Hitched Volume 1 (Imperfect Love Book #1)

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 flow 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.”