by Kendall Ryan
His fingers slide free with a faint slick noise. His eyes are dark with lust as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. My knees tremble a little. God, he’s infuriatingly sexy.
He steps closer to loop an arm around my bare back and he kisses me, tenderly now. I can taste myself on his lips. I’m feeling so languorous that I relax into his embrace without thinking. His cock is still rock hard in my hand. Instinctively, I reach out to unzip his pants and reciprocate the pleasure he just gave me. Even through his tuxedo, his body is so warm against the breeze trickling down from the ceiling vents, the chill I somehow never noticed before . . .
It suddenly seeps into my spine and I shiver, blinking like I’ve just woken up from a dream. Wait . . . what am I doing? Why did we just . . . ? My jaw tightens. The fog of lust is clearing fast and goddammit, I’ve made a huge mistake. I’m supposed to still be pissed at him, but yet again, I let my libido take the reins. How does this always happen?
I yank my hands off Noah’s crotch like I’ve been burned. Giving in to pleasure was bad enough, but giving in to the desire to please him . . . I’m acting like we’re making love. And as much as I try to tell myself it was just force of habit, I know it wasn’t. I wanted to get him off almost as badly as I wanted to come myself.
“What’s wrong?”
Noah’s voice is still husky, so ready for my touch, and I shake my head like I can dislodge the seductive sound.
“You already know.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I hike my panties back up and smooth my skirt. I let him get so far. He still has so much sexual power over me. He can play my body like a violin, and the rest of me is helpless to follow.
“Hey, where are you going? What about me?”
Ignoring Noah’s protests, I charge out of the closet like something is chasing me. As if I can outrun my own feelings. I fling open the door . . . just in time to lock eyes with Mr. Tyrell, walking down the hall. His eyes widen in confusion.
“Got lost looking for the bathroom,” I blurt, and stomp back to the main room as fast as my high heels will let me.
Chapter Six
Noah
If Olivia is going to stay mad, fine. So be it. But if last night is any indication, we still have chemistry. With my fingers buried deep inside her, she came apart, clawing at my suit jacket, devouring my mouth, gasping for air. She can pretend to be unaffected all she wants, but I know the truth.
And she’s still here, sharing our apartment. She hasn’t filed for divorce or started looking for a new place or anything like that. So I have to believe that, deep down, she does still have feelings for me. Her father was right—growing up, we were so in sync, right there for each other through every rite of passage. Granted, I’m sleeping on the couch, but at least she hasn’t left.
I’ll just have to find a way to make her believe those feelings, show her that we belong together. Convince her that the happily-ever-after she’s always wanted isn’t just a fantasy—it’s something we can have together, for real. But it’s become obvious that I’ll have to fight dirty. And that’s why I’ve enlisted the help of our friends. This is gonna take a village.
“Where’s Olivia today?” Camryn asks, surveying our empty apartment as she enters.
“At the spa.” I usher her over toward the dining room where I have everything set up. I booked Olivia for the works today—European facial, hot stone massage, manicure, pedicure, and something called a blow-out, which I’m told is for her hair. “We have at least four hours,” I add.
Olivia thinks the appointment is just my latest attempt to apologize for everything, but really, it’s because I needed her out of the house so I could hold this brainstorming session.
Camryn nods. “I’ll help however I can.”
I appraise her as though I’m looking at her for the first time. Her mischievous green eyes have a sparkle to them and her expression is open and curious. “Why the change in attitude?” I ask. She once told me she wasn’t Team Noah, after all.
Camryn helps herself to one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar. “Because.” She flips her long chestnut-colored hair over one shoulder. “I’ve seen how good you guys can be together. In just a couple short months, you were the cause of so many positive changes in her. She worked less, she laughed more. She wasn’t just all about the grind.”
I nod, hanging on her every word.
“She had pleasure in her life too—something that put a smile on her face, and that something was you.”
A smug grin uncurls on my mouth. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“But.” She purses her lips like she’s tasted a lemon. “You did fuck up royally.”
My grin fades to nothing. “I did.”
“Epically. Like, completely fucked up beyond anything that’s normal.”
Okay, Jesus, I get it. I interrupt her before she can rub any more salt in the wound. “And that’s why I’ve invited you guys here today. We’ll start as soon as Sterling gets here.”
The buzzer sounds, signaling his arrival.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter and head to the intercom to buzz him in.
Sterling grins and claps his hand on my shoulder when he arrives. “Ready to get your girl back?”
“Hell yes.”
My posture relaxes, and I lead him into the dining room. Having the support of my best friend means the world to me, and gives me the tiniest bit of hope that maybe this is possible. Sterling’s always been the voice of reason, after all. If he believes in me, maybe I really can pull this off.
I gesture for Sterling to take a seat. He does, next to Camryn at the counter. They watch me with wary expressions. I stand next to the easel with the new flip charts and markers I purchased just for the occasion. The dining table is scattered with poster board, sticky notes, and extra markers. I only hope we’ll be able to figure out a workable plan today. Never in my life have I wanted something as badly as I want to fix my relationship with Olivia. To bring us back to the happy place we used to be.
