Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 2) (3 page)

“What? No. Why would I?”

A look of disbelief and wonder crosses his handsome features. “Because I went to see you before the ceremony started and left it on your desk, right before you disappeared. What was I supposed to think?”

His confusion blurs things even more. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts enough to say what I need to. “That’s not it. I need to tell you something.”

I swallow hard to gather my courage. It’s time to let down my defenses. Not only because Noah deserves an explanation, but because I’ve realized something. I trust him to help me without judging me. Like I should have trusted him all along.

“Right before the wedding started . . .”

Dammit, my voice won’t stop trembling. I take a deep breath. Maybe it’ll help if I pretend I’m telling a story that happened to somebody else.

“Brad called me. He said he’d release . . . n-naked pictures of me if I didn’t sell Tate & Cane to Daniels Media by next week. So that’s why I left. I thought I could stop him, but then I realized I had no idea what to do. So I came back here to ask you for help.”

There, I got through it. Not much detail, but I told the truth and the world didn’t explode.

Although Noah just might.
His nostrils flare and I watch in astonished horror as his face turns brick red. It would almost be funny if the situation weren’t so dire.

Finally, very softly, Noah growls, “I’m going to rip his rotten dick off and feed it to him.”

A hysterical little half giggle, half hiccup bursts from me. “Please don’t.”

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands, already feeling more in control. Noah’s not going to let Brad win. More importantly, he’s not going to let me go through this alone.

“Right. You probably already thought of that idea.” Suddenly Noah’s warm, strong arms enfold me tightly. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of my head. “I wish you’d come to me sooner, Snowflake. You don’t always have to bear everything alone.”

And that fact seems so obvious now. I thought I understood that before, but now I’ve learned that Noah is here for me—for real, for always, no matter what.

Sniffling, I turn to wrap my arms around his waist and let myself relax into his comforting embrace. Our first hug that isn’t motivated by a contract or a bet or anything but honest affection. It’s pure and solid and exactly what I need. Already I’m starting to feel a little calmer.

“You’ve got me in your corner now,” Noah murmurs into my hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

My breathing slowly deepens and evens out as my tension ebbs away. I was so anxious about Brad’s threat hanging over my head, but my fears seem much smaller with Noah here to help me fight them.

A few minutes later, he breaks the soothing silence to ask, “Do you want some tea?”

I give a weak chuckle through the last of my tears. “Wow, you really are English.”

“Mum swore by it.” Noah pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me. “And once you’re feeling better, we can start figuring this thing out.”

I nod. “Do you have any ideas?”

His lips curl up in a sly smile. “A few.”

I grin back at Noah. Somehow I get the feeling that Brad is in deep shit. With Noah by my side, I feel safe for the first time since this disaster began.

Noah

Olivia looks cute in the morning. She’s still asleep, lying on her side, facing me, with the sheets tangled around her hips. Her tangled hair fans out behind her like spilled honey. Thank God she’s not in that dreadful fleece onesie again. Her gauzy white tank top dips low to hint at the deep valley of her cleavage and rides up to expose the creamy soft expanse of her belly.

Forget cute, she looks positively edible. I want to run my tongue along the top of her breasts, tease her perky nipples through the thin fabric until she wakes up, moaning my name with her hands buried in my hair.

Not gonna happen, I know. This is Olivia we’re talking about. Every victory is hard won, and every time I get close to her, she pulls back two steps further.

But a man can dream.

Eyes still closed, she stretches leisurely, letting out a little squeak as her long legs straighten under the bed linens. I appreciate the moment, admiring her as she wakes. My normal MO doesn’t allow for sleepovers or morning-after encounters. But if this is what they’re like, count me in.

After a moment, she blinks open her eyes.

“Hi,” I say.

She swallows, her gaze dropping from mine as if she’s self-conscious about me watching her wake up. “Hi.”

“Are you ready for today?” After I calmed her frayed nerves, we spent hours last night going through my plan and rehearsing.

“You really think it will work?” she asks for the hundredth time.

But I understand why she’s nervous. We’re about to go toe-to-toe with one of the greatest bogeymen of her life.

Feeling a rush of protectiveness, I reply patiently, “I know it will.” Men like Bradford Daniels are easy to outmaneuver. All they care about is their ego, and once you threaten that, they cave like little boys on the schoolyard.

I push the blankets off and sit up. There’s coffee to make for Olivia, breakfast to prepare, and a hot shower calling my name.

“Holy m-morning wood,” Olivia stutters, her eyes glued to the spot where my manhood is trying to escape my boxer briefs.

Down, boy.

