Read Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) for Free Online Page B

as well as bad. I’ve seen that synergy firsthand, in the way that Dad and Bill Tate led this company together.
    And I remember the glance I shared with Noah back in the conference room. That split second of mutual understanding, where I saw straight through Noah’s eyes. I could tell exactly how he felt—alone, overwhelmed—and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone and overwhelmed myself. Putting on a brave face for him bolstered my own courage. Even now, I feel stronger and calmer for having smiled at him.
    It’s actually kind of amazing just how powerful one glance can be. How much it can communicate. How it can pull me out of despair, even slow down my heartbeat . . . or speed it up. Like what happened between us in the hall a few minutes ago. Or the meeting where he kissed my hand.
    For God’s sake, is my libido ever going to shut up? Now is really not the fucking time. Ugh, wait. Poor choice of words.
    “You still there, sweetie?” Dad asks.
    I blink back to reality. Shit, I got lost in thought again. My thoughts are pretty easy to get lost in these days.
    “Sorry. I just . . . I don’t really know where to start.” That’s definitely no lie.
    “I’ll pour us some coffee.” He leans forward with a grunt.
    “No, Dad, don’t get up. I can do it.” I stand up and walk to the sideboard to turn on the single-cup machine.
    He lets out a small sigh through his nose. “I know I’m no spring chicken anymore, but—”
    “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
    Dad is proud and I don’t want to make him feel helpless, but I know damn well how much pain and fatigue he’s dealing with. And to be honest, I’m desperate to get off my ass and do something. Anything at all. I just need action.
    So I busy myself with the coffee. Hazelnut for me, Colombian dark roast for Dad. Sweetener but no cream for me, cream but no sweetener for Dad. The ritual itself is almost as soothing as the rich scents that steam from our mugs.
    I hoped that talking would come easier like this, with my hands occupied and my back turned so I don’t have to worry what crosses my face—or what might cross Dad’s. But the words that leap from my mouth take us both by surprise.
    “Why did Bill Tate do this to us?”
    Dad sighs again. This one is loud, heavy, rising from deep within his chest.
    My mouth snaps open to apologize. But then I close it again. Because you know what? Even if I never intended to demand answers—fuck it, I really do want some. In fact, I have a right to them. I’m the one who was forced to choose between the frying pan and the fire, after all.
    “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dad says. “We never imagined it would turn out this way. We wrote those clauses together, into both our wills, because we wanted to keep T&C in the family, and we knew you kids were meant to be together.”
    I nod a little impatiently as I hand him his coffee mug and sit down with mine. I already know most of this part of the story. A joint venture, in more than one sense of the word.
    He takes a sip. “Still, we tried to make sure that you had other options. If you and Noah didn’t want to marry by the time we retired—a day we thought was far in the future—then control would default to the board. And even so, you wouldn’t lose the company. You would have been granted board seats and paid highly from T&C’s profits. So we didn’t make this decision lightly. But we never anticipated . . .”
    “That there would be no profits,” I say softly. And maybe no company at all.
    “Right. Because everything just happened all at once, with the worst possible timing. Bill’s early death. My cancer . . . and how fast it advanced. T&C lagging behind its competition, falling into the red. The board’s crisis of faith.” Another deep sigh. “We always thought you kids would have so many more years to come around to the idea.”
    I know how hard Dad has tried to save this company on his own. He’s worked until his body physically won’t let him