Chapter 6 Noah

Olivia looks cute in the morning. She’s still asleep, lying on her side, facing me, with the sheets tangled around her hips. Her tangled hair fans out behind her like spilled honey. Thank God she’s not in that dreadful fleece onesie again. Her gauzy white tank top dips low to hint at the deep valley of her cleavage and rides up to expose the creamy soft expanse of her belly.

Forget cute, she looks positively edible. I want to run my tongue along the top of her breasts, tease her perky nipples through the thin fabric until she wakes up, moaning my name with her hands buried in my hair.

Not gonna happen, I know. This is Olivia we’re talking about. Every victory is hard won, and every time I get close to her, she pulls back two steps further.

But a man can dream.

Eyes still closed, she stretches leisurely, letting out a little squeak as her long legs straighten under the bed linens. I appreciate the moment, admiring her as she wakes. My normal MO doesn’t allow for sleepovers or morning-after encounters. But if this is what they’re like, count me in.

After a moment, she blinks open her eyes.

“Hi,” I say.

She swallows, her gaze dropping from mine as if she’s self-conscious about me watching her wake up. “Hi.”

“Are you ready for today?” After I calmed her frayed nerves, we spent hours last night going through my plan and rehearsing.

“You really think it will work?” she asks for the hundredth time.

But I understand why she’s nervous. We’re about to go toe-to-toe with one of the greatest bogeymen of her life.

Feeling a rush of protectiveness, I reply patiently, “I know it will.” Men like Bradford Daniels are easy to outmaneuver. All they care about is their ego, and once you threaten that, they cave like little boys on the schoolyard.

I push the blankets off and sit up. There’s coffee to make for Olivia, breakfast to prepare, and a hot shower calling my name.

“Holy m-morning wood,” Olivia stutters, her eyes glued to the spot where my manhood is trying to escape my boxer briefs.

Down, boy.

I smirk at her. “What? He’s happy to see you.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Really? You’re glad I’m back?”

“Of course I am. What kind of question is that?” It’s like she’s constantly testing me, just waiting for me to slip up and tell her I’m done with her, with this game we’re playing. To me, though, it’s not just a game.

I want to tell her I’ve been awake for ten minutes, admiring the view, and this wood is exclusively for her. But I hold my tongue, sure that admission would freak her out.

“I just thought . . . when I left . . .” She pauses. “I was sure I ruined everything.”

Having her back here in our bed makes me glad I didn’t give in to all those baser instincts that told me to fuck and pillage my way through Manhattan when she left. I tip her chin up to force her to meet my eyes.

“You’ve got some making up to do, but nothing’s ruined.”

She nods, relief and gratitude shining in her eyes. And something else too—something so warm, something I don’t dare to name, let alone hope for.

I hop out of bed and head toward the bathroom, wondering how all of this will unfold today, and in the days to follow.

• • •

Later, when we’re dressed, fed, and ready, we stop in front of the building where Bradford Daniels works for his daddy’s company. I can practically feel the apprehension flowing off Olivia in waves.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

She gives me a tight nod, her deep blue eyes full of worry. “No. But I don’t think I’ll ever be. We just have to go for it.”

I squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. I’m almost . . . proud of her. She’s shaking in her high heels and yet she’s still standing here, ready to fight.

“We’ve got this,” I promise her. “Don’t look so worried.”

It’s time to grab the bull by the balls. I pull open the glass door, and we head inside and slip past the receptionist like we know where we’re going. I figured that the element of surprise is always better when you’re playing hardball.

But when we enter his corner office, Bradford looks like he was expecting us all along, with a smug grin stretched across his face.

“What, no pack of hungry lawyers? I figured that’s where this was headed.” Smirking like he’s already won, Brad rises from his desk.

His office is furnished in a traditional style—a large free-standing mahogany desk facing the door, rows of bookshelves holding volumes of textbooks. A framed photograph of a rabbit hanging on the wall. Okay, that last thing is weird . . .