Hitched Volume 1 (Imperfect Love Book #1)

Olivia

Our whole building buzzes with activity. Even with my office door closed, I can hear the constant low hum of conversation and quick footsteps and ringing phones. I like that white noise; it helps ease me into a productive groove, and it tells me just how many people are working hard alongside me.

Against all odds, we won a small contract from Parrish Footwear-more of a trial period than anything-and also managed to charm back an old client. But will it be enough? We don’t have time for any false steps.

And not everyone is making their best effort.

I refresh my in-box and frown. Damn it, Harrison still hasn’t sent me that expense summary. I asked him yesterday afternoon, and again when I came in at seven this morning. What the hell has he been doing all this time? That information is at his fingertips; it should have taken him maybe fifteen minutes to round it up.

I consider e-mailing him a third time, then decide against it. The time for nagging has passed. I want him to explain himself in person. Maybe Noah was right about him all along.

I speed-dial the accounting department and ask Harrison’s secretary to send him up. And while I wait for him to arrive, I have a very illuminating chat with her about his recent schedule.

He knocks at my door five minutes later. Harrison is in his twenties, and I’m sure many girls find attractive. But to me, he’s mostly just unremarkable. The kind of guy people pass on the street every day and don’t even remember. Good job. Modest good looks. Average intelligence. None of Noah’s wit or charm.

Wait, why am I thinking about Noah?

As Harrison enters, he closes my office door behind him. Can he tell that he’s about to get chewed out? Or does he just want privacy to make yet another pass at me?

“Hello, Olivia,” he says. “You look beautiful as always.”

I should have known. “Is there some reason why you still haven’t completed the work I asked you for yesterday?” I ask him in my frostiest tone.

He blinks. “I . . . had other things on my docket.”

“Ahead of a top-priority request from your CEO?”

“Top priority? I didn’t know it was that urgent.”

I click on my Sent Mail folder, turn my computer screen around to show Harrison our recent e-mail chain, and point at my last sentence.

“Can you read that aloud to me?”

He leans over to squint at the screen. Reluctantly, he recites, “Please send ASAP. I need this report to finish drafting our new budget before the board progress meeting on Thursday.”

Then his gaze flicks back to me. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to fulfill requests in the order they come in. First-come-first-served is the only fair way to-”

“If you can afford to come in late, take two-hour lunches, and leave early every day, you can afford fifteen minutes to send me a report that I’ve asked for twice.” I spin my screen back into position. “Given the company’s current crisis, most people at your level of management have been pulling overtime lately. I won’t ask you to do that, because I respect my employees’ private lives, but if you wish to continue drawing a full-time salary, you will put in full-time hours. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Ridgefield?”

His eyes wide, he licks his lips nervously. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“And the next time you can’t finish something with the promptness I need, you should tell me so I can find someone who can. Don’t just let my messages sit unanswered in your in-box while I wonder what in the world is going on with your department.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. “I will. I’m sorry. You’ll get that report by the end of the day.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Before lunchtime, if you can.” And if you can’t, you’d better have a damn good excuse.

He turns and starts to walk away. But at the last second, with his hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back.

I quash a flash of irritation. Just go do your job and let me do mine.

“Um, speaking of lunch . . .” He rubs his neck sheepishly, as if some transparent aw shucks act will pacify me. “I feel bad about this misunderstanding. Let me take you out today to make up for it.”

I level a withering blank stare at him. “This is the fifty-fourth time you’ve invited me out to eat with you since we met. I’ve kept count. My answer has always been and will always be no. So instead of trying to distract me from your failures by hitting on me, I suggest you divert some of that energy into your work.”

He draws himself up, his hairy nostrils flaring. “Excuse me? Hitting on you? You can’t just go around flinging accusations like that. Sexual harassment is a serious-”

“I can do whatever the hell I deem necessary,” I snap. “I’ve tolerated your excuses for long enough. This company is teetering on the edge, and if we want to have any chance of pulling it back, I need to see some serious hustle.”

I lock eyes with Harrison, daring him to challenge me. He needs to understand that I’m not just the boss’s daughter anymore-let alone some naive intern whose blouse he can peer down while he pretends to help her.

“But if you’re not interested in helping me save your job, then by all means, keep testing my patience.”

Our staring contest lasts for almost twenty seconds. Finally, his deep brown gaze falters. He looks confused and more than a little pissed, but I think I managed to put the fear of God into him. Then again, only time will tell if he really got the message.

I breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he’s gone. My first time bringing down the hammer on an employee went about as well as it could have. But the encounter has still left me irritable and thrown off-kilter.

With my blood pressure already up, I suppress a huff when I see a fresh message in my e-mail in-box. It’s Camryn, as the newly minted head of Tate & Cane’s newly minted social media team, offering her “top ten picks” for training consultants to hire.

I’ve never heard of this project. If I had, I would have wanted to be in charge of it. How are they already at the short-list stage? And why is this coming in ahead of the expense estimation that I actually asked for?

Does the universe just not want me to finish this budget today?

Wait a minute . . . maybe I do have an inkling of what this is about. Noah and I revisited the subject of social media training a couple days ago, but I didn’t think we actually made a firm decision about anything. That discussion was just brainstorming . . . right? Evidently he didn’t see it that way.

I call Noah’s secretary, only to be reminded that he’s out at some executive brunch trying to woo back some more old clients. Too impatient to wait, I call his personal cell instead.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

It rings six times before Noah answers dryly, “Yes, dear?” I can hear car engines and rushing wind in the background; he must be on his way back already.

“Since when was Camryn’s team researching consultants?” I ask.

“Since we needed to hire some. And since her team is, last time I checked, in charge of social media concerns.”

“You know what I mean. Why did you give her the go-ahead on a project that we never finished talking about? Why was this prioritized over my other tasks? And why is she managing it instead of me?”

Noah makes an incredulous noise that sounds way too much like a chortle. “Are you serious? You wanted to be a talent scout?”

“Why not? It’s an important decision. Why are you laughing at me?”

He sighs into the phone with a rush of static. “Let me ask you something. Do you think Camryn is an idiot?”

“Of course not.” I gasp. “How could you even say that? She’s my best friend.”

“Because you don’t seem to have very much faith in her competence. For Christ’s sake, Olivia, learn to delegate. Your time is so much more valuable than this. Either you or I have to sign off on the final decision anyway, so what’s the harm?”

“Dad always taught me that the best way to get something done right is to do it yourself.”