by Kendall Ryan
She nods without hesitation.
That’s good. It means she’s beginning to trust me.
Maybe it’s a start.
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia
Our whole building buzzes with activity. Even with my office door closed, I can hear the constant low hum of conversation and quick footsteps and ringing phones. I like that white noise; it helps ease me into a productive groove, and it tells me just how many people are working hard alongside me.
Against all odds, we won a small contract from Parrish Footwear—more of a trial period than anything—and also managed to charm back an old client. But will it be enough? We don’t have time for any false steps.
And not everyone is making their best effort.
I refresh my in-box and frown. Damn it, Harrison still hasn’t sent me that expense summary. I asked him yesterday afternoon, and again when I came in at seven this morning. What the hell has he been doing all this time? That information is at his fingertips; it should have taken him maybe fifteen minutes to round it up.
I consider e-mailing him a third time, then decide against it. The time for nagging has passed. I want him to explain himself in person. Maybe Noah was right about him all along.
I speed-dial the accounting department and ask Harrison’s secretary to send him up. And while I wait for him to arrive, I have a very illuminating chat with her about his recent schedule.
He knocks at my door five minutes later. Harrison is in his twenties, and I’m sure many girls find attractive. But to me, he’s mostly just unremarkable. The kind of guy people pass on the street every day and don’t even remember. Good job. Modest good looks. Average intelligence. None of Noah’s wit or charm.
Wait, why am I thinking about Noah?
As Harrison enters, he closes my office door behind him. Can he tell that he’s about to get chewed out? Or does he just want privacy to make yet another pass at me?
“Hello, Olivia,” he says. “You look beautiful as always.”
I should have known. “Is there some reason why you still haven’t completed the work I asked you for yesterday?” I ask him in my frostiest tone.
He blinks. “I . . . had other things on my docket.”
“Ahead of a top-priority request from your CEO?”
“Top priority? I didn’t know it was that urgent.”
I click on my Sent Mail folder, turn my computer screen around to show Harrison our recent e-mail chain, and point at my last sentence.
“Can you read that aloud to me?”
He leans over to squint at the screen. Reluctantly, he recites, “Please send ASAP. I need this report to finish drafting our new budget before the board progress meeting on Thursday.”
Then his gaze flicks back to me. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to fulfill requests in the order they come in. First-come-first-served is the only fair way to—”
“If you can afford to come in late, take two-hour lunches, and leave early every day, you can afford fifteen minutes to send me a report that I’ve asked for twice.” I spin my screen back into position. “Given the company’s current crisis, most people at your level of management have been pulling overtime lately. I won’t ask you to do that, because I respect my employees’ private lives, but if you wish to continue drawing a full-time salary, you will put in full-time hours. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Ridgefield?”
His eyes wide, he licks his lips nervously. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
“And the next time you can’t finish something with the promptness I need, you should tell me so I can find someone who can. Don’t just let my messages sit unanswered in your in-box while I wonder what in the world is going on with your department.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. “I will. I’m sorry. You’ll get that report by the end of the day.”
I nod in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Before lunchtime, if you can.” And if you can’t, you’d better have a damn good excuse.
He turns and starts to walk away. But at the last second, with his hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back.
I quash a flash of irritation. Just go do your job and let me do mine.
“Um, speaking of lunch . . .” He rubs his neck sheepishly, as if some transparent aw shucks act will pacify me. “I feel bad about this misunderstanding. Let me take you out today to make up for it.”
I level a withering blank stare at him. “This is the fifty-fourth time you’ve invited me out to eat with you since we met. I’ve kept count. My answer has always been and will always be no. So instead of trying to distract me from your failures by hitting on me, I suggest you divert some of that energy into your work.”
He draws himself up, his hairy nostrils flaring. “Excuse me? Hitting on you? You can’t just go around flinging accusations like that. Sexual harassment is a serious—”
“I can do whatever the hell I deem necessary,” I snap. “I’ve tolerated your excuses for long enough. This company is teetering on the edge, and if we want to have any chance of pulling it back, I need to see some serious hustle.”
I lock eyes with Harrison, daring him to challenge me. He needs to understand that I’m not just the boss’s daughter anymore—let alone some naive intern whose blouse he can peer down while he pretends to help her.
“But if you’re not interested in helping me save your job, then by all means, keep testing my patience.”
Our staring contest lasts for almost twenty seconds. Finally, his deep brown gaze falters. He looks confused and more than a little pissed, but I think I managed to put the fear of God into him. Then again, only time will tell if he really got the message.
I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he’s gone. My first time bringing down the hammer on an employee went about as well as it could have. But the encounter has still left me irritable and thrown off-kilter.
With my blood pressure already up, I suppress a huff when I see a fresh message in my e-mail in-box. It’s Camryn, as the newly minted head of Tate & Cane’s newly minted social media team, offering her “top ten picks” for training consultants to hire.
I’ve never heard of this project. If I had, I would have wanted to be in charge of it. How are they already at the short-list stage? And why is this coming in ahead of the expense estimation that I actually asked for?
