by Kendall Ryan
“Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”
I tug her up from her desk chair, allowing her a moment to slip her delicate feet back into her heels, then tow her from the office before she can argue.
“Where are you taking me?”
I grunt and mumble, “You’ll see.”
“Don’t be such a caveman; use your words.”
“We’re going to the mail room.”
She scoffs. “What on earth for?”
I don’t answer, just punch the button for the elevator. We cruise down to the basement floor of the building with an eerie silence hanging around us. When the doors open to the basement, I take a deep breath.
“Ahh . . . you smell that?” I grin at her.
Her mouth turns down into a frown. “Mildew?” Her gaze darts around the large open space stacked with boxes. “The health department would have a field day down here.”
This is my favorite place in the whole building, so I don’t take too kindly to Olivia turning up her nose at it. “Don’t be such a grouch. Come on.”
I lace my fingers with hers once again and tug her farther down the fluorescent-lit hallway. When we reach the mail room, I wonder for a moment if Rosita is on her break.
“Now, what is it that you wanted to show me?” Olivia raises her eyebrows and places one hand on her hip, obviously not impressed.
Wide shelves line all four walls. They’re numbered with the corresponding floors of the building and hold various envelopes and packages. It’s not a high-tech operation, but it gets the job done.
“Not what, but who.” I tip my chin toward the Latina cheerfully humming a tune to herself. Rosita’s back is to us as she sorts mail at the far end of the room.
“Rosita,” I call out.
She swivels around, clearly not expecting anyone, and her shoulder-length hair swings. A look of surprise is painted across her pleasant features, especially her large dark brown eyes, and a hint of pink comes to her round cheeks.
Rosita immigrated here from Mexico when she was just eighteen, taught herself English, and worked hard to support her growing family. Now, she’s a force to be reckoned with.
A company of this size usually employs a mail-room staff of three to four people. But Rosita said they’d just get in her way, so she runs the whole operation herself. She took ownership of both the position and the space, and made it hers—even hung cheery posters on the wall. One of a monkey dancing. Another of bright orange poppies.
“Mi amor!” she cries, already heading toward us. “Abrazo.” She opens her arms to me, expecting our customary hug.
“Gracias, Mamacita,” I reply, giving her a light squeeze.
It’s the same way she’s been greeting me for the past six years. I know about a whopping four words of Spanish, but I always use them with her. I want her to feel at home, I guess.
Coincidentally, Rosita and I started work here on the same day. We even attended orientation together. I was a fresh college grad, still wet behind the ears, and Rosita, fifteen years my elder, was skeptical about the owner’s son. Unlike Olivia, I haven’t worked here since I could walk. I had other jobs during college and made a point of interning at another firm so I could see how the competition worked.
When I met her, I thought Rosita might assume I was some rich, privileged punk who didn’t have to earn his paycheck. It made me all the more determined to prove her wrong. And Dad always was big on learning the ropes from the ground up, anyway. So for my first two weeks at Tate & Cane, I began working right alongside Rosita in the mail room.
It was during that time we cemented our relationship. We delivered packages and memos side by side, and shared jokes and stories. But when I really fell in love was when she shared her empanadas with me at lunch.
Rosita’s eyes widen slightly as they swing from mine to Olivia’s. “Miss Cane,” she says, her voice soft and quizzical. It’s not every day the CEO’s daughter wanders down to the mail room.
“Please, call me Olivia,” she says, correcting Rosita with a smile meant to ease. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Everyone at the company knows Olivia, even if they haven’t met.
“Did you . . . need something?” Rosita looks between me and Olivia again.
I shake my head. “Nope. Just came to say hello.”
Rosita’s posture relaxes and she smiles. “Did you get my invite for Maria’s birthday party?”
“Of course. Two weeks from Saturday, right? It’s already on my calendar.”
“Have you had lunch yet?” She smiles and reaches out to smooth one hand over my silk tie. “I worry, you know.”
I smile. “I’ve eaten. Thank you.”
Sometimes when I’m busy, I’ve been known to skip lunch—that is, until Rosita forces herself into my office with a sandwich from the deli down the street. It’s like she can sense when I’ve missed a meal. She often blurs the line between coworker, friend, and mother.
I’ve brought Olivia down here today because I want her to see there’s more to this company than what the numbers say. Some things can’t be learned from a spreadsheet. The perspective Olivia has perched in her corner office chair all day is quite different from the perspective one gets on the ground floor of this operation.
Standing here, looking into Rosita’s rich mahogany eyes and feeling the warmth and care that pours from her very soul, it’s impossible for us not to be aware of the importance of our responsibility. We can’t fail at this. If we fail, we take all these people down with us.
And I, for one, won’t let that happen.
After pleasantries are exchanged, Olivia and I head back toward the elevator.
“She’s important to you, isn’t she?” Olivia asks.
“Very.”
She nods, looking contemplative.
I check my watch as we step inside the elevator and let out a sigh. Olivia looks as overwhelmed as I feel. We’ve been under a mountain of stress lately, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get more intense.
