I snapped off a bunch of photos and posted them everywhere I could—FB, Instagram, Pinterest. A view like this should be shared.
I set my phone down on the cute little café table outside and went to explore. The place was about twice the size of my apartment. Why had Mr. Cole put me in this suite? I felt like a princess, with its crystal chandelier, elegant black and tan furniture, expensive art, and marble-everything bathroom with a two person tub that screamed “pamper me!”
I spent the next couple hours taking a long hot bubble bath, shaving my legs, straightening my hair, and doing my makeup. I hadn’t been on a vacation in years—there was never any time, and every dime I made went toward paying for school—but these few precious hours more than made up for it.
By the time the door buzzed, I didn’t look beautiful, but I felt it anyway. I’ll admit, part of me wondered how much better this experience might’ve been if my face matched everything around me.
I opened the door, expecting to find Mr. Cole and expecting him to pay me a compliment for the effort I’d made to be presentable.
I only got one of those right.
Dark hair immaculately disheveled and wearing a dark gray dress shirt and a very, crazy-nice, black suit that didn’t hang, but hugged his manly, fit body and accentuated his broad shoulders, Mr. Cole’s eyes scaled up and down my torso as I held open the door.
“You’re wearing that?” he said.
I looked down at my plain black heels and little sleeveless black dress that tastefully showed off my C-cup cleavage. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything.”
I wanted to punch him in the dick. No, seriously. I did. “Who says that to a woman?”
“An asshole like me. Get your purse.”
“I think you can go and—”
“Before you tell me to fuck myself, Miss Snow, I’ll offer that you’re in Milan.”
I was “Miss Snow” again. Okay. This is good. We were back to the way things were before last night, including his rudeness.
“Really?” I pointed toward the terrace. “I was wondering what all that Italian-looking stuff was outside. Thanks for clearing that up.” I gave him a bitchy smile.
He snarled at me with his hazel eyes. “And you’re going to be sitting front row at Babs’s fashion show, so you’ll be in every photo of the runway, including Vogue.”
My bitchy-smile evaporated. I suddenly felt mortified. Was it because of my fab-less dress or because the world would see my face? Don’t think like that, Lily. There’s nothing wrong with you.
I was about to tell him I didn’t care. I wore the best dress I owned and that was that. Nothing to be ashamed of. But before I could speak, the man was on his phone again, doing the circle-the-wagons gesture with his index finger, indicating we needed to go.
I glared at him, and he turned away, heading toward the elevator. I grabbed my black evening bag from the little side table and followed, closing the door behind me.
Right as the elevator doors slid open, I got inside behind Mr. Cole. He said a few more words and then ended the call, slipping his cell into his pants pocket. “You might want to start making punctuality a priority, Miss Snow.”
I’d gotten in the elevator three seconds after him. What was his problem?
“Yes, sir, Mr. Cole. Absolutely. And might I just say that I’m glad there’s no awkwardness between us after I sucked your cock last night. You’re still the same insolent bastard.”
He smiled proudly, but didn’t look at me.
I shook my head and decided staring at the doors was a far better option than looking at the man. Seeing him standing there in his perfectly tailored suit with his perfectly messy hair, full sensual lips, and unshaven jaw was too unsettling. I didn’t want to feel any attraction for him. But I did.
Asshole.
When we got into the limo, I noticed that Mr. Cole was still smiling. Or was it more of a smirk?
“Okay, what the hell is so damned funny?” I seethed.
“Nothing.” Grinning ear to ear, he shrugged innocently.
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because there’s obviously something that’s amusing you.”
Looking ahead at the road, his grin grew into the shit-eating sort, and he toggled his head from side to side. “Nope. Nothing. Just feeling happy.”
“Well, stop it. It’s freaking me the hell out,” I said. But, honestly, it was kind of cute. For a few minutes. But then we pulled into traffic, and I could swear the bastard looked downright giddy—a total distraction from allowing me to soak in Milan. “Okay. I can’t take it anymore. Are you laughing at my dress? Is that it? Because it’s not nice to make fun of someone just because they have nothing nicer to—”
His gaze flashed my way just for a moment, and that smile of his melted right off. “I may be a heartless prick, Miss Snow,” he said sternly, “but I have better manners than to laugh at a woman’s dress.”
I looked away toward the window. “Such a difference from telling me ‘everything’ is wrong with my outfit,” I mumbled. And for the record, he had laughed at me before—the time I told him I wanted to run my own company.
He touched my leg, and I looked at him. “Lily, I am happy because…” His words faded away.
Ignoring how good his hand felt on my bare thigh, I crossed my arms over my chest. Big mistake because his eyes immediately gravitated to my pushed-up breasts. I dropped my arms. “Why are you happy?”
He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Fine with me.” Now that his grin had evaporated, I kind of missed it. It was a breathtaking smile that made his handsome face light up and produced little divots in his cheeks that weren’t really dimples, but more like deep smile grooves. Not smile lines either, because they disappeared when his smile left. I wished he’d smile more often.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to a six-story brick building with beautiful carved gray stone details around the doorway and windows. A golden plaque next to the exterior door read “Babs Lavine.” It was one of her boutiques.
My heart jumped and started doing cartwheels. “What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Getting you a proper dress,” he replied, gesturing toward the door where the limo driver appeared and pulled it open.
“You’re joking,” I said, already realizing he wasn’t.
“No. Now if you’ll please step out of the car? We’re already running late.”
I was too stunned to get out. Babs’s dresses ran anywhere from five thousand to fifty thousand for the hand-beaded stuff. “Mr. Cole, I…I really appreciate the gesture, but I can’t take a gift like that. The suite is already too much.”
He shot me an irritated look with those stunning hazel eyes. “Miss Snow, you’re a representative of my company who’s about to be photographed and in every major global magazine, sitting by my side. So while I applaud your moral standards, you’re missing the fact if you look bad, it makes my company look bad.”
Oh. So this was about him. I felt silly for thinking that he was…well, trying to do something nice for me. Like a man might do for a woman who interested him romantically.
I mentally slapped my palm on my forehead. I’m so out of my league here.
“Sure. Fine. I’ll wear the dress,” I said with a polite smile and slid from the limo, feeling a bit deflated. But the truth was I needed to focus on the positive. When all was said and done, this was like living in a dream…working for C.C., going to a fashion show in Milan, wearing a Babs Levine dress. Minus the indiscretion with my boss—who some might argue should be part of my dream because he was part of theirs—this experience was about as great as it got when it came to work. This was my job. This!