Hitched: Volume Two Page 3

  But when we enter his corner office, Bradford looks like he was expecting us all along, with a smug grin stretched across his face.

  “What, no pack of hungry lawyers? I figured that’s where this was headed.” Smirking like he’s already won, Brad rises from his desk.

  His office is furnished in a traditional style—a large free-standing mahogany desk facing the door, rows of bookshelves holding volumes of textbooks. A framed photograph of a rabbit hanging on the wall. Okay, that last thing is weird . . .

  I stand my ground, gazing steadily at Brad, letting him know that his bullshit posturing doesn’t intimidate me one bit. “We could come in here and threaten to sue your ass off, but we both know that would give you exactly the satisfaction you’re looking for—a court battle, a media circus, Olivia’s name dragged through the mud.”

  Brad’s eyes narrow. “The mud? I think that’s a bit optimistic. Olivia’s name would mean nothing by the time I’m done with her.”

  Olivia shifts next to me. Her flinch is subtle, not enough for Brad to see, but I feel it. I reach over and take her hand.

  “Anyway, we’re not here to sue you,” I continue. “We just thought we’d pay a visit to catch up. How’s your old college buddy? What was his name . . . ?” I tap my lips, pretending to think. “Franklin Ashby?”

  “How do you know him?” Brad responds just a little too quickly. His eyes dart from mine to Olivia’s, and his brow pinches unattractively.

  Geez, what did she ever see in this pencil dick?

  “Oh, come on,” Olivia chimes in. “You two were roommates all through undergrad. Always bro-ing it up. Did you forget I was your girlfriend then?”

  While we were strategizing last night, inspiration struck me when Olivia mentioned the name of Brad’s college roommate. A name that I’d heard before, floating around New York’s elite social circles. It only took a few quick phone calls to confirm everything.

  But even though Olivia gave me this whole idea, the last thing we need right now is a verbal firefight between the two of them. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened when he called her, and it got her nowhere. (Although it didn’t exactly get Brad anywhere either.)

  So I wave my hand in Olivia’s direction to stop her. Just let me do the talking for a little longer, baby.

  I start explaining to Brad exactly how screwed he is. “About six months ago, just before his company’s big announcement, your friend Ashby exercised his stock options and purchased almost a quarter million shares. He made a killing.” I rub my chin. “Funny, I seem to remember you doing pretty well too. Your stock trades even went through in the same week. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

  “How do you know that?” Too late, Brad tries to recover. “I mean, what are you implying?”

  “To answer your first question, Frank likes to brag when he’s got a few drinks in him,” I reply with a cheerful shrug. “And to your second question, insider trading.”

  The color drains from Brad’s face. “You have no proof!”

  I suppress a triumphant grin. “Maybe not right now. But the private investigator I hired to sift through the stock trade records for Frank’s company and verify the personal connection between you two?” I suck my teeth with a loud tsking noise. “Within a few days, he’ll have enough evidence for probable cause. And then you can explain to the SEC why you and Frank both purchased so many shares with such convenient timing.”

  That last part isn’t strictly accurate. We haven’t had time to hire a PI yet, although we can get one fast if we have to. But the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is whether my bluff is convincing enough to get under Brad’s skin. And judging by his reaction . . .

  Brad’s mouth opens and closes a few times.

  Yeah, I’d say I’ve hit the nail on the head. I take the moment to enjoy the sight—the haughty heir of Daniels Media doing his best impression of a fish out of water.

  “Th-this is a total crock of shit and you know it,” he finally huffs out, placing a hand on his desk to lean in closer. “You both know I have you bent over, ready to take it, and this is how you’re fighting back? Pathetic.”

  “You want to know what’s pathetic?” I step closer to the asshat. Not because I particularly relish being near him, but because my six-foot-two-inch frame towers over his, what, five foot nine? It’s bound to be intimidating. “The fact that Olivia here trusted you with pictures of her two gorgeous lemon-meringue pies and peach cobbler, and you, like the soulless weasel you are, tried to betray that trust in the worst possible way. Nothing gets me more livid than men who lack respect for women.”

