Hitched: Volume One

by Kendall Ryan

  Chapter Six

  Olivia

  Oh, joy. The renowned marketing firm of Wesson, Burke and Barsol has sent a vulture. And for some godforsaken reason, our board of directors agreed to let him blow hot air through his yellowing teeth for an hour and call it a “negotiations meeting.”

  Tate & Cane has been rivals with WBB from day one. So, naturally, its CEO started salivating as soon as he smelled blood. Officially, the vulture is an “acquisitions representative,” but the formality of that title is just a smoke screen. He’s here to try to pick the carcass before it’s even stopped moving.

  Holding back an aggravated sigh, I shift in my seat at the conference table. I don’t have time for this bullshit; I have an entire company to rehabilitate. “Meeting with potential buyers” is about as far down my to-do list as it gets. Especially since I have no idea what this jerk is even doing here, other than wasting everyone’s time and sending my blood pressure through the roof. It’ll be ninety days—no, eighty-six now—until the board even decides whether they want to sell Tate & Cane, let alone who they’ll sell it to.

  Maybe all this stress is just making me hysterical, but I can’t keep my mouth from twitching at the sight of the rep’s hair. He has, without a doubt, one of the greasiest, scraggliest, saddest comb-overs I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been part of the elite corporate world since I was old enough to hold Dad’s hand at company dinners. Trust me, I know my bad comb-overs.

  How appropriate . . . a bald vulture. Maybe I should check his hands for talons. I take a sip of coffee just to hide my smirk.

  Dad clears his throat to interrupt the rep’s rambling. “Excuse me, Mr. Valmont, but I’d just like to clarify a few points.”

  The rep blinks a few times, as if he’s forgotten that there were other people in the room. “Yes, Mr. Chairman?”

  “Your purchase offer seems very low. Our company’s total value has been estimated at over twice this figure. And your planned policy changes are quite extensive.” Dad peers over his glasses at his copy of WBB’s proposal. “Not to mention the universal layoffs—surely you don’t have to fire all of our current employees?”

  “Freshly acquired companies always undergo some restructuring.” The rep adjusts his tie. “It’s standard industry practice, as I’m sure you already know. Buyers have to make sure that their new asset fits into their, ah . . . their corporate culture.”

  “Of course,” Dad says. “Just making sure the board understands.”

  Oh yeah, the board understands, all right. Nobody sitting at the conference table has even the trace of a smile.

  I steal a glance at Noah, who’s sitting just to my left. He looks absolutely miserable—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight, shoulders tensed around his ears. His body language is shocking, especially for a man who’s normally as cool as a cucumber.

  A pang of sympathy tightens my chest. I feel the unexpected urge to reach out and take Noah’s hand. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but the underlying ache remains. God knows I’m not his biggest fan, but with potential buyers in the room, my choice is a no-brainer. Of course I’ll stand firm with Noah. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Except Noah isn’t just the enemy of my enemy. We really are on the exact same side here. We’re both doing this for the same reasons—for our fathers, our futures, for all the people who depend on T&C’s jobs to feed their families. And we stand to lose the same high stakes. I know Noah won’t give up without a fight.

  The ache in my chest deepens, softens into something that feels almost like loyalty. Solidarity.

  Noah’s eyes flick over to mine; he must have sensed my gaze on him. As subtly as I can, I incline my head and give him a small, tight-lipped smile. I don’t want the vulture or even Dad to see what I’m doing. This message is meant only for the two of us.

  Don’t worry. We’re going to outsmart these fuckers. I swear on our mothers’ graves, we’ll win.

  The vulture gets up from his chair with a creak. Noah looks back at him, breaking our brief connection.

  “My employers urge you to consider committing to this sale as soon as possible,” Valmont says. “Our offer is quite generous, and it won’t be on the table indefinitely.”

  “We’ll be sure to keep WBB in mind if we ever decide to sell,” Dad replies smoothly, ignoring the man’s limp-dicked attempt at a threat. “Thank you for coming to visit us today.”

  I give a tiny mental cheer. Hell yeah! Dad said if, not when. Small victories.

  The rep doesn’t look impressed by Dad’s carefully neutral non-smile. Probably because he knows that “we’ll keep you in mind” is just a polite translation of “go piss up a rope.” But what did WBB expect, trying to sneak in ahead of the competition like this?

  The meeting is adjourned. Dad excuses himself—probably to wash up after shaking the rep’s slimy hand. As I head back toward my office, Noah catches up with me in the hall.

  “You doing okay?” he asks.

  Noah’s asking me that? He was the one who looked on the verge of strangling that prick back there.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I sigh. “Just pissed off.”

  “I thought you were always pissed off,” he teases.

  “Only when I’m around you,” I fire back automatically, but without any real feeling. I’m still too distracted and stressed out.

  Noah just chuckles, as if we’re playing tennis instead of trading insults. I have to admit, his laugh is a nice sound—and I like seeing him this way a lot better than what I saw at the meeting. Even if he can be an annoying little shit when he’s cheerful.

  We walk together for a minute, with only the soft pad of our footsteps and the low murmur of office chatter in the background.

  “What about you?” I finally ask. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel a lot better now that I’m talking to you.”