“Today was unexpected,” I say. “Just like that, after weeks of negotiation, you’re actually going to consider this, huh?”
“I will do this on my terms, if and when I’m ready, Noah. Consider the next few weeks a trial period.”
“That will be easy, sweetheart.”
“Oh, it won’t be easy,” she says, correcting me. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Are you sure about that, Mrs. Tate?”
“I told you not to call me that, either.”
“I know. You told me to take you out for a drink before you’ll consider taking my name.” I smirk at her. “Which I think is an excellent fucking idea. Brilliant, in fact.”
I coax my first smile from her and feel like thumping my chest. Although I have a desk full of work to get back to, the idea of sitting across from Olivia and hearing her tell me about this supposed trial period sounds like a lot more fun. Time to push a little harder.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, you know.”
“We’ve had a lot going on. I think we could use a cocktail,” she says, amazing me that she actually agreed.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen?” I know she’ll never agree to leave without wrapping up the last of her e-mails.
“Sure.”
Then I watch her ass as she saunters away toward her office.
• • •
Once we’re seated at the elegant Stanton Room, a swanky bar across the street from our office building, Olivia and I place our order with the waitress—a vodka martini, extra dirty for her, and a Scotch on the rocks for me.
“Extra dirty, huh?” I wink at her.
“Surprised?” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips.
“That the straitlaced Olivia Cane likes it extra dirty? Why, yes, I am.”
“Don’t overthink it, Noah. I’d hate to see you burst a brain cell.”
I scowl at her. If there’s one thing Olivia and I do well, it’s banter. And
though she’d like to believe otherwise, sexual tension runs rampant just below the surface.
I lean in toward her, my elbows on the table. “So, how will all this work, exactly? Me and you? I just like to be clear on expectations so I can exceed them.”
Her gaze is cool. Not icy, at least, but still a long way from where I want her. “Well, I haven’t put a lot of thought into it yet, but you’ll have to win me over. Show me that this crazy thing could actually work.”
If there’s one thing I know about Olivia, it’s that she refuses to fail. Something tells me that with everything that’s on the line, Olivia needs to know I won’t fuck up and embarrass her as a husband. We have to work together, live together, and actually pull off this whole coupledom in a big way.
“So you said you want to date? I don’t date, Snowflake.”
“Winning over doesn’t necessarily mean dating.”
She takes a sip from her martini glass and sets it down with an inquisitive look on her delicate features. She may look like your average, sweet girl next door, but at her core, Olivia is a ballbuster. A total triple threat. Sexy, intelligent, and talented. Which is perfect, seeing as those are the qualities I always dreamed my future wife would possess. Well, those, along with a tight—
Olivia clears her throat, interrupting my train of thought. Fuck.
“Winning over means that we can be in the same room together without ripping each other’s throats out.”
I nod. “Okay, we’ll be civilized about it.”
“Fine,” she says. “And we should figure out what the hell we have in common.”
I think we already know what we have in common—and to my understanding, it’s a long list. But I’ll go by whatever definition she wants. I’ll win no matter what it is.
“Seeing as we have to put on a show, I agree. I should know a bit about my future fiancée,” I say. “For instance, your favorite sexual position . . .”
She coughs and sputters, choking on the olive in her drink. For a minute there, I think I’m going to have to perform the Heimlich maneuver, until she swallows the damn thing and glares at me.
“What does that have to do with anything?” she croaks out, her voice still hoarse.
I chuckle. “Settle down. I just want to know how to please my future wife, is all.”
“You can please me by buckling down and getting to work at the office instead of taking those three-martini lunches you favor.”
“Darling?” I blink at her. Since I’ve been told by more than one ex-girlfriend that my eyelashes are enviable, I’m hoping it has the exaggerated effect I’m going for. “We were supposed to be discussing what we have in common.”
“Right. Well . . .” She begins listing items on her fingers. “Summering in the Hamptons. Working at Tate & Cane, obviously. Our families are friends.”
“We both lost our mothers,” I point out.
Her gaze drops to the table in front of her, but I don’t feel bad. It’s just a fact of life, one we’ve discussed before, and I’d rather skip the superficial bullshit and get down to a real level.
“Yes. What else?” She drums her fingers on the table.
“I, for one, like anal. You?”
Damn it. Again with the choking. I stand and pat my future fiancée’s back until her airway clears.
“Another drink?” I ask, noticing that hers is now empty.
She looks flustered that she downed it so quickly, but signals to the waitress for another round.
“I know what I’m getting myself into, Noah. Besides, my focus is going to be on saving this company, not pretending to be the happy little wife to my fake husband.”
“Correction.” I lean closer. “Soon to be real husband. I’ll win you over, Snowflake. This will happen.”
Chapter Four
Olivia
Win me over, Noah says. Real husband.
There’s nothing real about this. He can call this trial period “dating” if he wants, but all I’m after is reassurance that we’ll mesh as co-CEOs. No need to confuse the issue with love or sex, no matter how dangerously attractive he is. I just have questions that need answers.
