by Kendall Ryan
Snatching back her hand, she snaps, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t agreed to marry you yet, and even if I do, I’m never taking your last name.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me standing there with a stupid grin on my face.
“I’ve seen that look before,” Fred says with a small smile. “You’re in trouble, son.”
I laugh off his warning. There’s no way Olivia Cane will ever have me wrapped around her finger.
Yet her unique sweetness lingers in my nostrils. She must have dabbed that intoxicating scent on her wrist, so close to my nose when I kissed her hand. I can still feel her soft, smooth skin on my lips. Such a small intimacy—just brushing her as I spoke—shouldn’t have spread this tingle over me. But there’s no denying that this room has become a few degrees too warm.
This is going to be interesting. Hell, it may even be fun.
Chapter Two
Olivia
Camryn almost spills her pear mojito and gasps. “You have to do what? With who?”
Nodding grimly, I take a fortifying gulp of sangria. Just explaining this whole harrowing situation makes me feel like I’m going crazy.
We’re eating lunch at a table for two at Banderilla, our favorite tapas bar in all of Manhattan. This restaurant has been our go-to hangout spot since we were college roommates.
We’ve talked over countless decisions here. Whether I should break up with my shitty first boyfriend (I did), whether Camryn should give her anal virginity to her wannabe musician boyfriend (she did), if we should get matching friendship tattoos (I chickened out), whether she should accept Tate & Cane’s job offer after the internship I hooked her up with (she did).
But this decision is probably the biggest of my life. I need my best friend’s coolheaded advice now more than ever.
Camryn heaves a sympathetic sigh. “Jesus. I knew the company wasn’t doing so hot, but I had no idea just how much trouble we were in.”
“Yeah, turns out we should have invested more in social media.”
Like all the other big marketing firms. Dad had stuck to his guns with old strategies, and now clients thought we were a dinosaur.
“So, what do you think I should do about this contract?” I ask her again. I try not to sound impatient, but my head has been spinning ever since Dad announced his retirement—and I learned exactly what I’d need to do to take his place.
“Let me make sure I understand. You need to inherit and unfuck T&C, or else the board will pawn it off. Before the next financial quarter.”
“Yep.”
“But Bill Tate’s will says you can’t inherit until you marry his son.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sucks her teeth. “So . . . down the aisle in a matter of days, huh? Sounds like the board is the rock and Tate’s will is the hard place.”
“Exactly.” Although it’s Noah’s hard place that I really need to worry about right now. “And between the two, my personal life’s about to get smashed into dust.”
“I didn’t know you had a personal life.” She holds up one hand at my exasperated glare. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t really.” I sigh heavily. “But damn it, why should I give up what little I have? It’s not fair. At the end of a long workday, I want to come home to my own space for some peace and quiet.”
Not to mention wine. And ice cream. And drowning out the silence with crappy TV so I can’t start thinking about how lonely I am.
“I couldn’t stand having that jerk in my face 24–7. I’d put up with him all day at work, and then I’d have to see his dirty socks everywhere.” Fuck no.
“Who says you have to share your space?”
I snort as I lift a forkful of papas bravas to my mouth. “A husband and wife who don’t live together? Yeah, that’d look just great for publicity.” One of many reasons why Dad would never let me hear the end of it.
Camryn shrugs, her palms turned up. “My point is, you don’t necessarily have to lose your whole life.”
“Just the parts with independence and privacy.”
“Come on, try to think about the situation like any other business move. This marriage is just a piece of paper. After you and Noah deal with the big picture, you can negotiate the details like adults and find something you can both live with. You two are on the same page here—making a huge personal sacrifice to save your company.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Noah seems way more into the idea than me. He was on board from the very beginning.”
I rub my hand where he kissed it, thinking about the husky way he murmured Mrs. Tate. His idea of matrimony clearly isn’t very holy.
Camryn raises one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Oh? You think he likes the idea of sharing a bed with you?”
“I think he likes sharing a bed with anything that has a pulse.”