Growing up, I always envied what my parents had. Sure, I’ve spent years playing the field and indulging in meaningless conquests, but I’ve always known deep down that I was a one-woman kind of guy and I’d eventually want to settle down. To attain that kind of comfortable familiarity that comes with monogamy and commitment. And now, just when I’ve gotten a taste of how good that can be—it’s been savagely ripped away from me by my own stupid actions.
I clear my throat. “First, thank you both for being here today. It means a lot.”
Sterling nods for me to go on. Camryn looks a little skeptical but stays quiet, waiting for me to continue.
“As Camryn pointed out earlier, yes, I have fucked up royally. And I don’t intend to make any excuses for my behavior. I only want to tell you that I was a desperate man, at the end of my rope. And that I love Olivia . . . and probably always have.”
Camryn’s expression softens and she leans back in her seat, placing her hands in her lap.
“I’ve brought you both here today to help me create a strategy for winning back my wife.”
I repeat the words I practiced in the shower this morning, pausing to write Operation: Get Olivia Back on the flip-chart paper taped to the easel.
I hear Camryn snicker and look over at my captive audience. Sterling is gazing at me, his mouth open like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“What?” I ask, feeling defensive. I’ve barely begun, and they’re giggling at me behind their hands like children.
“Olivia has rubbed off on you.” Camryn chuckles. “The old Noah would have winged it.”
I consider her words for a moment. Just as I open my mouth to ask if that’s such a terrible thing, Sterling interrupts.
“And the old Noah would have had pizza and beer.”
At that, Camryn perks up. “Oh, pizza sounds great. I haven’t had lunch yet.”
I fish my cell phone from my pocket and toss it to Sterling. “Fine, order pizza. And there�
��s beer in the fridge. But we’re going to work through this, and you’re going to help me figure it out.”
Camryn salutes me while Sterling presses the phone to his ear to order two large pies.
It’s been five minutes and my strategy meeting is already fucking derailed.
• • •
Paper plates with pizza crusts litter the coffee table, along with a few half-empty bottles of beer. The poster board I bought has turned into a mess of scribbles, after Sterling challenged Camryn to a game of hangman and then tic-tac-toe.
The easel holds a large drawing of a penis, which Camryn assured me with a sober expression was the key to getting Olivia back. Right now, they’re laughing and adding words like vulva and scrotum to the mess.
I want to slap both of them.
All their suggestions were silly and unhelpful. This entire afternoon has been a huge waste of time, and now I only have an hour before Olivia’s due to arrive home.
“Okay. That’s enough.” I grab the Sharpies from their hands. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, then get out. Both of you.”
Camryn rises to her feet and yawns. “Sounds fine to me. I’m going home . . . I need a nap.”
Sterling pats me on the back—in sympathy or to mock my efforts today, I’m not sure. “You’ll think of something, buddy. I know it.”
“Thanks,” I reply, unconvinced.
I usher them out the door, then systematically make my way through the apartment, wadding up the used papers and collecting the markers. I stuff the remnants of our lunch into the trash and then collapse on our bed, grabbing her pillow and holding on to it, her scent all around me. I stare blankly up at the ceiling.
I glance at the clock. I now have forty minutes before I can expect Olivia home, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say to her when she gets here. How the hell am I going to convince her about us? It’s been days and I haven’t come up with jack shit.
Rising to my feet again, I begin pacing the room. When I see the black lacquered box that sits atop my dresser, I stop and go to it. Cradling the box in my hands, I sit back down on the bed. I don’t often take trips down memory lane; just keeping the mementos safe in my home is usually enough. But today, I need some guidance.
I take each item out, holding it and inspecting it before setting it down one by one on the bed beside me. One of my mother’s lockets. A leather bookmark from her favorite dog-eared romance. The token my father received from the New York Stock Exchange the day his company went public. A water-stained coaster from the seafood restaurant where he proposed to Mum. A friendship bracelet Olivia gave me in the sixth grade, its braided thread fraying and dull. I smile and set it aside as I look through the rest of the treasures I saw fit to save.
After inspecting all the various small tokens that hold meaning in my life, I come to the last thing, buried in the bottom of the box. The folded square of newspaper that contains my mother’s obituary.
Just the feel of the soft, worn paper in my hands makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What would she think of me?
I’m forced to take deep stock of my life. It’s unraveled to the point that I can barely recognize it. Where did I go wrong? I put trivial things that don’t matter before love. If the company goes down . . . so what? We have to look for new jobs? Big fucking deal.
Of course, I don’t want to lose the company and watch my friends and employees struggle to piece their lives back together. But as far as my own life goes, my marriage is so much more important than the company name printed on my paycheck. To save those jobs, to save myself from loss of face, I put everything above my wife. If Olivia grants me a second chance, I won’t do that again.
I unfold the newspaper, delicate with age, and gaze upon the words I’ve read many times before:
Dahlia Emerson Tate was taken from this world too soon. Having moved to the United States as a teenager, she later attended Smith College and then married William Tate of Briar Grove, New York. She is survived by her husband and a bright, caring, and inquisitive son, Noah. She firmly believed that her son was her biggest achievement, and raising him was her greatest pleasure in life.
