I pointedly ignore Noah’s teasing wink. “In my opinion, you should find a nice way to tell them to go fuck themselves.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says with a shrug. “We stand to make a lot of money.”

“We also stand to waste a lot of time and effort wrestling with their bullshit restrictions. These guys clearly don’t trust the judgment they’re paying for—and that’s a big red flag. We have other prospective clients who’ll yield better returns on our investment.”

“We don’t know for sure that the referral is bad news. And if we can play nice with their peanut gallery for this project, maybe they’ll let us have more freedom in the future.”

“You wanted my opinion and now you have it. Do whatever you feel like.” Normally I would keep arguing my point, but I just want Noah out of my hair so I can go hide in my office and get my mind off last night’s awkwardness.

“Duly noted.” Noah’s lips quirk into a mischievous half smile. “I know I’ve said this before, Snowflake, but you’re cute when you’re a hard-ass.”

“Then I guess I’m always cute. Glad we can agree on something,” I retort frostily. I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Shit, I meant to cut him off at the knees, but I got sucked into his stupid flirtation game instead. Why does that always happen?

Before I can anticipate it, Noah darts in for a peck on my lips. My mouth drops open and I stare at him, blinking wide-eyed. Over his shoulder, I can see Dad passing by. He pauses to give us a fond smile, as if to say, Ah, young love . . . how sweet.

Fuck no. Noah does not get to manipulate the situation like this. He can’t derail our conversations whenever he gets bored. He can’t dismiss my concerns like I’m just some silly girl playing Business Barbie. And kissing me in front of Dad makes me uncomfortable. It’s too much PDA for the office. It’s too much PDA for my family. And it’s too much PDA for my current state of mind—confused, conflicted, defensive, maybe even a little scared, if I’m being totally honest.

Drawing myself up, I give Noah my best disapproving scowl.

My annoyance deepens when Noah’s only reaction is a quizzical blink. Like he has no idea what I mean. Like I’m acting crazy and he’s being the reasonable one.

“I’m trying to have an important discussion with you, and you’re not taking me seriously. Besides, I don’t like PDA.”

He raises his hands slightly in a gesture of mock surrender. “Jeez, Snowflake, I was just playing around. What’s the problem? I didn’t think you’d still be wound so tight . . .” He lets the end of that thought—after last night—go unspoken. Which is good, because if he ever talked about our sex life at work, I might just have to kill him.

I scoff. “Right, as if one little O would turn me into your swooning cheerleader. It takes a lot more than that to make me fall—” I stop myself before I say in love.

He cocks his head, then shrugs. “A man can dream. But I’m offended that you called it just a little O.” His voice drops, all low and silky. “The way you were screaming and clawing my back . . . I could tell that wasn’t little. They probably felt the aftershocks in China.”

I’m stunned. I open and close my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Call me unprofessional if you want. I’m willing to dial things back during the workday. But nighttime is for fun, and you can’t deny that you had a whole hell of a lot.”

I finally find my voice. “I hate to cut you off there, Mr. Tate,” I huff, “but some of us don’t have time to play grab-ass all day.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, I turn on my heel and storm away. This drama is just too much to deal with, especially on top of my responsibilities and deadlines.

I shut myself away in the safe, peaceful cloister of my office, intent on getting some serious work done and forgetting all about Noah. But almost an hour later, I haven’t accomplished anything. I’ve just been staring blankly at my computer screen, not registering any of the words or numbers or figures, utterly lost in thought.

Noah is a confusing, sexy jerk-face. However, as much as I hate to give him any points, he’s right about one thing—I can’t deny that last night was amazing. And the longer I think about it, the less sense it makes to even try denying it, and the more I wonder . . .

Why am I fighting this?

The only man I’ve ever slept with was Brad, and those encounters were always boring at best and horrible at worst. Poking at my insides with his little stick while I tried to climax and failed miserably. Maybe my bad experiences have made me more skittish than it’s reasonable to be.

If last night was anything to go by, Noah is clearly determined to get me off. And he knows exactly what he’s doing in the bedroom. If he’s that good with his mouth, I can only imagine . . . Just the memory makes me feel a little too warm. Noah can easily make up for all my years of no sex and bad sex, frustration and inexperience.

And we’re stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. At the very least, we’ll have to keep up this marriage charade long enough to get the company back on stable footing and turn it profitable again, which will be no small feat. It can take months. Long, grueling hours, incredible pressure, exhaustion, and stress. Why not take advantage of the fact that we’re in this situation together? Why shouldn’t I have a treat to look forward to at the end of the workday?