  “Peach cobbler?” Brad asks.

  When Olivia shoots me a strange look, I press on. “Yes, you know—her love box, her pink clam, her honey pot.”

  They’re both looking at me with puzzled expressions.

  I turn up my palms in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Her pickle jar.”

  A giggle tumbles from Olivia’s lips.

  God, I love putting a smile on that woman’s face.

  Feigning a sudden realization, Olivia raises her finger, lips parting in pleasant surprise. “Oh, Noah! That reminds me of something.”

  “Yes, dear?” I ask, playing along.

  “There’s more.”

  “More? Do tell, Snowflake.”

  “I just remembered that one time, when Brad was asleep, I snapped a picture of his little pickle.”

  Brad lets out a strangled noise.

  Pretending not to notice—even though I’m struggling to keep a straight face—I raise my eyebrows at Olivia. “How little are we talking here?”

  “Tiny. More like a miniature dill. A gherkin.” She grins, knowing we’re on a roll.

  I let myself chuckle, the tense mood evaporating almost all at once. I have no idea if she’s telling the truth, but we have this jackass right where we want him.

  “No way! She doesn’t have a picture of me,” Brad stammers.

  “Oh, but I do.” She grins again. “It’s such a teensy little thing, it almost slipped my memory.”

  I pat him on the back. “Tough luck, buddy, getting stuck with such a short straw. You’re an eligible bachelor, right? You wouldn’t want half of New York seeing that little dick of yours, would you?”

  He purses his mouth. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” I pat him on the back again because, somehow, this meeting has turned into us saving the pompous Bradford Daniels from a public embarrassment so great, he’d never outrun it.

  Olivia steps forward, her shoulders thrust back. “Then you will delete every copy, so help me God, on every device, anywhere that they exist.”

  Brad nods in agreement, looking defeated.

  “And,” I add, “you’re going to sign this.” I push a thin sheaf of papers across his desk. Olivia and I have already signed the last page.

  “What the hell is it?” Brad grumbles wearily.

  “A confession. Where we all agree, in writing, that you committed insider trading and attempted to extort Olivia into selling T&C . . . and in return for you not releasing her photos, we won’t report any of your crimes. So if a single pic ever shows up online, consider this document your one-way ticket to federal prison.” I give him a tight, humorless smile. “But as long as none of Olivia’s nudes ever see the light of day, neither does your confession. What do you say?”

  Brad swallows and his head bobs again. “Fine. Just get out.”

  He flips to the final page, scribbles his signature in a series of quick, angry slashes, and shoves it back into my hand.

  Only once we’re outside the ominous steel-and-glass building does Olivia give a little victory shout.

  “You were incredible back there.” Her eyes are alight with triumph, and her voice is almost giddy.

  “You weren’t so bad yourself,” I reply with a grin. Counter-blackmail? I didn’t know she had it in her.

  “Seriously, did you see the look on his face when he thought the women of New Yo
rk were going to find out about his teeny weenie? It was classic!” She giggles again.

  “Do you really have a photo of it?”

  She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Nope. I was totally bluffing.” In a stage whisper she adds, “It wasn’t photo worthy.”

  I laugh out loud. Brilliant—that’s just icing on the cake. I want to tease her by saying I’m so proud. But that feels weird for some reason, so I settle for, “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  Buoyant with victory, we stroll along the sidewalk back toward the car.

  “Noah?” she asks after a few minutes.

  “Yeah, Snowflake?”

  “Thank you for helping me. And for not judging me for sending those photos in the first place.”

  “Hey, the only thing I cared about was putting that asshole in his place. I’d never judge a woman for sexting her boyfriend.”

  “Still, you dropped everything to help me. After I just . . . ran.”

