by Kendall Ryan
My stomach tightens.
“I need a drink,” Olivia grumbles beside me.
“Good idea,” I murmur.
I wonder if she’s still pissed at me for leaving her high and dry this morning. Probably. But after the way she rolled her tight little ass over in bed last night after giving me a hard-on with her soft, wet kisses and little groans of encouragement? Forcing me to go tend to the beast if I wanted any hope of falling asleep? Yeah, payback’s a bitch.
Her gaze wanders to the side table near the windows, where carafes of coffee and trays of Danishes have been placed.
“I don’t see any tea. You want coffee?” she asks, already starting toward it.
I shake my head. “Thanks for asking, but I’m good.”
Moments later, Olivia returns with a paper cup of steaming black coffee.
“Let’s begin,” Fred announces in a booming voice. Silence settles over the room, and all eyes focus on him.
He takes a step forward. “I’ve called this meeting today to share a special announcement.” He looks over at me and Olivia and smiles briefly before turning his attention back out onto the crowd. “It is with great honor that I announce the next generation of Tate & Cane . . . my daughter, Olivia, and Bill’s son, Noah, are taking over operations as co-CEOs.”
A murmur of whispers erupts all around us.
“I know, I know.” Fred silences the crowd with a wave of his hand. “The family decided to reject the board’s proposal, at least for now, and prove to you that we can turn this company profitable under their leadership by the end of this financial quarter.”
We see a few heads nodding, but most people still look uncertain. I don’t blame them. Their jobs are at stake, and what proof do they have that Olivia and I can actually pull this off—and so fast? None.
“Please put your hands together and welcome your new co-CEOs.” He claps enthusiastically and everyone follows suit, treating us to a round of applause.
After the noise dies down, Olivia steps forward with a short but eloquent speech about how devoted we are to succeeding, and how we’ll need the cooperation and hard work of everyone in this room to win together. Honestly, I’m not sure exactly what she says because I see Harrison eye-fucking Olivia from where he stands in the back of the room, and blood thunders in my ears.
As Olivia finishes, I step forward and take her hand in mine. That prick from accounting is about to know for certain who she belongs to.
“I have a related announcement, actually. Might as well get it all out in the open, since I have nothing to hide.” I grin at Olivia, who looks like she’s ready to murder me. “The rumors are true. Olivia and I are dating.”
“But it won’t detract from our business focus,” she says, interrupting me.
Damn. Everything about this woman is stiff and unrelenting. What I need is to get her to loosen up and relax. She’s wound too tight. She needs to learn to stop and smell the roses once in a while. Work aside, that becomes my next priority.
Plus, I still have to figure out how I’m going to win the bet we’ve made. Only three more days to get her wet and naked and begging for me . . . And just like that, it moves up to the top of my agenda.
I fight off the wave of arousal that hits me and smile as we field questions from the employees.
• • •
As soon as the meeting ends and the entire company isn’t watching us, Olivia storms away without a word and refuses to answer my knock on her office door. I guess my little impromptu announcement pissed her off even more than I thought.
But why? We are dating, aren’t we? Damn it . . . if I ever want to win her over, I need to figure out what makes her tick. I’m not above asking for help. And who knows a woman better than her best friend?
I already know Camryn works in the marketing department. Tracking down her cubicle is easy from there. When I find it, I see it’s a mess of papers and folders, one of those chaotic systems where I’m sure she’d try to convince me she knows where everything is.
She’s typing away, and when I stroll up, her fingers suddenly stop and her eyes lift to mine.
“How can I help you?”
I almost laugh. She’s so formal. She and Olivia are definitely cut from the same cloth; I can see why they’re such good friends.
“I need to talk to you about Olivia,” I say, and Camryn’s brow furrows.
It crosses my mind that maybe she won’t want to help me. I decide to lay all my cards on the table and see if my candor will make her bite.
I lower my voice and lean in closer. “You know about the whole marriage contract, right?”
“Yes, and I’m not going to help you try to convince her, if that’s why you’re here. Olivia’s a big girl, and she can make up her own mind.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Fine. What do you need? I’m not exactly Team Noah, you know?”
“That’s fine, because we’re both Team Olivia.”
She swivels her chair away from the keyboard and faces me. “You have five minutes.”
“Why is Olivia so opposed to this? I hate to be so cocksure, but most women drop their panties at my slightest interest.”
“Olivia is not most women.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”
“So, what seems to be the problem, lover boy?” She shifts her weight in her seat, looking me over with an amused expression. She’s enjoying my desperation way too much. “I never imagined that Noah Tate, the legendary sex god, would have any problem seducing a woman.”
“Sex god, eh?”
She shrugs. “Are the rumors true or not?”
“Depends on which rumors you’re referring to.”
“That you have a magical nine-inch dick that tastes like strawberries?”
I burst out laughing despite myself. We’re in a crowded work area with people sitting well within earshot, and she’s discussing my cock like we’re picking out carpet samples.
“As much as it pains me to say this, let’s get off my dick and onto the topic at hand.”
She squares her shoulders. “Right. Olivia.”
“Tell me what she likes. Hobbies. Interests. Things she enjoys.”