I smirk at her. “What? He’s happy to see you.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Really? You’re glad I’m back?”

“Of course I am. What kind of question is that?” It’s like she’s constantly testing me, just waiting for me to slip up and tell her I’m done with her, with this game we’re playing. To me, though, it’s not just a game.

I want to tell her I’ve been awake for ten minutes, admiring the view, and this wood is exclusively for her. But I hold my tongue, sure that admission would freak her out.

“I just thought . . . when I left . . .” She pauses. “I was sure I ruined everything.”

Having her back here in our bed makes me glad I didn’t give in to all those baser instincts that told me to fuck and pillage my way through Manhattan when she left. I tip her chin up to force her to meet my eyes.

“You’ve got some making up to do, but nothing’s ruined.”

She nods, relief and gratitude shining in her eyes. And something else too—something so warm, something I don’t dare to name, let alone hope for.

I hop out of bed and head toward the bathroom, wondering how all of this will unfold today, and in the days to follow.

• • •

Later, when we’re dressed, fed, and ready, we stop in front of the building where Bradford Daniels works for his daddy’s company. I can practically feel the apprehension flowing off Olivia in waves.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

She gives me a tight nod, her deep blue eyes full of worry. “No. But I don’t think I’ll ever be. We just have to go for it.”

I squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. I’m almost . . . proud of her. She’s shaking in her high heels and yet she’s still standing here, ready to fight.

“We’ve got this,” I promise her. “Don’t look so worried.”

It’s time to grab the bull by the balls. I pull open the glass door, and we head inside and slip past the receptionist like we know where we’re going. I figured that the element of surprise is always better when you’re playing hardball.

But when we enter his corner office, Bradford looks like he was expecting us all along, with a smug grin stretched across his face.

“What, no pack of hungry lawyers? I figured that’s where this was headed.” Smirking like he’s already won, Brad rises from his desk.

His office is furnished in a traditional style—a large free-standing mahogany desk facing the door, rows of bookshelves holding volumes of textbooks. A framed photograph of a rabbit hanging on the wall.
Okay, that last thing is weird . . .

I stand my ground, gazing steadily at Brad, letting him know that his bullshit posturing doesn’t intimidate me one bit. “We could come in here and threaten to sue your ass off, but we both know that would give you exactly the satisfaction you’re looking for—a court battle, a media circus, Olivia’s name dragged through the mud.”

Brad’s eyes narrow. “The mud? I think that’s a bit optimistic. Olivia’s name would mean
nothing
by the time I’m done with her.”

Olivia shifts next to me. Her flinch is subtle, not enough for Brad to see, but I feel it. I reach over and take her hand.

“Anyway, we’re not here to sue you,” I continue. “We just thought we’d pay a visit to catch up. How’s your old college buddy? What was his name . . . ?” I tap my lips, pretending to think. “Franklin Ashby?”

“How do you know him?” Brad responds just a little too quickly. His eyes dart from mine to Olivia’s, and his brow pinches unattractively.

Geez, what did she ever see in this pencil dick?

“Oh, come on,” Olivia chimes in. “You two were roommates all through undergrad. Always bro-ing it up. Did you forget I was your girlfriend then?”

While we were strategizing last night, inspiration struck me when Olivia mentioned the name of Brad’s college roommate. A name that I’d heard before, floating around New York’s elite social circles. It only took a few quick phone calls to confirm everything.

But even though Olivia gave me this whole idea, the last thing we need right now is a verbal firefight between the two of them. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened when he called her, and it got her nowhere. (Although it didn’t exactly get Brad anywhere either.)

So I wave my hand in Olivia’s direction to stop her.
Just let me do the talking for a little longer, baby.

I start explaining to Brad exactly how screwed he is. “About six months ago, just before his company’s big announcement, your friend Ashby exercised his stock options and purchased almost a quarter million shares. He made a killing.” I rub my chin. “Funny, I seem to remember you doing pretty well too. Your stock trades even went through in the same week. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

“How do you know that?” Too late, Brad tries to recover. “I mean, what are you implying?”

“To answer your first question, Frank likes to brag when he’s got a few drinks in him,” I reply with a cheerful shrug. “And to your second question, insider trading.”

The color drains from Brad’s face. “You have no proof!”

I suppress a triumphant grin. “Maybe not right now. But the private investigator I hired to sift through the stock trade records for Frank’s company and verify the personal connection between you two?” I suck my teeth with a loud
tsk
ing noise. “Within a few days, he’ll have enough evidence for probable cause. And then you can explain to the SEC why you and Frank both purchased so many shares with such
convenient
timing.”