  The urge to reach out, to lace our fingers together or put my hand on her waist or just touch her in some small way, flares up inside me. But I don’t. Not yet. With all the commotion Brad’s blackmailing caused, I still don’t quite know where Olivia and I stand. She did run out on our wedding instead of including me in her personal drama. And she still hasn’t said a peep about the contract. Even if this victory is pretty fucking incredible, I’m not ready to celebrate yet. I need answers.

  “Should we head back to the office?” Olivia checks her phone, and the time shows just after eleven.

  “Not yet. Let’s go get lunch.”

  “Good idea.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re seated at a Mediterranean restaurant that’s just around the corner from our office, sipping iced tea and munching on hummus and warm pita bread.

  “God, the look on his face . . .” Olivia chuckles again. “I won’t forget that anytime soon. Thank you for today. For everything.”

  I nod. “It was nothing.” Just connecting a few dots.

  “And for what it’s worth, I am so sorry about leaving you high and dry at the beach.”

  I tense my jaw. Do I wish she would have trusted me with this information and let me help from the start? Sure. But I’ve never been in Olivia’s shoes, and I can’t judge her decision. I have no idea how I’d feel if my ex was threatening to expose me—literally—if I didn’t cut her into my company. Shit, I’m almost as hard-headed as Olivia; I probably would have wanted to handle it alone too. But there’s still something bugging me.

  “About that . . . is the blackmail the only reason you ran away?”

  Her eyes lift to mine. “Of course. I told you I was ready to tie the knot, and I meant that.”

  I nod. I almost ask her how she feels about marrying me, specifically. But at the last second, I decide I’m not ready to hear the answer to that loaded question. I need to remember that we’re both doing this out of necessity.

  I have responsibilities, mountains of obligations. The fear of failure is reason enough to stay the course.

  Chapter Four

  Olivia

  I expected to be nervous again. And I am, but just a little—not nearly so bad as before. Even though my palms are sweating like crazy, my heart beats steady and my stomach is calm. I almost feel like I’m floating as Noah and I stand once again before the justice of the peace.

  She recites our wedding vows over the hushed lapping of the ocean waves, the mewing cries of seagulls, the occasional clang of buoys and ship’s bells. Our two rows of guests watch from their folding chairs on the beach. And the whole thing just feels right in a way it didn’t before. As if some invisible puzzle piece has clicked into place. My doubts have finally worn themselves away, leaving me light and free.

  The judge presents our marriage license and the inheritance contract, all filled out except for the final signature line. Noah signs first, then me, my pen gliding over the paper as easily as the distant sailboats glide through the water. Finally, after all our false starts, our two signatures sit side by side.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” says the judge with a smile.

  The guests applaud and laugh as Noah pulls me close. I grin against his mouth, a warm light blooming in my chest. It suddenly strikes me that Noah has always been there for me. And not just lately, like with Brad—when we were growing up too. He’s been a constant in my life ever since we were toddlers. Playful, sometimes irritating, always magnetic, never far out of reach.

  Noah has done so much for my sake, especially in the past month. He’s gone so far out of his way. The thought of how deeply he must care about me is both giddy and humbling. I’m still not sure about the romance and sex parts of being married, but our friendship is beyond doubt. We’re a team. Ready to face whatever the future holds.

  But as right as it feels to be here with Noah, the fact of our marriage is still staggering. Holy shit, I’m a wife now. I need some quiet time alone to let this sink in.

  When the informal reception is over and everyone starts throwing away their paper plates and gathering their purses and jackets for the trip back to the city, I breathe a sigh of relief. I say good-bye to Dad, Camryn, and the rest of the guests, then retreat to the quiet of my family’s summer cottage.

  Grabbing my laptop bag, I head to my old bedroom. Its desk is more than a little cramped now that I’m an adult. But this house is too small for a separate study, and I’d rather be in my own space than the master bedroom right now. I don’t want to give Noah any funny ideas about sharing a bed on our wedding night.

  I push up the window to let in the ocean breeze, fold myself into my undersized desk chair, and open my laptop, ready to immerse myself in work.