  More flirting. Why does he have to keep messing with me like that? And why does my stomach always have to give a little flip in response? I hate how easily he can make me react.

  “But back there, not so much,” Noah continues. “I thought I was going to punch that asshole in his smug face. This company isn’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. These are people’s lives they’re planning to fuck up.”

  “Right . . . like Rosita. You care so much about her.” From yesterday, I already knew that they were close, but seeing Noah get so upset really drives home how important she is to him.

  His sigh is deep and troubled. “How could I not? She’s one of the sweetest people to ever walk the Earth. And she has a family to worry about.”

  Suddenly he stops and faces me, the corners of his mouth picking up again, but his eyes telling me he’s still troubled about the meeting and what we learned. “Well, this is me. I guess it’s time to get back to work.”

  I look around and see he’s right—we’re standing outside his office door.

  Here already? When did we walk all this way? Time must have flown by.

  I feel an odd twinge of disappointment, unwilling to end this conversation yet. I don’t know what else to say; I just feel like talking to Noah a little longer.

  Or maybe I just don’t want to be alone right now. I want to hang on to that moment we shared at the meeting. The reassuring, invigorating sense that we’re fighting by each other’s sides. Allies in the trenches. Misery loves company, I guess . . .

  But my to-do list is too long for me to pay attention to such a tiny, nebulous feeling. So I shake off my reluctance and nod good-bye at Noah.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Not too much later, I hope.” With a wink, Noah disappears into his office.

  Gah . . . tummy flip, right on cue. Screw him—no, wait, don’t screw him. I mean, forget him. And his monster penis. I have a million things to do and I’ve already wasted half the day.

  I turn on my heel and head for my office. Maybe my feelings will settle down once I start working. I’ll bury myself in tough financial problems, get a good f
low going, and let all distractions slip away.

  But the idea of solitude, normally blissful, still rubs me the wrong way for some reason. And as my mind wanders, so do my feet. I find myself in front of Dad’s door instead of my own.

  I let myself inside his office, savoring the church-like silence, the calming scents of wood polish and coffee and paper. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt at home in this office. I was practically raised here, after all. I’ve read every volume of every book and business journal on its shelves. I know every inch of this room, and its familiarity soothes my jangled nerves.

  The door opens again with a soft click, and Dad says, “I knew I’d find you here.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice without even turning around. Which is good, because I’m suddenly too tired to do anything more than breathe.

  “Something you want to talk about?”

  Bypassing his mahogany desk and the imposing throne behind it, Dad sits on the squat leather armchair by the coffee table. I take the armchair on its other side. It makes the same awkward farting noise it’s made for the past eighteen years.

  “No. I mean . . .” I sigh. “Maybe.”

  I don’t even know what I need right now. My thoughts are still flying in all directions: The vulture, somehow dismissive and hungry at the same time. The tense misery in Noah’s pose. Dad’s careworn face, its wrinkles deepening by the day. The board’s insane deadline. All the work that lies ahead of me—of us. The mere word “us,” the idea that soon, I’ll become a we instead of a me.

  But maybe that isn’t such a terrible fate. Partnership has its good points as well as bad. I’ve seen that synergy firsthand, in the way that Dad and Bill Tate led this company together.

  And I remember the glance I shared with Noah back in the conference room. That split second of mutual understanding, where I saw straight through Noah’s eyes. I could tell exactly how he felt—alone, overwhelmed—and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone and overwhelmed myself. Putting on a brave face for him bolstered my own courage. Even now, I feel stronger and calmer for having smiled at him.

  It’s actually kind of amazing just how powerful one glance can be. How much it can communicate. How it can pull me out of despair, even slow down my heartbeat . . . or speed it up. Like what happened between us in the hall a few minutes ago. Or the meeting where he kissed my hand.

  For God’s sake, is my libido ever going to shut up? Now is really not the fucking time. Ugh, wait. Poor choice of words.

  “You still there, sweetie?” Dad asks.

  I blink back to reality. Shit, I got lost in thought again. My thoughts are pretty easy to get lost in these days.

  “Sorry. I just . . . I don’t really know where to start.” That’s definitely no lie.

  “I’ll pour us some coffee.” He leans forward with a grunt.

  “No, Dad, don’t get up. I can do it.” I stand up and walk to the sideboard to turn on the single-cup machine.

  He lets out a small sigh through his nose. “I know I’m no spring chicken anymore, but—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  Dad is proud and I don’t want to make him feel helpless, but I know damn well how much pain and fatigue he’s dealing with. And to be honest, I’m desperate to get off my ass and do something. Anything at all. I just need action.

  So I busy myself with the coffee. Hazelnut for me, Colombian dark roast for Dad. Sweetener but no cream for me, cream but no sweetener for Dad. The ritual itself is almost as soothing as the rich scents that steam from our mugs.

  I hoped that talking would come easier like this, with my hands occupied and my back turned so I don’t have to worry what crosses my face—or what might cross Dad’s. But the words that leap from my mouth take us both by surprise.

  “Why did Bill Tate do this to us?”

  Dad sighs again. This one is loud, heavy, rising from deep within his chest.

