Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 2) (4 page)

The urge to reach out, to lace our fingers together or put my hand on her waist or just touch her in some small way, flares up inside me. But I don’t. Not yet. With all the commotion Brad’s blackmailing caused, I still don’t quite know where Olivia and I stand. She did run out on our wedding instead of including me in her personal drama. And she still hasn’t said a peep about the contract. Even if this victory is pretty fucking incredible, I’m not ready to celebrate yet. I need answers.

“Should we head back to the office?” Olivia checks her phone, and the time shows just after eleven.

“Not yet. Let’s go get lunch.”

“Good idea.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re seated at a Mediterranean restaurant that’s just around the corner from our office, sipping iced tea and munching on hummus and warm pita bread.

“God, the look on his face . . .” Olivia chuckles again. “I won’t forget that anytime soon. Thank you for today. For everything.”

I nod. “It was nothing.”
Just connecting a few dots.

“And for what it’s worth, I am so sorry about leaving you high and dry at the beach.”

I tense my jaw. Do I wish she would have trusted me with this information and let me help from the start? Sure. But I’ve never been in Olivia’s shoes, and I can’t judge her decision. I have no idea how I’d feel if my ex was threatening to expose me—literally—if I didn’t cut her into my company. Shit, I’m almost as hard-headed as Olivia; I probably would have wanted to handle it alone too. But there’s still something bugging me.

“About that . . . is the blackmail the only reason you ran away?”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Of course. I told you I was ready to tie the knot, and I meant that.”

I nod. I almost ask her how she feels about marrying
me
, specifically. But at the last second, I decide I’m not ready to hear the answer to that loaded question. I need to remember that we’re both doing this out of necessity.

I have responsibilities, mountains of obligations. The fear of failure is reason enough to stay the course.

Olivia

I expected to be nervous again. And I am, but just a little—not nearly so bad as before. Even though my palms are sweating like crazy, my heart beats steady and my stomach is calm. I almost feel like I’m floating as Noah and I stand once again before the justice of the peace.

She recites our wedding vows over the hushed lapping of the ocean waves, the mewing cries of seagulls, the occasional clang of buoys and ship’s bells. Our two rows of guests watch from their folding chairs on the beach. And the whole thing just feels
right
in a way it didn’t before. As if some invisible puzzle piece has clicked into place. My doubts have finally worn themselves away, leaving me light and free.

The judge presents our marriage license and the inheritance contract, all filled out except for the final signature line. Noah signs first, then me, my pen gliding over the paper as easily as the distant sailboats glide through the water. Finally, after all our false starts, our two signatures sit side by side.

“You may now kiss the bride,” says the judge with a smile.

The guests applaud and laugh as Noah pulls me close. I grin against his mouth, a warm light blooming in my chest. It suddenly strikes me that Noah has always been there for me. And not just lately, like with Brad—when we were growing up too. He’s been a constant in my life ever since we were toddlers. Playful, sometimes irritating, always magnetic, never far out of reach.

Noah has done so much for my sake, especially in the past month. He’s gone so far out of his way. The thought of how deeply he must care about me is both giddy and humbling. I’m still not sure about the romance and sex parts of being married, but our friendship is beyond doubt. We’re a team. Ready to face whatever the future holds.

But as right as it feels to be here with Noah, the fact of our marriage is still staggering.
Holy shit, I’m a wife now.
I need some quiet time alone to let this sink in.

When the informal reception is over and everyone starts throwing away their paper plates and gathering their purses and jackets for the trip back to the city, I breathe a sigh of relief. I say good-bye to Dad, Camryn, and the rest of the guests, then retreat to the quiet of my family’s summer cottage.

Grabbing my laptop bag, I head to my old bedroom. Its desk is more than a little cramped now that I’m an adult. But this house is too small for a separate study, and I’d rather be in my own space than the master bedroom right now. I don’t want to give Noah any funny ideas about sharing a bed on our wedding night.

