I set my jaw as I walk a little faster. Remembering that dinner still pisses me off way more than it should. It’s not like Noah is really my husband. Hell, I never wanted him to be “mine” at all, in any sense of the word.

At least, I didn’t want that a month ago. Maybe even two weeks ago. But now, maybe . . . I think I might. God, I don’t even know. My feelings have gotten so complicated lately. I think of Noah’s mischievous smile, his low, smooth voice saying my name . . .

Then I push those thoughts right out of my head. We are professionals. I’m a professional. Our job is to get our company through this quagmire. That one single problem is what we’ll eat, sleep, and breathe until we convince the board to reverse their decision about selling Tate & Cane. We have no room for emotions or desires.

Maybe Noah is right about me being an ice queen sometimes. But right now, with over six thousand futures hanging in the balance, that’s so much safer than being human. I just need to maintain my focus and composure, and pray that we’ll get through this.

Chapter Five

Noah

When Sterling texted me asking how the wedding night went, rather than answer, I asked him to meet me for lunch.

My best friend has a way with the fairer sex, and I’m hopeful he has some advice for me about how to proceed after my less-than-stellar wedding night. It wasn’t that I expected Olivia to drop to her knees and service me, or spread her legs in our marital bed, but a good-night kiss would have been nice. Sheesh.

“That bad, eh?” Sterling asks when I slide into the chair across from him.

“The wedding night? A fucking disaster.”

He doesn’t have to reply because his eyes say it all. In those honey-colored depths fringed in dark lashes that women go nuts over—the lucky bastard—is a mixture of pity and curiosity. But he says, “Tell your good mate all about it,” leaning back in his seat with his fingers laced behind his head.

Thankfully I’m saved from his Dr. Phil-style self-help entertainment with the approach of our waitress.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” she asks.

When I asked Sterling to lunch, he agreed on the condition that we go to his favorite British-style pub. Despite having English blood pumping through my veins, I despise the food. Sterling was born and raised in the countryside outside of London. He still has a taste for it—reminds him of his youth, I guess.

He places an order for the ploughman’s lunch, and I choose the least noxious thing I can find on the menu—fish and chips. Tea is the one thing we can agree on.

When the waitress saunters away, he’s back to smirking at me expectantly. “So, do tell. How’s the wifey?”

If he bats those fucking eyelashes at me one more time, like we’re having girl talk, I’m going to slug the son of a bitch.

“At least let me get my tea before you badger me,” I mutter.

The waitress delivers a little porcelain kettle with piping-hot brew. It reminds me of the one I have at home. I think of Olivia and something inside me pinches. She tapped away on her keyboard until late last night; whether she was determined to get her thoughts on paper or to keep her distance from me, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m not trying to badger you,” Sterling says with a sigh. “Just wondering what’s the problem. I take it the wedding night wasn’t all you dreamed it might be?”

“You could say that.” I take a sip of my tea and find it’s the perfect temperature.

“Is she still as icy as ever, or is she warming to you?”

“We spent all night going over a new business plan,” I say.

“Christ on a cracker. The woman is a ballbuster.”

“Tell me about it.”

It’s true that Olivia is relentless in her pursuit of perfection. She’s smart and determined, and she never wavers in confidence. It’s sexy as hell. Frustrating. But admirable.

Nothing fazes the woman. She’s smart as a whip, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I’ve never once seen her back down from a challenge. What I have seen is her effortlessly dominating executive meetings filled with industry veterans—men old enough to be her grandfather, who were in business suits before she was out of diapers. And she doesn’t even notice or care how beautiful she is . . .

I realize Sterling is still watching me and snap out of my thoughts. They were getting too gooey for my own good, anyway.

“She sure as hell doesn’t act like anybody’s wife,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “So she isn’t a romantic.”

Actually, according to her friend Camryn, she is. But I don’t tell that to Sterling at the risk of sounding like a total cliché.

“She fell asleep at her desk sometime after midnight.”

“You don’t become that successful at the age of twenty-six by taking your eye off the ball.”

“I guess.”

“So I can assume that baby-making isn’t going well?” He chuckles.

“Not exactly.”

“What are you going to do? A woman’s never refused you before, and now your own wife won’t fuck you.” He makes a disappointed noise in his throat.

When I merely flip him off, he excuses himself for a visit to the restroom. When Sterling is gone, I pull out my phone and check my messages.

There are three e-mails from Fred, all of them about the dire situation of the company, and another from Preston informing me that the board is having an “exploratory meeting” with a rival firm next week.