That last part isn’t strictly accurate. We haven’t had time to hire a PI yet, although we can get one fast if we have to. But the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is whether my bluff is convincing enough to get under Brad’s skin. And judging by his reaction . . .

Brad’s mouth opens and closes a few times.

Yeah, I’d say I’ve hit the nail on the head.
I take the moment to enjoy the sight—the haughty heir of Daniels Media doing his best impression of a fish out of water.

“Th-this is a total crock of shit and you know it,” he finally huffs out, placing a hand on his desk to lean in closer. “You both know I have you bent over, ready to take it, and this is how you’re fighting back? Pathetic.”

“You want to know what’s pathetic?” I step closer to the asshat. Not because I particularly relish being near him, but because my six-foot-two-inch frame towers over his, what, five foot nine? It’s bound to be intimidating. “The fact that Olivia here trusted you with pictures of her two gorgeous lemon-meringue pies and peach cobbler, and you, like the soulless weasel you are, tried to betray that trust in the worst possible way. Nothing gets me more livid than men who lack respect for women.”

“Peach cobbler?” Brad asks.

When Olivia shoots me a strange look, I press on. “Yes, you know—her love box, her pink clam, her honey pot.”

They’re both looking at me with puzzled expressions.

I turn up my palms in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Her pickle jar.”

A giggle tumbles from Olivia’s lips.

God, I love putting a smile on that woman’s face.

Feigning a sudden realization, Olivia raises her finger, lips parting in pleasant surprise. “Oh, Noah! That reminds me of something.”

“Yes, dear?” I ask, playing along.

“There’s more.”

“More? Do tell, Snowflake.”

“I just remembered that one time, when Brad was asleep, I snapped a picture of his little pickle.”

Brad lets out a strangled noise.

Pretending not to notice—even though I’m struggling to keep a straight face—I raise my eyebrows at Olivia. “How little are we talking here?”

“Tiny. More like a miniature dill. A gherkin.” She grins, knowing we’re on a roll.

I let myself chuckle, the tense mood evaporating almost all at once. I have no idea if she’s telling the truth, but we have this jackass right where we want him.

“No way! She doesn’t have a picture of me,” Brad stammers.

“Oh, but I do.” She grins again. “It’s such a teensy little thing, it almost slipped my memory.”

I pat him on the back. “Tough luck, buddy, getting stuck with such a short straw. You’re an eligible bachelor, right? You wouldn’t want half of New York seeing that little dick of yours, would you?”

He purses his mouth. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” I pat him on the back again because, somehow, this meeting has turned into us saving the pompous Bradford Daniels from a public embarrassment so great, he’d never outrun it.

Olivia steps forward, her shoulders thrust back. “Then you will delete every copy, so help me God, on every device, anywhere that they exist.”

Brad nods in agreement, looking defeated.

“And,” I add, “you’re going to sign this.” I push a thin sheaf of papers across his desk. Olivia and I have already signed the last page.

“What the hell is it?” Brad grumbles wearily.

“A confession. Where we all agree, in writing, that you committed insider trading and attempted to extort Olivia into selling T&C . . . and in return for you not releasing her photos, we won’t report any of your crimes. So if a single pic ever shows up online, consider this document your one-way ticket to federal prison.” I give him a tight, humorless smile. “But as long as none of Olivia’s nudes ever see the light of day, neither does your confession. What do you say?”

Brad swallows and his head bobs again. “Fine. Just get out.”

He flips to the final page, scribbles his signature in a series of quick, angry slashes, and shoves it back into my hand.

Only once we’re outside the ominous steel-and-glass building does Olivia give a little victory shout.

“You were incredible back there.” Her eyes are alight with triumph, and her voice is almost giddy.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” I reply with a grin. Counter-blackmail? I didn’t know she had it in her.

“Seriously, did you see the look on his face when he thought the women of New York were going to find out about his teeny weenie? It was classic!” She giggles again.

“Do you really have a photo of it?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Nope. I was totally bluffing.” In a stage whisper she adds, “It wasn’t photo worthy.”

I laugh out loud. Brilliant—that’s just icing on the cake. I want to tease her by saying
I’m so proud
. But that feels weird for some reason, so I settle for, “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

Buoyant with victory, we stroll along the sidewalk back toward the car.

“Noah?” she asks after a few minutes.

“Yeah, Snowflake?”

“Thank you for helping me. And for not judging me for sending those photos in the first place.”

“Hey, the only thing I cared about was putting that asshole in his place. I’d never judge a woman for sexting her boyfriend.”

“Still, you dropped everything to help me. After I just . . . ran.”