Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) Read Free Page A

summered together in the Hamptons, he took every opportunity to strut around shirtless. Hell, when I was nineteen, I came close to fucking him. But I was young and stupid and horny back then. Now I’m older, wiser . . . and still incredibly horny. Damn it .
    It’s ridiculous how easily Noah grabs my attention. The smallest thing he does can leave me flustered. Like at the close of our business meeting yesterday. Just as a bare-bones courtesy, the most brusque good-bye possible, I stuck out my hand at him—only for Noah to bow slightly and raise it to his mouth for a lingering kiss.
    “A pleasure doing business with you . . . Mrs. Tate,” he teased in a husky voice.
    My mouth went dry and my stomach fluttered. Or maybe that flutter was somewhere a bit south of my stomach. I suddenly remembered exactly how many years, months, days, and hours it had been since I’d last gotten laid.
    I tried to recover. Who the hell did he think he was? We were standing in a Madison Avenue skyscraper, not a sixteenth-century castle. This was wildly inappropriate workplace behavior. I could slap his tight ass with a harassment suit if I wanted. Instead, I just gave the cocky bastard a death glare and the iciest retort I could think of.
    But it was too late. There was no denying my body’s reaction. The red-hot shiver that had run down my spine when his soft, full lips touched my knuckles, brushing my skin as he spoke.
    Even now, I find myself replaying the image of Noah Tate gazing up at me with a sinful smirk, his dark eyes alight . . .
    I shake away the steamy memory. So what if Noah knows how to flirt like the shameless manwhore he is? Schmoozing is all he’s good for. And handsome men are a dime a dozen, especially in New York. Hell, a fifty-dollar vibrator could do his job, and I wouldn’t have to listen to its bullshit. I didn’t bust my ass in business school just to become Noah’s little woman.
    Then again, I also didn’t bust my ass in business school to watch my father’s company go down the drain, either.
    My thoughts sober me, cooling my anger into melancholy. I spent my childhood in my father’s office, playing at his feet while he steered a financial ship of thousands. All children think of their parents as gods, and I was no exception. Even since I took my place at his right hand, with my own voice in the family business, I still respect him more than any other man.
    And then the cancer diagnosis. Diagnoses, plural—first Mom in my freshman year of college, then Dad just last year.
    But even though I’d had a front-row seat to Mom’s mortality, Dad’s still came as a shock. He’s as wise and proud as ever, and he puts up a brave front for the rest of us, but I can tell what the cancer is doing to him. I’ve been his daughter for twenty-six years; I know where to look. It’s those little moments, like when his hands shake when we talk about the future, or he gets that faraway look in his eyes.
    Dad has so little time. Sometimes it’s still hard to remember that. All too soon, Rachel and I will be each other’s only remaining family. And my little sister sure as hell won’t run Tate & Cane Enterprises. She has never been interested in the business world; she loves fashion, not finance. Although maybe I should ask her advice on graphic design, for revamping our marketing campaign styles . . .
    I frown into my sangria. Damn, I’m thinking as if Tate & Cane is already mine. As if I’ve subconsciously taken my responsibilities for granted.
    Well, why shouldn’t I? Dad always told me that his seat would be mine someday. This company is my birthright. It’s Dad’s legacy—the hard-won fruit of all his blood, sweat, and tears. He shouldn’t spend his last days worrying about what will happen to it. And soon, this company will be all I have left of him. Assuming I actually manage to hold on to the damn thing.
    Personal sentiment aside, T&C also employs over six thousand people. Six thousand lives that