For instance, what made him take me to the mail room today? He practically dragged me downstairs. Whatever his reason, he thinks it’s important. Was he trying to give me a reality check, remind me that I’m not the only one with problems around here, so I should suck it up? Or was he just trying to show me his warm fuzzy side?
If the latter was his goal, it kind of worked. I have to admit that Rosita and Noah act adorable together. Almost like mother and son. The most stone-faced person on Earth would smile at their affection. And it’s not like I ever thought Noah lacked integrity or kindness, just the finer points of self-discipline. I have plenty of evidence to believe that getting closer to him won’t be so bad.
But while I can hazard guesses all day, I want to hear Noah’s explanation in his own words. And we’re overdue for a topic change anyway.
“Why did you introduce me to Rosita?” I ask.
“To show you what’s at stake.”
Despite fully anticipating it, his holier-than-thou tone still makes my lip curl. “As if I had no clue about the gravity of our situation. That’s the whole point of doing this trial period—to see how well we can play ball together before committing to a team-up. I’m doing my best to become friends with you, so . . .”
He tilts his head with a half smile. “Just friends? I’ve got my sights set a little higher.”
Gee, I never would have guessed, what with his constant attempts to steer the conversation toward sex.
I quirk one eyebrow in skepticism. “Friendship is all we need to pull this thing off. And we’re pretty much starting from square one . . . I would call us acquaintances, at best. Don’t you think you’re being a little overambitious?”
“Nope,” he replies, cocky smile still firmly in place.
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Your arrogance truly has no limits.”
“If I can put my money where my mouth is . . .” His lustful smirk makes it clear exactly where he’d like to put his mouth. “Then it’s not arrogance. Just confidence.”
“What makes you think I would want more with you, anyway? You aren’t exactly my type.”
I expect him to just give me a knowing look, or maybe toss back some mild innuendo. What I absolutely did not expect was, “Because I have a nine-inch cock.”
I almost choke on my martini for a third time. I splutter, “Is that number supposed to impress me?” Does he seriously expect me to believe that kind of porn-star bullshit?
“It’s the truth,” he purrs, leaning slightly closer. “And I know how to use it. Along with my tongue, my hands . . . just ask any woman I’ve been with.”
“Spare me the play-by-play. You’ve fucked half of New York City. I’m willing to believe that you learned something in the process.”
“First, I haven’t fucked half of New York. Believe it or not, I’m pretty discerning. Second, instead of hearsay, why not just see for yourself?”
I give him a skeptical look. “You want to show me your dick?”
“If it’ll help convince you.” He drains the last drops of his Scotch and stands up. “Come on, let’s go.”
I stare after him as he walks away.
Is he serious? He’s just going to whip it out? I look around to see if anyone is watching me, then I get up and follow him to the bar’s back hallway, near the restrooms, unable to comprehend why the hell I’m humoring him. This is ridiculous.
Once we’re safely in a private corner, Noah undoes his belt, opens his fly . . . and pulls out a fucking fire hose.
Holy mother of God. My hands fly to my mouth. I want to gasp in shock, but there’s no way I’m giving him the upper hand.
He was right. His cock is nothing short of massive, and it’s not even fully erect right now. Nine inches may actually be a conservative estimate of what it might look like hard. He must destroy men’s egos every time he wa
lks into a locker room. And I don’t even want to think about what he destroys with women . . .
“Meh. I’ve seen bigger,” I force out, fighting to maintain my composure.
Noah chuckles. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“Well, th-that monster is not coming anywhere near my uterus. No, thank you. I prefer to keep my organs intact.”
Noah’s grin widens. “I doubt that, but just to be on the safe side, I’ll ease it in nice and slow. Piece of cake. Plus, you’ve got good health insurance, right?”
“That is not funny, Noah. Now, put that thing away or I’ll remove it.”
I try to sound stern, but my shaking voice and bright red cheeks surely give me away. Why the hell can’t I stop staring?
He chuckles—yeah, the jerk can definitely see right through me—but he obliges, tucking the beast back into its lair.
I try to compose myself as we head back to the bar. Once seated, as coolly as I can, I say, “This doesn’t change my opinion, you know.”
“Really? Not at all?” He raises his eyebrows.
Of course, seeing his dick made an impression. How could it not? But I’ll be damned if I stroke his . . . ego any more than I already have.
“Look, this whole dating thing is just to prove that we can live and work together. You don’t need to go for extra credit.”
“But what if I want to?”
“Noah . . .”
“Would you at least be willing to try it? We could start super slow. Set strict limits. Like, say . . .” He waves his hand vaguely. “Nothing past first base.”
“A trial run within a trial run,” I say slowly, tasting the idea. I’m a little skeptical, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to fool around a little. I can always call game over if I’m feeling underwhelmed.
“Exactly. Just testing the waters. We can pretend we’re back in high school or something.”
I take a long sip of my drink, considering. Then I reply, “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Five
Noah
Game on.