“What the hell are we going to do? He’s already spent so much money, which T&C really can’t afford, by the way, and he’ll expect us to move in, and . . . what a clusterfuck!” I push my hands into my hair, not caring in the slightest that my perfectly coiffed bun just became a hot mess.

Noah holds up his hands. “Whoa, hey, calm down. Living together isn’t really that big of a deal, is it?”

“Of course it’s a big deal. I don’t want to move in with anyone, especially not you.”

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, get over yourself. I’m sure you don’t want to live with me, either.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I stare at him. “Why? Wouldn’t that get in the way of your drinking and whoring?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to do that anymore.” Noah rakes his fingers through his hair irritably. “Okay, just listen to me for a second. Even if we ignore the fact that you’re sex on legs and any sane man would give his left nut to spend a night with you—”

My laugh sounds ever so slightly hysterical. “You’re seriously trying to flirt right now? Is that the only way you know how to communicate with women?”

“Even if we ignore that fact,” he growls out, “we still have Tate & Cane’s public image to consider. How bad will it look if we don’t even live under the same roof?”

I rub my forehead, partly to ground myself and partly as an excuse to hide my expression. I can’t cry in front of Noah. I don’t cry, period.

Why am I even getting so upset? I already knew we’d have to live together sooner or later. I’ve seen this coming since day one. That was one of the reasons I didn’t want to sign the stupid contract in the first place. And I’m still feeling optimistic about Noah and our budding friendship. I’m not over the moon about having to share my private space with a roommate again, but I’ll survive. Hell, it may even be fun. I have a lot of awesome memories from living with Camryn.

Really, Noah’s right. It’s not that big of a deal. But for some reason, it feels monumental. Like I’m about to lose yet another piece of myself.

I just hate surprises. Dad’s wedding gift broadsided my composure and splattered all sorts of uncomfortable emotions everywhere. I need a moment to scrape myself back together.

“We don’t really have a choice, Snowflake,” Noah says. “Everyone—the media, our employees, our rivals, our stockholders—they all have to see us together. The starry-eyed young couple, poised to take over one of the nation’s biggest companies. That’s who we have to be.”

I drop my gaze, chewing my lip hard. Finally, I admit, “Yeah, I know. You’re right . . . our hands are tied. Sorry I flipped out for a minute there.”

I half expect Noah to make some perverted joke about tied hands. But instead, he just touches me on the chin—the gentlest possible hey, buck up.

I meet his eyes as his fingers tilt my face to his. Can he tell how stupid and frustrated I feel? Why can’t I hide anything from this man? Why can’t I stop exposing my weak points?

Noah’s sympathetic expression is both comforting and humiliating. I’m torn between the urge to relax, to let him support me, and the urge to jealously guard my dignity.

“No, I’m sorry too,” Noah says in a much softer tone than before. “I know this situation really sucks for you, but we’ll figure out ways to make it easier. Like our dads always said, we can accomplish anything if we’re together.”

I take a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Already my mind is starting to quiet. On the way back to my cool, collected self.

“You’re right,” I say. “We have to make this courtship look real. So, living together will kill two birds with one stone—keep up appearances and let us get more familiar with each other.”

Noah cocks his head with a salacious half smile. “Really? You’ve changed your mind about . . . ?”

“I haven’t, so get your mind out of the gutter,” I huff. Leave it to the immature horndog to purposely misunderstand me. “I meant that there’s certain things we need to know about each other. Trivia, fun facts, stuff that could come up in conversation.” We may have grown up together, but we haven’t spent much time getting to know each other as adults.

“Like yesterday, when you just assumed I drink coffee.” Noah raises his eyebrows in mock outrage.

“Right. If anyone had been watching, we would have looked like total strangers.” Then I try to joke, “Although I still think that was a reasonable assumption on my part. I mean, who the hell drinks only tea? Tea is for relaxing; coffee is for waking up.”

“Excuse me, Snowflake.” Noah grins in the crooked way that I’ve come to learn means game on. “You’d prefer me to be a twitchy addict like you? I’ve seen the sludge you drink. Pitch black . . . just like your heart.”

“Actually, it’s not,” I reply coolly, smiling despite myself. “I take sweetener. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Fair point. We both have a few things to learn about each other.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets and glances away for a second. “About the tea thing . . . my mom was English, and she really lived up to that particular stereotype. She loved ‘a good cuppa.’” His voice lifts to imitate her lilting accent. “So I drink tea to . . . honor her memory, I guess you could say. It’s my way of taking a moment every morning to think about her.”