  But my peaceful solitude doesn’t last long. Footsteps approach from down the hall and stop on my threshold.

  “What are you doing here?” Noah’s voice asks behind me.

  Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I reply flatly, “This is my room.”

  Noah points at my laptop like it’s an angry rattlesnake. “No, I mean what are you doing with that thing?”

  “Strategic analysis.” As should be obvious from my spreadsheet-covered screen.

  He frowns. “Right now? After we just got married?”

  “What else would I do?” My tone has cooled, daring him to contradict me. I know damn well what’s on his mind, but there’s no way I’m even putting that suggestion on the table. He’s a big boy—he can use his own words. Not that begging will get him anywhere.

  Noah comes inside to sit on the bed, facing me. “I know you’re a workaholic, Snowflake, but this is ridiculous. We can afford to take our wedding night off.”

  “Can we? After all the time and money I’ve wasted . . .”

  I bite my lip, still ashamed of what happened on our first attempt at a wedding. And while seeing Brad cut down to size was insanely satisfying, the attorney who drafted that agreement wasn’t cheap. Tate & Cane’s pockets are a lot shallower than they used to be.

  Noah reaches out to gently cup my chin. “Hey. You didn’t waste anything—you didn’t cause any of this. It was that asshole who decided to mess with you. And we had to stop him, because nobody hurts my girl and gets away with it.” He raises his eyebrows at me for emphasis. “So don’t you dare blame yourself.”

  Taken aback, I can’t help a small smile. He always defends me . . . even against myself. Noah’s earnest words mean so much. Almost too much.

  “Okay, fair enough. I’ll try to lay off the self-hate. Still, we have to get back on schedule.”

  “We should at least spend tonight together,” he insists.

  I roll my eyes, still smiling. “Jesus, you’re relentless. Fine. Then I hope you brought your laptop too, because this business plan isn’t going to write itself.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “since I assumed we’d be on vacation. I’ll just have to read over your shoulder.”

  He leaves and brings back a wooden chair from the kitchen, pushes it
next to mine, and sits down. Close enough for me to feel his body’s distracting warmth.

  He occasionally reaches out and touches me—little brushes against my wrist, his hand at the small of my back, making me hyper-aware of him and his distinct maleness. My heart riots with each movement.

  This is what I’ve been trying to avoid all along—the seeds of hope blooming in my chest. I need to stamp those feelings out now because I know what Noah’s doing. He’s putting on a brace front and trying to make the best of our situation. It’s only a matter of time before this whole charade comes crashing down around us, leaving my heart in tatters.

  My real happily-ever-after is out there, somewhere. And when we right the proverbial ship that is Tate & Cane Enterprises, I’ll be able to think about things like getting our marriage annulled and moving on, but until then, it’s heads down.

  “So, what are your thoughts so far?” Noah asks in a low tone that sounds way too intimate for staring at a bunch of financial graphs.

  Trying to ignore his intense gaze, I start explaining my arguments for how we should structure our plan of attack.

  We collaborate late into the night. At some point, a bottle of champagne appears on the desk at my elbow. I don’t know how—I was too absorbed in work to notice Noah moving. All I know is that when I turn my head, I see a foil-topped green bottle and two glasses that weren’t there before.

  Immediately I say, “I’m not going to get drunk with you.” I can’t afford to let my guard down, only to find my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor come morning and a delicious ache present between my thighs. Even if I might want to. No, Olivia. I silently scold myself. Bad pussy.

  “Who said anything about getting drunk?” Noah replies breezily. “I just thought it might be nice to have a drink while we work. Sure, we’re both very busy people, but we still just got married. Let’s celebrate the imminent revival of Tate & Cane.”

  The idea is surprisingly tempting. I make a thoughtful noise . . . then give in. “Fair enough. But just one drink.” Maybe a little bubbly buzz will help me be more creative. Plus this man is just damn hard to say no to.