He laughed, his deep wholly masculine voice cutting through the darkness. “The fuck is not off the table.”
What? I tensed for a moment until I realized he was just messing with me. “Yes, it is!” I screamed back. “And I want stock options.”
“No!”
“But you’re mean! I don’t want you and never will!”
“You’re lying. And a deal is a deal, Miss Snow! Get your ass in the shower, because I wait for no one.”
Crap. What if he wasn’t kidding?
Of course he’s joking. And if not, it wasn’t like he could fire me for backing out. In fact, now that I thought it through, I was probably the least fireable person on his staff—not that getting fired was ever my concern; I’d wanted his respect. Nevertheless, it had only just dawned on me what a huge risk he’d taken with me, which was probably why he’d talked to Mark Douglas about my trustworthiness. I already knew enough to ruin his reputation, and he had to realize that.
So why is he taking such a huge gamble? It didn’t make sense. Maxwell Cole had exposed himself to me. Not just now, but from the first moment we’d met. And there had to be a reason.
Lily, hellooo? Maxwell Cole just had his hands on your tits and his dick pressed against your back, and you turned him down. I whooshed out a breath. That really just happened, didn’t it?
And I suddenly wanted it to happen again.
Awkward. A word that defines something that is difficult to deal with or makes one feel uncomfortable. That would sum up my feelings after my “moment” with Mr. Cole on the dock. It would also describe every moment after that for the next few hours.
First, there was the fact that when I’d packed this morning, my mind had been in an entirely different place: sexscapade weekend with Maxwell Cole. Now, we were going to Milan on a business trip.
Why does this matter?
Because I’d brought all the wrong clothes, with the exception of my little black dress for Saturday night. The rest of my wardrobe consisted of running shorts and sports tanks, or tight jeans and short-shorts. I’d brought zero blouses or grown-up clothes.
“That is a lovely outfit, Miss Snow,” Mr. Cole said, seeming very amused as I approached the awaiting limo, where he stood next to the opened door, looking like he was modeling his outfit: jeans, a regular button-down, and a casual-looking, but perfectly tailored blazer.
Pulling my suitcase behind me, I looked down at my low-cut, cream-colored, full-body tank top that showed ample cleavage and had a lacy thong bottom. Of course, I wore my skintight jeans over the truly racy part, but the outfit was pretty sexy in the boob area.
“Next time,” I snapped, “tell me where we’re going, and I’ll bring a suit.”
He dipped his head. “Then not a chance.”
Oh, he was so enjoying this, wasn’t he? Yes, I was sure he got off seeing what a girl like me would’ve worn had we actually been having a very, very wrong, illicit-sex kind of weekend.
I huffed out a little laugh. “You can stop the childish gloating now, Mr. Cole. It cheapens your alpha-male mystique.”
He was about to say something when the driver scrambled from the front seat and ran over to take my luggage.
Carrying my laptop case and purse, I slid inside. Mr. Cole came around the other door, got in, and immediately began typing away on his phone. It was just after nine o’clock at night and we hadn’t even made it out of his driveway, but I already found myself wondering how I’d handle forty-eight hours with him.
Oh, stop. You’re not afraid of this guy. But that wasn’t really the problem. I was beginning to realize that I liked him. Not his body or his good looks, but his prickly personality and unabashed approach to life. I liked…him. The person. Just a teensy, weensy bit, and that unsettled me. The man was cold, ruthless, and…okay, he was hot. His unwavering self-confidence, smoldering hazel eyes, and smokin’ hot, male-model body were turn-ons, too. I liked that he didn’t shy away from showing me who he really was. Not that I knew him well, but it was clear he didn’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion. And when I thought about his phobia, well, I wondered how many people out there would admit to having it, let alone tackle it head-on like he had.
Take an arachnophobe, for example. I wasn’t a fan of spiders, but I wouldn’t invite one into my bed. Yet, in this analogy, seeing a spider gave him panic attacks. Did that trip him up? No. He said, “Hiya, Spider. Come inside. Let’s get it on.”
Okay. Strange analogy. But when he saw something—or someone, I guess—that he found ugly, it triggered a physiological response that alerted his fear receptors. Yes, I took the time to read up on phobias. How could I not? The point was, his brain produced all of these mixed and erroneous signals that told his body he was in danger.
I sorta loved that because it made me feel bad. Me. Lily Snow.
And his way of handling his “challenge” made me start to seriously question how I’d been dealing with my own. Had I been facing it head-on? Or had I simply been trying to live with it? There was a huge difference between accepting and conquering. Accepting meant one tried to work around an issue, knowing it would never change. Conquering meant one pushed the obstacle out of the way. Total annihilation or domination.
That was when I realized I could learn more from Mr. Cole than the mere basics about running a company. He had his ugly. I had mine. He owned it. I did not.
By the time we arrived to the private airport, Mr. Cole was on his phone, speaking in fluent Italian—impressive—to someone about the show. He stayed on that call as the pilots—two nice older gentlemen with silver crewcuts—introduced themselves and got the plane ready for takeoff. Meanwhile, I occupied myself with trying not to gawk at the awesome corporate jet with full bar, five rows of sleeper seats (three in each row), television, workstation, bathroom with shower, and stocked kitchenette, where I found and attacked a bean-sprout sandwich. It was heaven.
Anyway, the travel accommodations were seriously nice. But of course, if your life was flying back and forth all over God’s green Earth, it probably felt less like an episode from Secret Lives of the Super Rich and more like Man (or woman) Versus Wild.
Nah, it’s cool no matter what, I thought, settling in toward the back to give Mr. Cole some space while he finished his call. I got out my laptop and started going over numbers from some of the client files. It seemed that Cole Cosmetics’ number one issue was overselling. Ten percent growth, quarter after quarter, and each customer had a double-digit percentage of order cuts. Meaning, C.C. couldn’t keep up with demand even with the new factory they were building in New Jersey.
I guessed that was a good problem to have. Except that shorting orders probably pissed off the customers, which opened the door for our competitors to come in and make them happy. Not good. And it wasn’t like Mr. Cole was stupid, which meant he had some other plan to boost supply that he hadn’t made public yet.
I’d have to ask Mr. Cole about it later. For the moment, however, the long day and effects of the emotional roller coaster were catching up. I shut off the overhead light and tilted back my seat.
~~~
I wasn’t sure of the hour, but my subconscious alerted me to a person in my space while I slept, awakening me from a very erotic dream comprised of a merry-go-round that had nude male strippers instead of horses. You fill in the rest.
When my eyes creeped open, hoping to hell it wasn’t my mother standing over me with a suitcase in hand, I was immediately jarred by a very curious view of Mr. Cole staring at my face, his body inclined in the seat right beside me.