  My mouth snaps open to apologize. But then I close it again. Because you know what? Even if I never intended to demand answers—fuck it, I really do want some. In fact, I have a right to them. I’m the one who was forced to choose between the frying pan and the fire, after all.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dad says. “We never imagined it would turn out this way. We wrote those clauses together, into both our wills, because we wanted to keep T&C in the family, and we knew you kids were meant to be together.”

  I nod a little impatiently as I hand him his coffee mug and sit down with mine. I already know most of this part of the story. A joint venture, in more than one sense of the word.

  He takes a sip. “Still, we tried to make sure that you had other options. If you and Noah didn’t want to marry by the time we retired—a day we thought was far in the future—then control would default to the board. And even so, you wouldn’t lose the company. You would have been granted board seats and paid highly from T&C’s profits. So we didn’t make this decision lightly. But we never anticipated . . .”

  “That there would be no profits,” I say softly. And maybe no company at all.

  “Right. Because everything just happened all at once, with the worst possible timing. Bill’s early death. My cancer . . . and how fast it advanced. T&C lagging behind its competition, falling into the red. The board’s crisis of faith.” Another deep sigh. “We always thought you kids would have so many more years to come around to the idea.”

  I know how hard Dad has tried to save this company on his own. He’s worked until his body physically won’t let him anymore. By the time he admitted defeat, the problem had reached do-or-die proportions. I’m not angry with him for that, because I know I wouldn’t have done any different. We’re cut from the same proud, stubborn cloth.

  Dad puts down his barely touched coffee with a soft clunk. “I’m not going to be around forever, sweetie.”

  I look up, startled at the topic change. He suddenly looks so haggard, it breaks my heart.

  “I . . . I know that, Dad, but—”

  “You marrying Noah isn’t just for the company’s sake. Who cares about a company if my little girl is unhappy? I trust Noah to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need taking care of,” I say automatically.

  “Everyone needs someone around. I’m not talking about money or power . . . I’m talking about love. A listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. A partner who shares life’s burdens. If I know you have that, sweetie, then I can rest a lot easier.”

  I swallow a lump in my throat, washing it down with hot coffee. I don’t want to think about Dad resting.

  “Despite everything, I still believe that you and Noah belong together,” Dad continues. “You were made for each other. And you’ll need each other’s strength for what lies ahead. Bill Tate’s will has just given things a little push in the right direction.”

  I look down into my mug, the dark liquid glinting under the fluorescent lights. “This still just feels so . . . unreal. I have no idea what to expect. What’s it like to be married?”

  I’m not even sure what kind of answer I want to hear. What cute anecdote or pearl of wisdom could possibly reassure me. Everything will be okay. Marriage won’t swallow up your whole life. You can still be yourself—a businesswoman first and a wife second.

  “Well, in my experience, it was wonderful.” Dad smiles fondly. “Your mom was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. My rock, my sunshine, my best friend. We weren’t two halves of a whole, we were each our own person, and that’s what made us so amazing when we joined together.” He shakes his head. “I’m no poet, so all I can say is . . . it was magic.”

  Magic, huh? I’ll have to take his word for it. My only long-term boyfriend turned out to be a manipulative narcissist, and I’ve never gotten close enough to any other man for the kind of deep bond that my father is trying to describe.

  Dad leans forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled. “I know the circumstances are far from ideal, sweetie. But try to at least give Noah
a shot. I’d never put you in a situation I didn’t think you could handle. You’re my baby girl . . . I just want to see you with a good man. And that man is Noah.”

  I don’t quite share Dad’s glowing opinion of Noah. Not yet—although hopefully that will change by the end of this month. But I remember how fiercely he cares about Rosita and her family’s welfare. There’s no mistaking the strength of his conviction.

  If nothing else, I know I can count on Noah to step up to the plate and fight for T&C. I can trust him to work just as hard as I will. Which is good, because we’ll be spending the next three months in Overtime Hell together.

  At least I’ll have some eye candy to ogle during all those late nights at the office. But now that I know about that telephone pole between his legs, I don’t know how I’ll ever look at him the same way.

  Heaven help me.

  Chapter Seven

  Noah

  You know how men are supposed to be more direct and forceful, while women are gentler and more attuned to emotions? That’s horseshit. As business partners, Olivia and I blur gender stereotypes. I’m the “face,” the charismatic people-pleaser, while she’s the get-shit-done powerhouse. Playing to our strengths lets us divide and conquer.

  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that men—especially stodgy, rich old farts—tend to listen better to other men. I can close deals over a round of golf, woo male and female clients alike, and generally sweet-talk my way through any situation. Which is exactly what I’ve spent this last week doing.

  Today, though, I’m back in the office. And right now, I’m grinding my teeth at the sight of Harrison Ridgefield from the accounting department leering at Olivia’s cleavage.

  “Something I can help you with there, buddy?” I snap as I step into Olivia’s office and stop right beside him.

  His head jerks up and he smiles sheepishly, as if he knows he’s been caught. “Oh. Hey, Noah. Didn’t see you there,” he says, his voice unsteady.

  “That’s because you were busy staring at my girlfriend’s . . . spreadsheets.”