Camryn takes a second to think it over. “She works her ass off all week, which I’m sure you know. So if you’re referring to the weekends, she likes watching rom-coms and has a secret romantic side. She buys herself a bouquet of peonies at the farmers’ market every Saturday.”
“That’s good.” I pull out my phone and type peonies into the notes app. “What else? Favorite color? Food?” I already know she likes dirty martinis and red wine, but charming Olivia will take a lot more than just liquoring her up.
“Green. Like money.” Camryn grins. Olivia always was an overachieving powerhouse. “And she loves tapas.”
“Isn’t that just appetizers for dinner?”
“Basically,” Camryn says with a shrug.
“Got it. Anything else?”
She looks away for a moment. “Well, there is one thing, but I don’t think you’re going to want to hear this.”
“Lay it on me.”
“She has this scrapbook of her dream wedding. She’s been adding to it since she was a little girl.”
“Olivia?” My eyes widen. “The same Olivia Cane who protested getting married has dreams of a grand wedding?”
“Exactly. She’s always dreamed of a big, beautiful wedding. She’s actually really mushy underneath that hard shell. What her mom and dad shared was special, and she’s ultimately looking for the same thing. The perfect wedding. The perfect husband.”
It all hits me at once. “And this arrangement crushes her lifelong dream.”
“Well, yes.”
Camryn seems oblivious of the huge bombshell she just dropped on me. It doesn’t matter if I know Olivia’s favorite color or dinner spot. She wants the one thing I can never give her—a real happily-ever-after.
My heart sinks a little. No matter how well w
e’re getting along, I’m not foolish enough to think I could fill in for her soul mate. Unless . . . I swallow as a wave of nerves hits. Holy freaking matrimony. Am I ready for that?
“One more thing,” I ask Camryn. “Why doesn’t she ever date?” Not since that douche of an ex in college have I seen Olivia with another man.
“Basically? She’s a picky bitch,” Camryn says with a fond smile.
“She’s waiting for her Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.”
“Something like that.”
“Thanks, this has been really helpful.”
“Good luck,” Camryn calls as I head toward my office. She lets the you’re going to need it go unspoken.
Fuck . . . I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia
On Noah’s tuxedo-clad arm, I walk into Clair de Lune, a five-star French restaurant overlooking the East River. Escargot, caviar, white tablecloths, hundred-dollar bottles, the whole nine yards.
Even though this event is purely business—a dinner meeting meant to win over a new client—Noah brought me a bouquet of peonies when he came to my office to pick me up. He was polite and attentive, and it almost made me forgive him for getting me riled up the other day.
Who am I kidding? The man riles me up every five minutes.
The hostess guides us to our reserved table, where Miss Estelle Osbourne, the forty-something chief marketing officer of Parrish Footwear, is already seated with a glass of champagne in front of her. She looks regal in her lavender-gray chiffon evening gown, its sheer capped sleeves appliqued with silver lace—a sexy, yet sophisticated touch. I suddenly feel both underdressed and frumpy in my simple knee-length black sheath.
I read Miss Osbourne’s business profile online while studying up on her company for this dinner. After completing her Ivy League education, she landed a job with fashion giant Luxor Brands and has been climbing the corporate ladder ever since. She just took over Parrish’s esteemed head of marketing role last year, and so far she’s doing great things.
Talented, successful, beautiful, with keen business instincts . . . she’s exactly the kind of woman I strive to be. Which only makes the prospect of trying to impress her more nerve-racking.
“She got here early? Now it looks like we’re late,” I hiss under my breath.
“Relax, Snowflake,” Noah murmurs as he pulls out my chair for me.
Easy for him to say. How does he always stay so cool? I’m balanced on a knife’s edge of excitement and anxiety. Getting hold of this new client in the first place was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune. If we manage to charm this woman, her company’s contracts will go a long way toward digging us out of the red. Tate & Cane desperately needs this business dinner to come off without a hitch.
After everyone shakes hands and introduces themselves, Noah and I sit down. The waiter materializes with the wine list and three menus. I order the beef bourguignon and a glass of last year’s Beaujolais nouveau. Bring on the red wine.
The waiter departs and I take a sip of ice water to clear my dry throat. Don’t worry, you’ve got this.
“So, as I was saying earlier on the phone, Tate & Cane is currently implementing a solid plan for—”
“Oh, surely business can wait until after the main course.” Miss Osbourne, or Estelle, as she’s told us to call her, interrupts with a smile that says she’s clearly accustomed to getting her way. “How long have you two been together?”
“Uh . . .”
How the hell do I explain that we’re in the trial phase of an arranged marriage? We only started dating a few days ago, but in a sense, we’re sort of . . . pre-engaged? I should probably just make something up. And I have to do it fast because I’ve already paused for way too long. But I also have to make sure my lie won’t come back to bite us in the ass later.
“For as long as we can remember,” Noah says, smoothly covering the awkward silence. “Our fathers were close friends and business partners, so we spent most of our childhoods together. It was meant to be.”
“How sweet.” Estelle simpers, looking between us with curiosity.