Mum sure as hell knew the importance of love and family. She would probably be so disappointed in me right now.
The lump in my throat grows, and I force a deep breath into my lungs. I haven’t cried over my mother’s passing in many years, but something about her loss feels fresher than ever. Maybe it’s because I’ve destroyed the only good thing in my life, and I don’t have her here to dole out advice, or pat my head, or hug me close.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” I murmur. “I’ll fix this somehow. I will make you proud. I promise.”
Chapter Seven
Olivia
I check in at the spa to discover that Noah has booked me for the works. I’m being treated to a European facial, a French mani/pedi, a hot stone massage, and finally a blow-out. I’m briefly annoyed that Noah booked my appointment under “Mrs. Tate” instead of “Miss Cane.” But I shrug it off. Whatever . . . it’s a free spa day, and after everything that’s happened in the past week, I badly need some downtime. If this is his way of groveling, I’ll take it.
But I’m so tense that I don’t even begin to relax until the massage, over an hour into my appointment. Even while I’m lying on my front, my eyes closed, the tiny blond masseuse rubbing my sore, knotted muscles, my mind can’t help wandering back to the same dismal ground I’ve been mentally pacing for days now.
All along, I was operating under the assumption that once we got married, Noah and I would have ownership on our side. Those extra rights and responsibilities would both force the board to listen to us and make them more willing to take risks, since we’d assume more of the burden in case their gamble went sideways. But the fucking heir clause means that inheriting Tate & Cane isn’t an option anymore.
Is that really the end of the world, though? Is there still another way out?
In a matter of weeks, the board members will meet to cast their votes and decide our company’s fate. But the question isn’t settled yet. They still have a choice to make—either retain Tate & Cane or sell it off. And they’ll approach that choice like businessmen.
It all comes down to which option will make them more money. How much value we’re likely to create in the future compared to how much they can convince another company to buy us for. Long-term versus short-term profit. Risk and reward.
Even as things stand now, it’s not like the company is a terrible bet. It’s performed pretty well under its new management; our profits have definitely started climbing toward the black over the past couple months. But our gradual turnaround hasn’t quite been the jaw-dropping comeback that would banish the board’s doubts. We’re still more of a gamble than they would like.
If we can’t use our ownership privileges for extra clout . . . well, that definitely still handicaps us, but our defeat isn’t assured yet. We’ll just have to make ourselves indispensable in other ways. We need to demonstrate two things: Tate & Cane is worth more alive than dead. And it’s worth more with Noah and me at the helm than with anyone else they can dig up.
Okay, so we show them some new numbers. Some flashy, sexy predictions they haven’t seen before. But based on what? We can’t just pull a bunch of graphs out of our ass. I know enough finance to massage the statistics a bit, but there’s got to be something to massage in the first place. Optimistic projections are one thing; bald-faced lies are quite another. Even if we can fool the board in the short term, we’ll just be left holding the bag later, and begging for another chance won’t go nearly so well the second time around.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I try to loosen my stiff shoulders so the masseuse can do her job. It’s damn near impossible to relax with all this on my mind.
There’s no way around it—we need solid evidence to back up our fairy-dust forecast. We need an assload of new clients, or at least some promising prospects, and we need them ASAP. But alrea
dy we’ve been hustling like crazy for months. We’ve tried everything. We’ve tapped everyone. At this point, we’d just be pestering the same people and annoying the hell out of them in the process. How pathetic would that be? Nobody enjoys a hard sell. And I don’t even know if I have the energy for that anymore.
Unless . . . we can encourage them to come to us, instead of us chasing them. Can we create a scenario where corporate bigwigs actually want to hear our pitches? Or at least something to make them receptive, relaxed, willing to listen, willing to take a chance on new deals.
A fun, laid-back atmosphere . . .
Free food and drinks are always a guaranteed hit, even with billionaires who can damn well afford their own. Ideally, in the interest of time, we would gather as many prospects in one room as possible so we can woo them all at once instead of scheduling a zillion individual meetings over the course of several weeks.
But we’d need it to be more than that, it would have to be the best damn party this city’s ever seen.
Inspiration strikes like lightning. I bolt up from the massage table with a gasp.
“Mrs. Tate? Is something wrong?” the masseuse asks, startled.
“No, it’s okay.” Something is very right, in fact. I can’t stop myself from grinning with excitement; she probably thinks I’ve gone crazy. “Sorry to be so abrupt, but I have to leave. Please go ahead and charge me for the full hour.”
Without waiting for her response, I dash behind the curtain and throw on my clothes while texting Noah.
Olivia: Meet me in my office. I have a plan.
And if my instincts are on the mark, it’ll turn this company around for good.
• • •
After dark like this, especially on a Sunday night, the building is deserted. I’ve been here before at odd hours, and such deep stillness always gives me an eerie feeling, like I’m the only person left on the planet. But I’m on a mission now, so I hardly notice. The silence gives way before the quick, steady tapping of my footsteps as I walk to my office.
