“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.

Noah pours the two flutes full, then raises his with a deliberately overdramatic flourish. “To Tate & Cane Enterprises, may you rise again. And to Snowflake, my brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous wife who’s going to pull our asses out of the red.”

My cheeks flush a little. I clink my glass against his, trying to hide my smile. “I thought this toast was going to be about business.”

He chuckles. “But you’re so cute when you’re flattered, Snowflake.”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit,” I mutter. But he’s totally right. He does get me flustered easily. I take my first sip of champagne, then add, “Thanks, Noah.”

He looks up with a devilish grin. “It’s our wedding night. Not even a kiss? What happened to first base?” The tip of his tongue traces slowly over his full lips, bringing mental images that are a lot more explicit than just kissing.

Dammit, I’m staring at his mouth. “S-stop screwing around and help me work,” I snap.

• • •

Early the next morning, I wake up in my desk chair with a nagging headache and keyboard prints on my cheek. I sit up with a pained groan—my spine did not like being hunched over my desk for six hours. I can practically hear it creak.

Something soft and heavy slides off my back. I look around, confused, and see a blanket pooled on the floor behind me. I definitely didn’t do that. If I was lucid enough to get a blanket last night, I would have been aware enough to stop working and get to bed before I fell asleep. Noah must have covered me up.

And where is he, anyway?

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stand and look around. I’m disappointed to see no sign of him. I guess he slept in the master bedroom after it became clear that I wouldn’t be touching his dick.

Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I can speed through my morning routine without any interruptions and get to the airport with plenty of time.

When I arrive downstairs in the kitchen, Noah is at the stove, frying up half a dozen eggs over easy. I have a flash of déjà vu back to our first morning in our new penthouse apartment. Although he’s wearing a shirt this time . . . too bad. He wears the bed-head look well.

Who am I kidding? The sexy jerk wears everything well.

“Have a nice wedding night?” he asks without turning around, sounding amused. Teasing me yet again.

I guess this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life. I comment breezily, “Well, there was this one asshole who kept hanging around while I was trying to work . . .”

“Sounds like a problem. Maybe I should have a word with him after we eat.”

I walk over and stop behind him. I hesitate, then loop my arms around his firm waist, resting my cheek on the base of his neck. His movements pause for a second; he obviously wasn’t expecting that.

“Hey,” I murmur. “I wanted to thank you again. For helping me handle Brad.” As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know what I would have done without Noah. “And for . . . I don’t know. Everything. Putting up with all my shit.” I tend to get a little bat-shit crazy when it comes to work.

His chuckle rumbles through his back and into my chest. “Don’t be silly, Snowflake. What else are husbands for?”

Gratitude washes through me. I breathe deeply, inhaling his clean, faintly spicy scent, and sigh it out into his hair. That was so easy. Everything about being with Noah is so much easier than I ever thought a relationship could be. Although I admit I don’t have the best examples to work from. Noah has seen me at my worst and yet he’s still here, cooking me breakfast, letting me hold him. Forgiving me like it’s nothing.

For a moment, I just indulge in this atmosphere of warm, calm security. Then I reluctantly peel myself off my new husband’s back and start preparing our coffee and tea.

We take our breakfast outside to eat on the front porch while watching the sailboats bobbing in the harbor. I meant to enjoy the view, but only about ten minutes pass before we’re deep in shop talk. Noah floats several new ideas for our proposal that I wish I’d thought of. I make a mental note to add them to our draft while we’re in the air.

In the air. Wait a minute. I squint through the window to check the kitchen’s wall clock—and then I jump up from the patio table.

“Shit, we’re going to miss our plane!”

Noah shrugs, taking another leisurely sip of his tea. “No big deal. We can always catch the next one.”

My withering look says it all.

“All right, all right.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Back to the grindstone.”

• • •

We arrive back at the Tate & Cane building after lunchtime. My empty stomach feels tight as I walk down its halls. I’m almost certainly being paranoid, but it feels like I’m doing a walk of shame. Like everyone knows that last night was my wedding night. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t even fuck Noah—everyone must assume I did, right?