“In fact, that reminds me of a story from when our families summered together . . .”
Oh God, here it comes. Noah deploys one of his secret weapons: a cute anecdote about how he once saved a puppy from drowning in Shinnecock Bay. It’s an old tale, wildly embellished over the years, guaranteed to make women fawn and panties disintegrate.
I start tuning it out in favor of concentrating on the fragrant food that just arrived. I’ll let Noah have his playtime for now. It’s probably a decent strategy to let our prospective client get a few drinks deep before pitching our business anyway.
Eventually, Noah finishes his story amid Estelle’s approving murmurs. I start listening again when he leans slightly toward her, his manner conspiratorial, as if he’s about to say something intimate and profound. But all he asks is, “Tell me . . . would you happen to be named after Estelle Carmen, the Hollywood designer?”
Estelle actually giggles. “You and I both know I’m too old for that to be true. She was only a girl when I was born. But I appreciate the attempt at flattery.”
“Really? I would have sworn otherwise.” He flashes her a thousand-watt grin.
“Stop it,” she says in a coy lilt that tells him to do no such thing. “But I’m surprised you know that name at all. Are you a student of fashion, Mr. Tate?”
“I’m always interested in what beautiful women are wearing . . . or not.”
“You ought to be more careful with that fresh mouth of yours,” she says, scolding him playfully.
What the hell is happening here? Did I suddenly turn invisible to them?
I shoot a glance at our waiter, who’s cleared the main course dishes and asked twice if we’d like dessert. He looks almost as irritated as I feel, which is both reassuring and terrifying.
At least I know I’m not just going crazy here, but I hate that Noah and Estelle’s antics are so visible. With the way they’re carrying on, anyone would assume they were old friends . . . or maybe even a couple. I’m the odd man out. My only companions are an empty wineglass and the first hints of an oncoming headache.
“Sorry about that,” I tell the waiter. “Yes, please go ahead and bring us the dessert menu. And the cocktail menu too. Thank you.” Gotta buy time to get this dinner back on track . . .
I seriously have no idea what’s going on. Noah and I reviewed our game plan at the office just a few hours ago—talk numbers, explain why Estelle should trust her company’s advertising campaigns to Tate & Cane, and get a commitment, even an informal one. But he’s gone totally off script.
They’ve covered a wide range of topics from their favorite sushi bar (they share the same one), to the best Vegas hotels, to last year’s dip in the stock market—which Parrish Footwear weathered quite well, thanks to Estelle’s forward thinking—but nothing to do with securing her business. No hard facts, no persuasive arguments, no recognition of the entire fucking reason we came here tonight.
So far, I haven’t managed to get out a single sentence of the sales pitch I spent three hours preparing. Not to mention that the way he’s flirting with her makes me want to puke. Aren’t we supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Because Noah sure as hell hasn’t been playing the part.
We can’t walk away tonight until we have a firm idea of whether or not Parrish is with us, which means I have a long damn way to go. And the first thing I need to do is have a word with my dear sweet boyfriend. Preferably someplace private, where our client can’t hear me ripping his balls off.
I check my phone, pretending that I heard it ding, then interrupt their lovefest with a plastered-on smile. “Honey, can I steal you away for a moment? My father just texted me with an important question.”
Without waiting for a response, I push out my chair and stand up, grabbing Noah’s hand. I drag him all the way to the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen’s swingin
g doors. A passing waiter gives us a curious look.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl, trying to keep my voice low despite burning with rage.
Noah blinks in surprise. Then a smug grin begins to dawn over his face. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of me paying attention to another woman. That’s so cute. Don’t worry, Snowflake. You’re the only girl I have eyes for.”
I correct him with barely restrained fury. “Don’t you dare try to flirt your way out of this one, you self-obsessed ass. I couldn’t give a damn about where your eyes go. I’m pissed because you’re making our relationship look like a joke, and I don’t appreciate being the punch line. You were practically licking the béarnaise sauce off her fingers!”
Another waiter passes by. This one looks amused. I don’t really blame him—we must look ridiculous, a pair of socialites dressed to the nines and feuding outside the kitchen.
I grind my teeth. I’m already humiliated and mad enough that everything just makes me feel worse.
Noah scoffs at me. “Oh, come on. It’s called networking. Greasing the wheels. She knows it’s nothing serious. I’ve done this kind of thing a million times.”
Why am I not surprised? “That hardly makes me feel better. And our waiter seemed confused as to who the couple was here, me and you or you and her.”
“Who gives a shit what he thinks? She’s the one holding the purse strings. She’s who we’re here to impress.”
“I’m asking you to give a shit what I think!”
He blinks. “What? Of course I—”
“No, you clearly don’t, because otherwise you’d be listening good and hard right now.”
He throws up his hands. “Okay, fine. I’m listening. Just explain what the problem is.”
I suck in a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm down enough to put my thoughts in order. “Let me spell it out for you. You’re the one who made such a big deal about putting on a good performance, keeping up appearances, making our relationship look real. And now you’re acting like the same manwhore you’ve always been. Except now, I’m here to catch your collateral damage, and it’s embarrassing. You disrespected me.”