I push up the window to let in the ocean breeze, fold myself into my undersized desk chair, and open my laptop, ready to immerse myself in work.

But my peaceful solitude doesn’t last long. Footsteps approach from down the hall and stop on my threshold.

“What are you doing here?” Noah’s voice asks behind me.

Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I reply flatly, “This is my room.”

Noah points at my laptop like it’s an angry rattlesnake. “No, I mean what are you doing with that thing?”

“Strategic analysis.” As should be obvious from my spreadsheet-covered screen.

He frowns. “Right now? After we just got married?”

“What else would I do?” My tone has cooled, daring him to contradict me. I know damn well what’s on his mind, but there’s no way I’m even putting that suggestion on the table. He’s a big boy—he can use his own words. Not that begging will get him anywhere.

Noah comes inside to sit on the bed, facing me. “I know you’re a workaholic, Snowflake, but this is ridiculous. We can afford to take our wedding night off.”

“Can we? After all the time and money I’ve wasted . . .”

I bite my lip, still ashamed of what happened on our first attempt at a wedding. And while seeing Brad cut down to size was insanely satisfying, the attorney who drafted that agreement wasn’t cheap. Tate & Cane’s pockets are a lot shallower than they used to be.

Noah reaches out to gently cup my chin. “Hey. You didn’t waste anything—you didn’t cause any of this. It was that asshole who decided to mess with you. And we had to stop him, because nobody hurts my girl and gets away with it.” He raises his eyebrows at me for emphasis. “So don’t you dare blame yourself.”

Taken aback, I can’t help a small smile.
He always defends me . . . even against myself.
Noah’s earnest words mean so much. Almost too much.

“Okay, fair enough. I’ll try to lay off the self-hate. Still, we have to get back on schedule.”

“We should at least spend tonight together,” he insists.

I roll my eyes, still smiling. “Jesus, you’re relentless. Fine. Then I hope you brought your laptop too, because this business plan isn’t going to write itself.”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “since I
assumed
we’d be on vacation. I’ll just have to read over your shoulder.”

He leaves and brings back a wooden chair from the kitchen, pushes it next to mine, and sits down. Close enough for me to feel his body’s distracting warmth.

He occasionally reaches out and touches me—little brushes against my wrist, his hand at the small of my back, making me hyper-aware of him and his distinct maleness. My heart riots with each movement.

This is what I’ve been trying to avoid all along—the seeds of hope blooming in my chest. I need to stamp those feelings out now because I know what Noah’s doing. He’s putting on a brace front and trying to make the best of our situation. It’s only a matter of time before this whole charade comes crashing down around us, leaving my heart in tatters.

My real happily-ever-after is out there, somewhere. And when we right the proverbial ship that is Tate & Cane Enterprises, I’ll be able to think about things like getting our marriage annulled and moving on, but until then, it’s heads down.

“So, what are your thoughts so far?” Noah asks in a low tone that sounds way too intimate for staring at a bunch of financial graphs.

Trying to ignore his intense gaze, I start explaining my arguments for how we should structure our plan of attack.

We collaborate late into the night. At some point, a bottle of champagne appears on the desk at my elbow. I don’t know how—I was too absorbed in work to notice Noah moving. All I know is that when I turn my head, I see a foil-topped green bottle and two glasses that weren’t there before.

Immediately I say, “I’m not going to get drunk with you.” I can’t afford to let my guard down, only to find my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor come morning and a delicious ache present between my thighs. Even if I might want to.
No, Olivia.
I silently scold myself.
Bad pussy. 

“Who said anything about getting drunk?” Noah replies breezily. “I just thought it might be nice to have a drink while we work. Sure, we’re both very busy people, but we still just got married. Let’s celebrate the imminent revival of Tate & Cane.”

The idea is surprisingly tempting. I make a thoughtful noise . . . then give in. “Fair enough. But just one drink.” Maybe a little bubbly buzz will help me be more creative. Plus this man is just damn hard to say no to.

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?”