Does the universe just not want me to finish this budget today?
Wait a minute . . . maybe I do have an inkling of what this is about. Noah and I revisited the subject of social media training a couple days ago, but I didn’t think we actually made a firm decision about anything. That discussion was just brainstorming . . . right? Evidently he didn’t see it that way.
I call Noah’s secretary, only to be reminded that he’s out at some executive brunch trying to woo back some more old clients. Too impatient to wait, I call his personal cell instead.
It rings six times before Noah answers dryly, “Yes, dear?” I can hear car engines and rushing wind in the background; he must be on his way back already.
“Since when was Camryn’s team researching consultants?” I ask.
“Since we needed to hire some. And since her team is, last time I checked, in charge of social media concerns.”
“You know what I mean. Why did you give her the go-ahead on a project that we never finished talking about? Why was this prioritized over my other tasks? And why is she managing it instead of me?”
Noah makes an incredulous noise that sounds way too much like a chortle. “Are you serious? You wanted to be a talent scout?”
“Why not? It’s an important decision. Why are you laughing at me?”
He sighs into the phone with a rush of static. “Let me ask you something. Do you think Camryn is an idiot?”
“Of course not.” I gasp. “How could you even say that? She’s my best friend.”
“Because you don’t seem to have very much faith in her competence. For Christ’s sake, Olivia, learn to delegate. Your time is so much more valuable than this. Either you or I hav
e to sign off on the final decision anyway, so what’s the harm?”
“Dad always taught me that the best way to get something done right is to do it yourself.”
Another disbelieving noise, this one more like an outright scoff. “Amazing. You’re such a control freak.”
“I wouldn’t have to be if I could trust people to keep me in the loop!” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m being irrational, but I’ve temporarily lost my ability to care.
“Just calm d—” Someone blasts their horn and Noah swears under his breath. “Look, I can’t really talk now. I’ll be back in ten minutes and we can discuss this.”
He hangs up. I drop the phone back in its cradle and massage my forehead. Christ, I don’t know how much more disorganization I can take in one day. This clusterfuck is going to give me an ulcer.
After a few minutes of trying to settle down, I give up and push back my chair. Hopefully a little walk and a change of scenery will help.
I head for the cooler near the front desk and pour myself a cup of ice-cold water. A huge, silvery bubble rises through the tank with a loud bloop. Not for the first time, I wonder how dispensing such a small amount of liquid creates such a big bubble.
My time is almost up, and I’m still no closer to knowing for sure if Noah and I will actually work as a married couple. Sure, we’ve shared some sweet moments, and some smoking-hot ones too.
There were a few of both at Maria’s birthday party this weekend. At first, I’d felt like I was intruding on their private family gathering. I hadn’t exactly been invited, after all. I was just Noah’s girlfriend—and who brings a date to a kid’s party, anyway?
But Noah was so reassuring, and everyone welcomed me with open arms. Some of Noah’s charisma must have rubbed off on me. Although I could have done without Rosita’s little congratulatory winks.
Once again, I was reminded of a mother doting proudly on her son. Noah was definitely part of her family. He made a point of catching up with everyone at the party, not just the general “how’s work?” kind of icebreaker, but specific questions like “Is your cousin out of his leg cast yet?” or “Did you get that promotion you were planning to ask for?” He obviously tries hard to remember the details of their lives.
But maybe that isn’t so surprising. Even though Noah can be self-absorbed sometimes, he’s a real people person. That gift of gab sometimes makes me jealous . . . when it doesn’t sweep me off my feet like everyone else he interacts with. He’s always so comfortable in his own skin, so at home in any situation. He looked just as natural in shorts and a silly paper hat, roughhousing with kids in a muddy backyard, as he does in a three-piece bespoke suit at an executive luncheon.
Watching him laugh that day . . . it’s definitely persuaded me to let him get closer.
Okay, so Noah is a decent man. A pretty great one, even. But does that mean I have to let go of my dream of falling madly in love someday?
What I need is a sign.
I let my gaze drift across the reception area as I drink my water. The front door swings open, and for a second, I think Noah must have made it back in record time.
Then I recognize the man and I almost choke. Oh no. No, no, no . . .
My stomach clenches as every nerve lights up with a fight-or-flight impulse. I can’t even tell if I’m terrified or furious—this feeling is just raw, undifferentiated adrenaline.
It’s Bradford Daniels, my ex-boyfriend from hell, standing just a few yards away. What the fuck is he doing here? I thought I was done with him forever. I thought I’d escaped. But now he’s in my building, my sanctuary, and I had no warning at all and I’m not ready.
Stunned, my heart hammering in my chest, I watch him like a deer in the headlights as he checks in at the front desk. He leans close to the receptionist. I can’t hear what he says, but I can guess by his flirtatious smile and her answering giggle.
It’s not her fault. Brad’s handsome face and country-club manners once tricked me too. She can’t know any better. Can’t see the slimy soul hiding underneath.