Although his playboy ways make it seem even odder that he’s so eager to tie himself down. Uh, that was a poor choice of words. But who’s to say he won’t just keep sleeping around?
Like Camryn said, this marriage is strictly business. A mere legal formality. And Noah would probably explode if he went more than a week without pussy.
I may be the boss’s daughter, but I still overhear my fair share of office gossip. Noah nailed all six interns last summer. He’s also slept with various secretaries over the years, and everyone just turned a blind eye. Boys will be boys . . .
Well, playtime is over. If he expects to turn this company around, we’ve got our work cut out for us.
“But how do you feel about all this? Noah Tate is pretty fucking hot.”
“Camryn . . .” I groan.
“What? I have working eyeballs. His hotness is an objective fact. Just like the pope being Catholic and carbs making you fat. He just is. Would it really be so bad to see him naked?” Her sly smile says she’s suggesting a lot more than just looking. “As long as we’re weighing the pros and cons here . . .”
I pause to consider the image, then grudgingly admit, “No.”
In fact, it would probably be pretty damn fantastic. I’ve already gotten a preview of his toned body, firm chest, and six-pack abs. Whenever our families summered together in the Hamptons, he took every opportunity to strut around shirtless. Hell, when I was nineteen, I came close to fucking him. But I was young and stupid and horny back then. Now I’m older, wiser . . . and still incredibly horny. Damn it.
It’s ridiculous how easily Noah grabs my attention. The smallest thing he does can leave me flustered. Like at the close of our business meeting yesterday. Just as a bare-bones courtesy, the most brusque good-bye possible, I stuck out my hand at him—only for Noah to bow slightly and raise it to his mouth for a lingering kiss.
“A pleasure doing business with you . . . Mrs. Tate,” he teased in a husky voice.
My mouth went dry and my stomach fluttered. Or maybe that flutter was somewhere a bit south of my stomach. I suddenly remembered exactly how many years, months, days, and hours it had been since I’d last gotten laid.
I tried to recover. Who the hell did he think he was? We were standing in a Madison Avenue skyscraper, not a sixteenth-century castle. This was wildly inappropriate workplace behavior. I could slap his tight ass with a harassment suit if I wanted. Instead, I just gave the cocky bastard a death glare and the iciest retort I could think of.
But it was too late. There was no denying my body’s reaction. The red-hot shiver that had run down my spine when his soft, full lips touched my knuckles, brushing my skin as he spoke.
Even now, I find myself replaying the image of Noah Tate gazing up at me with a sinful smirk, his dark eyes alight . . .
I shake away the steamy memory. So what if Noah knows how to flirt like the shameless manwhore he is? Schmoozing is all he’s good for. And handsome men are a dime a dozen, especially in New York. Hell, a fifty-dollar vibrator could do his job, and I wouldn’t have to listen to its bullshit. I didn’t bust my ass in business sc
hool just to become Noah’s little woman.
Then again, I also didn’t bust my ass in business school to watch my father’s company go down the drain, either.
My thoughts sober me, cooling my anger into melancholy. I spent my childhood in my father’s office, playing at his feet while he steered a financial ship of thousands. All children think of their parents as gods, and I was no exception. Even since I took my place at his right hand, with my own voice in the family business, I still respect him more than any other man.
And then the cancer diagnosis. Diagnoses, plural—first Mom in my freshman year of college, then Dad just last year.
But even though I’d had a front-row seat to Mom’s mortality, Dad’s still came as a shock. He’s as wise and proud as ever, and he puts up a brave front for the rest of us, but I can tell what the cancer is doing to him. I’ve been his daughter for twenty-six years; I know where to look. It’s those little moments, like when his hands shake when we talk about the future, or he gets that faraway look in his eyes.
Dad has so little time. Sometimes it’s still hard to remember that. All too soon, Rachel and I will be each other’s only remaining family. And my little sister sure as hell won’t run Tate & Cane Enterprises. She has never been interested in the business world; she loves fashion, not finance. Although maybe I should ask her advice on graphic design, for revamping our marketing campaign styles . . .
