Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 2) Read Online Free Page B

Frank both purchased so many shares with such convenient timing.”
    That last part isn’t strictly accurate. We haven’t had time to hire a PI yet, although we can get one fast if we have to. But the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is whether my bluff is convincing enough to get under Brad’s skin. And judging by his reaction . . .
    Brad’s mouth opens and closes a few times.
    Yeah, I’d say I’ve hit the nail on the head. I take the moment to enjoy the sight—the haughty heir of Daniels Media doing his best impression of a fish out of water.
    “Th-this is a total crock of shit and you know it,” he finally huffs out, placing a hand on his desk to lean in closer. “You both know I have you bent over, ready to take it, and this is how you’re fighting back? Pathetic.”
    “You want to know what’s pathetic?” I step closer to the asshat. Not because I particularly relish being near him, but because my six-foot-two-inch frame towers over his, what, five foot nine? It’s bound to be intimidating. “The fact that Olivia here trusted you with pictures of her two gorgeous lemon-meringue pies and peach cobbler, and you, like the soulless weasel you are, tried to betray that trust in the worst possible way. Nothing gets me more livid than men who lack respect for women.”
    “Peach cobbler?” Brad asks.
    When Olivia shoots me a strange look, I press on. “Yes, you know—her love box, her pink clam, her honey pot.”
    They’re both looking at me with puzzled expressions.
    I turn up my palms in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Her pickle jar.”
    A giggle tumbles from Olivia’s lips.
    God, I love putting a smile on that woman’s face.
    Feigning a sudden realization, Olivia raises her finger, lips parting in pleasant surprise. “Oh, Noah! That reminds me of something.”
    “Yes, dear?” I ask, playing along.
    “There’s more.”
    “More? Do tell, Snowflake.”
    “I just remembered that one time, when Brad was asleep, I snapped a picture of his little pickle.”
    Brad lets out a strangled noise.
    Pretending not to notice—even though I’m struggling to keep a straight face—I raise my eyebrows at Olivia. “How little are we talking here?”
    “Tiny. More like a miniature dill. A gherkin.” She grins, knowing we’re on a roll.
    I let myself chuckle, the tense mood evaporating almost all at once. I have no idea if she’s telling the truth, but we have this jackass right where we want him.
    “No way! She doesn’t have a picture of me,” Brad stammers.
    “Oh, but I do.” She grins again. “It’s such a teensy little thing, it almost slipped my memory.”
    I pat him on the back. “Tough luck, buddy, getting stuck with such a short straw. You’re an eligible bachelor, right? You wouldn’t want half of New York seeing that little dick of yours, would you?”
    He purses his mouth. “No.”
    “Didn’t think so.” I pat him on the back again because, somehow, this meeting has turned into us saving the pompous Bradford Daniels from a public embarrassment so great, he’d never outrun it.
    Olivia steps forward, her shoulders thrust back. “Then you will delete every copy, so help me God, on every device, anywhere that they exist.”
    Brad nods in agreement, looking defeated.
    “And,” I add, “you’re going to sign this.” I push a thin sheaf of papers across his desk. Olivia and I have already signed the last page.
    “What the hell is it?” Brad grumbles wearily.
    “A confession. Where we all agree, in writing, that you committed insider trading and attempted to extort Olivia into selling T&C . . . and in return for you not releasing her photos, we won’t report any of your crimes. So if a single pic ever shows up online, consider this document your one-way ticket to federal prison.” I give him a tight, humorless smile. “But as long as none of Olivia’s nudes ever see the light of day, neither does your confession. What do you say?”
    Brad swallows and his head bobs