“Does Olivia know?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. I hope to try one more treatment before I tell her. And she’s got so much on her plate right now.”

I nod. I’m not unfamiliar with what it’s like to watch a parent die. “I’m going to take care of her, Fred.”

He smiles at me sadly. “I know you will.” Then he rises from his seat and wanders to the door.

I don’t like the slump of his shoulders, the tired defeat in his posture. “Fred, hang in there, buddy. We’ve got this.” I force some hopeful optimism into my voice.

He faces me and nods. “Let’s just get a pregnancy test scheduled soon. We need some good news around here.”

My mouth goes dry, and I swear I can feel the blood drain from my face. “Soon,” I choke out.

“With you two now married, the numbers looking up, and a baby hopefully on the way, the board won’t have a leg to stand on. You’ll win this fight.”

Fred leaves, closing the door behind him. Which is good, because I don’t know how I can face anyone right now.

Olivia still doesn’t know. The company is still in trouble. Everything is riding on this. But if I come clean to Olivia, tell her that the real reason we got married was to produce an heir, I have good cause to believe she’ll walk away forever. And if I don’t knock her up, we’ll lose our company to a rival firm. It’s either lose Olivia . . . or lose Tate & Cane Enterprises.

I lean forward to bury my face in my hands. Christ.

What am I going to do?

Chapter Twelve

Olivia

The next week passes in a blur of long hours and stolen moments. On workdays, Noah and I bust our asses at the office, the perfect models of diligent leadership. But we flirt and kiss every chance we get, and we jealously guard our nights together. For the first time in a long time, Tate & Cane isn’t the only center of my life—something else has joined it.

At a familiar knock on my open office door, I look up from my computer.

Noah leans against the doorjamb. “Hey there, Snowflake. You hungry?”

“Is that a pickup line, or are you talking about actual, literal hunger?” I reply with one raised eyebrow. If he asks me whether I want a nice big sausage, I swear to God . . .

“I’ll take whatever I can get.” Noah chuckles. “But no, I was just wondering if you wanted to grab lunch soon. I wanted to ask your professional opinion on a couple things.”

I consider. On one hand, I’m kind of in the middle of something. On the other, I’m also getting hungry. I check my clock. Sure enough, it’s lunchtime. And we’ll be talking about business while we eat . . .

Why not? Deciding that this report can wait another hour, I roll my chair back and get up. “I can go right now if you’re ready. I actually have some stuff I wanted to ask you about too.”

We take the elevator down to the lobby. The weather is nice, so we decide to walk to a small but classy sushi bar about a block from the office. All the way there, we keep finding reasons to touch each other—hands brushing together, hips “accidentally” bumping, playful shoulder nudges, quick affectionate squeezes around the waist.

The hostess seats us at a cozy table for two, tucked away from the window.

Once we have our drinks, I prompt Noah, “So you wanted to ask me something?”

He waves his hand. “You go first.”

“Well,” I begin, settling back in my chair, “I’m worried about this year’s retreat.” Normally, we hold a tropical company retreat every winter, and we always invite the executives of our most valuable clients. It’s all part of maintaining Tate & Cane’s image of personalized, luxury service. “I just don’t think we can afford it right now. Even if we can, it’ll make things awfully tight . . .”

I expect Noah to object. Or at least make an innuendo about “tight things.” Events like this are always huge networking opportunities. And if we deviate from our usual routine, clients might get suspicious about our finances. The last thing we need is a repeat of last month’s Red Dog Optics panic.

But Noah surprises me when he replies, “Then let’s cancel this year. Our employees will understand, and we can find some other way to butter up our clients.”

I blink, iced tea paused halfway to my mouth. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. You read my mind.”

By now I’ve seen his mischievous smirk a million times, but it still sends a subtle tingle down my spine when he purrs, “I hope there’s other, more fun things on your mind too.”

While I can’t help returning his smile, I try to stand firm and stay focused. “Back to our clients—what ‘other ways’ did you have in mind?”

Thinking, Noah rubs his stubbled chin. “We could invite the execs to a private gala. One day, one night. Even if we pay for their airfare and hotel, it’ll be less expensive than sending over a hundred people to Jamaica. We can say something like ‘we decided to host a more intimate event this year’ so we don’t have to admit the real reason.”

“Won’t they see right through that?” In this kind of context, everyone knows that intimate is just a code word for small.

Noah shrugs. “What else can we do? If you say we can’t afford a retreat this year, then I believe you.”

I’m embarrassed to feel a little flutter at his words. He trusts my professional judgment without question. It was such a simple, innocent statement but it carries so much weight, so much faith.