His expression showed no sign of shame. “My affliction provides me with some very unique and valuable insights regarding what women face. I’ve used it to my advantage.”
So that meant he was fully aware of how hurtful his behavior toward unattractive women felt to them. Then he used those insights to sell them the antidote. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? On one hand, it was like a wolf becoming a politician, telling all the rabbits of the world not to feel bad when his kind chewed off their legs and maimed them. On the other hand, it was also like telling the women of the world not to fall victim to the fucked-up, degrading, judgmental ways of men. Don’t listen to us Maxwell Coles of the world—we’re idiots.
Yeah, I liked that second analogy better. Still, I found this all very confusing.
“So why not see someone for your little problem. Why hire me?”
“I am seeing someone, and she advises the only way to eliminate the problem is to accept it into my life, to confront it—similar to any phobia.”
“I see.” I bobbed my head and then stared at his large hands. They were laced together on top of the light gray table. He had beautiful hands. He had beautiful everything. And now I knew he wasn’t just an asshole. Okay, yes. He was still an asshole, but part of his behavior was attributed to a disorder he was trying to get help with.
I whooshed out a breath and lowered my forehead to the table, rolling it from side to side. “I can’t take your offer. It’s wrong.”
“Wrong? Please explain what’s so wrong.”
Half speaking to myself and half speaking to him, I muttered, “I can’t work for you. Not like this.” I needed to know I was there because I’d earned it and deserved it.
“Like what?”
My head shot up. “You know like what.”
He leaned back and folded his fit arms over his chest. The way his biceps stretched the fabric of his sleeves caught my female eye like a fish to a worm.
“We are two people who can help each other,” he said piously. “You can help me overcome my obstacle. I can give you a better life. Why is this wrong?”
Because seeing you every day and knowing I cause you pain, just because I’m not pretty, makes me feel ugly.
“You want to give me a job I haven’t earned,” I replied. “You want to buy me a face I wasn’t born with. You want to rob me of my self-esteem so you can have an easier life.” I stood from the table. “I can’t feel good about any of it.”
He stared up at me with an unreadable expression. “Then tell me what you really want. What will make you feel good about it?”
“There isn’t anything.”
“Why did you want to work here in the first place?” he asked.
“Because I wanted to learn from you. I want to run my own company someday.”
He laughed. “You? You don’t have the backbone and you certainly don’t have the killer instinct.”
“Are you saying I have to be an asshole like you to be successful?” I asked.
“Absolutely. A leader has to fight for what they want and be willing to step on a few toes. But you? You’re running for the door, like the fake that you are.”
Yesterday, he’d called me a fake, too. I wondered why. “How can you call me that? You of all people?” It was really insulting.
“Because you only pretend to be tough and confident. But you will never be me, never run a successful company, and never amount to shit in this world if you don’t truly believe in yourself. You won’t even make it to the next goddamned block because you don’t have the balls to ask for what you want.”
“I have balls. Look at me; I’m here, talking to you and turning you down.”
He grinned. “For all the wrong reasons.”
“For my reasons.” I scowled.
“Stop playing games, Miss Snow. Tell me what you really want. Demand it. Let me see your claws.”
I glared at him. This man was such an epic bastard.
“As I thought,” he said arrogantly, “no real backbone.”
His words pinned me under a rock, infuriating me, challenging me. I wasn’t weak or afraid. I just found his reasons for wanting to hire me to be outrageously insulting. Degrading. I mean, where did he get off? Asking me to work for him like this was insane.
It’s like if I were to tell him…
“Fine. I’ll come work for you, Mr. Cole. If you sleep with me. You can be my first fuck. Because I won’t have surgery. I won’t ever be beautiful. And I will never have a hot piece of dick like you in my bed. So if your terms require me to do something I find morally repugnant, then it will be quid pro quo. All the fucking way, buddy.” My chest heaved with heavy breaths as I stood there with my angry fist parked on my hip.
See my damned point, asshole?
Maxwell Cole stared at me for several awkward moments, not a twitch on his lips, not a flicker of fear in his hazel eyes. “Deal.”
“What?”
“I said deal.” He got up, walked toward his desk, and began gathering his things.
Me, on the other hand, stood there feeling like a giant invisible truck, filled with regret, had run me over and was backing up.
What did I just do?
You just threw your own ass under the bus. I didn’t want to fuck him. I certainly didn’t want to work for him.
“Be here tomorrow morning. Keri will show you your office,” he said flatly.
“You—you’re serious?”
He turned and frowned at me. “Don’t go backpedaling on me now, Miss Snow. Not after you’ve just shown me your pretty little teeth and sharp claws. We might make a CEO out of you yet.”
I shook my head no. “Not. Back. Pedaling.” Just wondering where the nearest exit was. Now I really felt like an idiot. I’d just proposed to my future boss that he have sex with me in exchange for my acceptance of his offer.
Wasn’t it usually the other way around?
And what was that other feeling? It was…shock or excitement or something connected to that little spot in my brain that controlled my sexual fantasies.
“Good,” he said. “Have your ass to my house Friday at eight p.m. sharp. And bring your running clothes.”
Today was Wednesday, so that meant I had two days to get psychiatric help. Wait. You’re not doing this. You can’t.
“You okay?” were the words he asked, but his tone and expression accused me of being a spineless coward.
I stared at him, trying to comprehend what was going through this man’s mind. Honestly, I was confused as hell. Possibly frightened, too. He, on the other hand, looked like he’d been given an injection of piss and vinegar. He also looked sort of…happy? Okay, maybe not happy, but excited or determined, like challenging me turned him the hell on. But that couldn’t be right.
“Why aren’t you sweating anymore?” I asked.
He blinked as if startled by himself. “It seems you’re already having a positive effect. Too bad it’s your ability to piss me the fuck off that’s doing the trick.”
Speechless, I turned for the door again and grabbed the handle. I needed to retreat. I was way over my head with this situation.
“Oh, and Miss Snow?”
“Yes?”
“Do me a favor, would you? Fire Craig on your way out. He’s the one waiting for me out there.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“It’s your first lesson in running a company: You’ll have to come down off that pedestal of yours and get your hands dirty.”
“What did he do?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Yeah, but so are you,” I pointed out.
“I have an excuse. He does not.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I am, and I’m afraid it’s time for my departure.”