“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 have 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?