at her. Since I’ve been told by more than one ex-girlfriend that my eyelashes are enviable, I’m hoping it has the exaggerated effect I’m going for. “We were supposed to be discussing what we have in common.”

“Right. Well . . .” She begins listing items on her fingers. “Summering in the Hamptons. Working at Tate & Cane, obviously. Our families are friends.”

“We both lost our mothers,” I point out.

Her gaze drops to the table in front of her, but I don’t feel bad. It’s just a fact of life, one we’ve discussed before, and I’d rather skip the superficial bullshit and get down to a real level.

“Yes. What else?” She drums her fingers on the table.

“I, for one, like anal. You?”

Damn it
. Again with the choking. I stand and pat my future fiancée’s back until her airway clears.

“Another drink?” I ask, noticing that hers is now empty.

She looks flustered that she downed it so quickly, but signals to the waitress for another round.