I started dating Brad in college because he was hot, he came from a prestigious family, and he was the first guy I’ve ever met who shared my hard-driving ambition. But I discovered too late that his competitive spirit was untempered by any sense of fair play. All the privilege he was born into, as staggering as it was, still didn’t satisfy him. He felt entitled to more—by any means necessary.
His father was the only person he felt true loyalty to. Everyone else in the world existed to use for his own benefit. And what made him really dangerous was his ability to disguise his predatory selfishness. He blatantly used his inferiors because he knew he could get away with it, but he sucked up to his superiors and manipulated his peers so skillfully that nobody with any power to stop him ever caught on to his games.
I still hate to admit just how long I let Brad use me. He had me convinced that he was trying his best to love me and I was the one being “difficult.” I clung to the scraps of affection he rationed out when and only when he wanted something from me.
It took me over two years to realize that Brad—not my “difficult” personality, not the stress from my classes and internships and club duties—was the reason I was so miserable all the time. It took another six months for me to do something about that revelation. I broke up with him at our graduation ceremony so I’d never have to see him again.
Or so I thought.
Brad turns and spots me. Noticing my appalled stare, he gives me a sarcastic little wave.
Rage wins out over panic. My paralysis shatters. After spiking my paper cup into the trash can, I charge over to him like a mother wolf defending my den.
“Get out,” I growl.
The receptionist blinks, startled by my unbridled hatred.
Brad, of course, doesn’t look at all surprised. He knows exactly how I feel about him—and why. But he’ll never pass up an opportunity to make me look like a crazy bitch.
“What, not even a hello?” he asks, feigning hurt.
Too bad I don’t care how I look. Everyone in this building is loyal to my family; I can afford to deal with Brad first and explain myself later.
“You don’t deserve one. Leave now.”
He looks down his nose with a condescending smile. “Oversensitive as always . . . how unprofessional. I have a right to be here. My father’s in the market to acquire a new subsidiary, so I’m here to pay your board a visit.”
“This company still belongs to the Tate and Cane families. You can’t buy a single brick in our building yet, and until that day comes, you’re just snooping around. Wait your turn like everybody else.” It’s bad enough that WBB was allowed in . . . and I don’t have a gory personal history with them.
His sneer deepens into overt disdain. “You can’t treat me like this. I was invited here.”
“And I have the power to un-invite you. So you can slink right back to your corner office and crawl into Daddy’s lap like you always do.”
Brad’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. He snarls, “You dried-up bitch—!”
I scoff audibly. If I ever was dried up, whose fault does Brad think that was? He should have looked up foreplay in a dictionary sometime.
With a twinge of childish satisfaction, I note that the receptionist is now staring in shock at Brad instead of me. Then I’m filled with shame at my pettiness. This is what Brad reduces me to. One minute in his presence, and I’ve stooped to his level. As if the years since our breakup never happened.
At my derisive noise, Brad pulls his features back into haughty coolness, under the cover of straightening his tie. I remember—all too well—his insecure need to maintain control at all times, even if it’s only the appearance of control.
“You might want to be a lot more careful about how you speak to me, Olivia.”
The obvious threat spooks me a little. But I can’t let him know how much his venomous voice still affects me. I force a laugh, knowing that will drive him ape-
shit.
“Or what? You’ll bore me to death?”
To my surprise, his smirk doesn’t slip an inch. “Trust me. It’s in your best interests to cooperate with my company.”
Does he actually have something up his sleeve? On the one hand, I don’t want to get drawn into his mind games. On the other . . . my curiosity is piqued.
But before I can decide whether to venture a question, the front door opens and Noah comes in. He stops midstride, looking back and forth between us, obviously sensing something rotten in the air.
“What’s going on here?” he demands.
“Nothing,” Brad replies before I can explain anything, his tone light and his smile polite. “Just talking shop.”
“Oh, really? Is that why I could hear a man yelling all the way from the elevator?”
Brad’s smile instantly drops. “Who are you?” he asks, as if Noah were the one intruding.
“I’m Noah Tate. Olivia’s fiancé and co-CEO. Now, who the hell are you?”
I mentally roll my eyes a little at Noah’s lack of subtlety. Especially the way he said fiancé instead of boyfriend. But mostly, I’m just relieved to have some backup, no matter how silly his testosterone-fueled territorial display is.
Brad stares Noah down for a moment, obviously not wanting to roll over and acknowledge his authority too fast. Finally, he replies, “Bradford Daniels. Vice president of Daniels Multimedia Enterprises.”
“And he was just leaving,” I interrupt.
I see a muscle twitch in Brad’s jaw, but he continues talking to Noah as if I never said a word.
“I’ve heard of you, Noah. The late Bill Tate’s son. You two seem to have hooked up right before news of Tate & Cane’s . . . difficulties got out.”
Noah’s next words echo my thoughts. “Are you implying something?”
“Not at all. Just commenting on a stroke of bad luck.” Brad drops his voice to a conspiratorial mutter—although it’s certainly not low enough to stop me from hearing every insult. “In more ways than one. Between you and me, my friend, I don’t envy you. She’s about as exciting as a wet towel in bed.”