I frown into my sangria. Damn, I’m thinking as if Tate & Cane is already mine. As if I’ve subconsciously taken my responsibilities for granted.
Well, why shouldn’t I? Dad always told me that his seat would be mine someday. This company is my birthright. It’s Dad’s legacy—the hard-won fruit of all his blood, sweat, and tears. He shouldn’t spend his last days worrying about what will happen to it. And soon, this company will be all I have left of him. Assuming I actually manage to hold on to the damn thing.
Personal sentiment aside, T&C also employs over six thousand people. Six thousand lives that will be turned upside-down if our rivals take over.
Fuck. I can’t believe I’m even considering this ridiculous contract.
But my career is everything to me. It always has been. While other girls enjoyed normal social lives, I studied for hours every night. While they picked out homecoming dresses and sneaked booze from their parents’ liquor cabinets, I did internships. While they rushed sororities, I co-chaired my university’s Women Entrepreneurs Club. I aced every single one of my undergrad and MBA classes. No partying and barely any dating. I never coasted on Dad’s reputation; ever since I was old enough to understand what a huge responsibility waited in my future, I wanted to be ready for it.
Well, I’m ready now. I’ve worked hard all my life, and I’ve earned the right to prove myself as head of Tate & Cane. I’m confident that I can fill Dad’s shoes.
I can’t let Dad down. I can’t let my younger self down. This company is mine; the thought of losing it to a rival is even worse than the thought of Noah making suggestive comments at me for the rest of my life.
This company can’t slip through my fingers, so I won’t let it—even if that means I have to partner with Noah. Not just partner, but dear God, marry the son of a bitch. Our fathers must have gone temporarily insane when they wrote their wills. Then again, they always did have weird, old-fashioned ideas about dating and courtship.
But no situation is impossible. If I can just calm down and think clearly, an optimal solution will emerge. Any seemingly impossible goal can be managed by breaking it down into bite-sized component tasks.
I breathe deeply to calm myself and try to let my training take over.
Camryn has made two important points. First, both Noah and I want to save Tate & Cane Enterprises. This company is our birthright, our fathers’ legacy—and its employees are our responsibility. And second, this marriage is just another form of legal partnership. Which means it’s a contract open to negotiation.
Yes, it royally sucks that I’m not marrying for love. My closet romantic side cringes at the thought. But I try to set aside as much emotional baggage as I can. Not every marriage has to be like a Hollywood romance, after all. Noah and I don’t need to be in love with each other to successfully co-pilot a company.
The $100 billion question here is: How well would we work together?
Can we even get along? Will our partnership be stable and productive? Or will it implode . . . taking Tate & Cane down with us?
This decision doesn’t rest entirely on my shoulders. Our fathers have always said that we’re stronger together—that’s why they paired us off in the first place. So Noah ought to do some heavy lifting too. In fact, I could argue that it’s his job to convince me, since he’s already on board.
So, let him make his sales pitch. Let him prove himself to me. Let him demonstrate how and why this relationship could actually succeed. I’ll do my part too—I’ll try to maintain good faith and stay receptive to the idea of us becoming friends. But I’m not the type to commit to something unless I know I can follow through. If I’m going to marry Noah, then by God, I want to win at it.
The end of my inner debate must show on my face, because Camryn reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“I’m going to order us dessert.”
“I love you,” I say on a sigh. Even with my newfound determination, I’ll need some serious chocolate to get through this.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re really brave.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
Grumbling to myself, I fish my phone out of my purse and call Dad to schedule another meeting with Noah and Prescott. I have to give them my answer as soon as possible.
• • •
Late that afternoon, almost the close of the business day, I open the same conference room door I walked through yesterday. Nobody turns in response; the three men seated at the table have already looked up at the sound of my footsteps in the hall.
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 mar
riage 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.”
Chapter Three
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.
