“You may now kiss the bride,” says the judge with a smile.

The guests applaud and laugh as Noah pulls me close. I grin against his mouth, a warm light blooming in my chest. It suddenly strikes me that Noah has always been there for me. And not just lately, like with Brad—when we were growing up too. He’s been a constant in my life ever since we were toddlers. Playful, sometimes irritating, always magnetic, never far out of reach.

Noah has done so much for my sake, especially in the past month. He’s gone so far out of his way. The thought of how deeply he must care about me is both giddy and humbling. I’m still not sure about the romance and sex parts of being married, but our friendship is beyond doubt. We’re a team. Ready to face whatever the future holds.

But as right as it feels to be here with Noah, the fact of our marriage is still staggering. Holy shit, I’m a wife now. I need some quiet time alone to let this sink in.

When the informal reception is over and everyone starts throwing away their paper plates and gathering their purses and jackets for the trip back to the city, I breathe a sigh of relief. I say good-bye to Dad, Camryn, and the rest of the guests, then retreat to the quiet of my family’s summer cottage.

Grabbing my laptop bag, I head to my old bedroom. Its desk is more than a little cramped now that I’m an adult. But this house is too small for a separate study, and I’d rather be in my own space than the master bedroom right now. I don’t want to give Noah any funny ideas about sharing a bed on our wedding night.

I push up the window to let in the ocean breeze, fold myself into my undersized desk chair, and open my laptop, ready to immerse myself in work.

But my peaceful solitude doesn’t last long. Footsteps approach from down the hall and stop on my threshold.

“What are you doing here?” Noah’s voice asks behind me.

Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I reply flatly, “This is my room.”

Noah points at my laptop like it’s an angry rattlesnake. “No, I mean what are you doing with that thing?”

“Strategic analysis.” As should be obvious from my spreadsheet-covered screen.

He frowns. “Right now? After we just got married?”

“What else would I do?” My tone has cooled, daring him to contradict me. I know damn well what’s on his mind, but there’s no way I’m even putting that suggestion on the table. He’s a big boy—he can use his own words. Not that begging will get him anywhere.

Noah comes inside to sit on the bed, facing me. “I know you’re a workaholic, Snowflake, but this is ridiculous. We can afford to take our wedding night off.”

“Can we? After all the time and money I’ve wasted . . .”

I bite my lip, still ashamed of what happened on our first attempt at a wedding. And while seeing Brad cut down to size was insanely satisfying, the attorney who drafted that agreement wasn’t cheap. Tate & Cane’s pockets are a lot shallower than they used to be.

Noah reaches out to gently cup my chin. “Hey. You didn’t waste anything—you didn’t cause any of this. It was that asshole who decided to mess with you. And we had to stop him, because nobody hurts my girl and gets away with it.” He raises his eyebrows at me for emphasis. “So don’t you dare blame yourself.”

Taken aback, I can’t help a small smile. He always defends me . . . even against myself. Noah’s earnest words mean so much. Almost too much.

“Okay, fair enough. I’ll try to lay off the self-hate. Still, we have to get back on schedule.”

“We should at least spend tonight together,” he insists.

I roll my eyes, still smiling. “Jesus, you’re relentless. Fine. Then I hope you brought your laptop too, because this business plan isn’t going to write itself.”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “since I assumed we’d be on vacation. I’ll just have to read over your shoulder.”

He leaves and brings back a wooden chair from the kitchen, pushes it next to mine, and sits down. Close enough for me to feel his body’s distracting warmth.

He occasionally reaches out and touches me—little brushes against my wrist, his hand at the small of my back, making me hyper-aware of him and his distinct maleness. My heart riots with each movement.

This is what I’ve been trying to avoid all along—the seeds of hope blooming in my chest. I need to stamp those feelings out now because I know what Noah’s doing. He’s putting on a brace front and trying to make the best of our situation. It’s only a matter of time before this whole charade comes crashing down around us, leaving my heart in tatters.

My real happily-ever-after is out there, somewhere. And when we right the proverbial ship that is Tate & Cane Enterprises, I’ll be able to think about things like getting our marriage annulled and moving on, but until then, it’s heads down.

“So, what are your thoughts so far?” Noah asks in a low tone that sounds way too intimate for staring at a bunch of financial graphs.

Trying to ignore his intense gaze, I start explaining my arguments for how we should structure our plan of attack.

We collaborate late into the night. At some point, a bottle of champagne appears on the desk at my elbow. I don’t know how—I was too absorbed in work to notice Noah moving. All I know is that when I turn my head, I see a foil-topped green bottle and two glasses that weren’t there before.

Immediately I say, “I’m not going to get drunk with you.” I can’t afford to let my guard down, only to find my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor come morning and a delicious ache present between my thighs. Even if I might want to. No, Olivia. I silently scold myself. Bad pussy.