As I gave myself a pep talk, I noticed a large figure looming in the doorway, and then, just like in the movies, everything around me dissolved into nothing. There was just him.
Holy shit.
His beauty was pure male magnificence—high cheekbones and strong jaw that gave his face a masculine sculpted look; and lips that were full and sensual, surrounded by a wash of dark brown even though I could tell he’d shaved this morning.
Mr. Cole was so goddamned beautiful it hurt to look at him. But how the hell is it possible he’s better looking in person? And his cologne was…was…I never knew a man could smell that good.
It’s really him. Then my blasted brain kicked on and urged me to mentally strip away that perfectly tailored, navy-blue power suit covering his lean, muscular, exquisite body—the one he’d shown the world last season in the “Get Naked. Get Real” campaign for their new Nude and Natural makeup line. With the exception of his penis, which had been tragically blocked by his large hands, he’d displayed every ripped inch of his abs, chiseled pectorals, bulging arms, and tats.
He is un. Real. I mentally sighed. And those eyes…
As I basked in their hazel beauty, his eyes met mine, and it felt like a cold slap. I saw that same look on everyone’s faces the first time they saw me. Pity or revulsion. Luckily, most tried to mask it once the first wave of shock passed. Then they got to know me, and I won them over.
However, before I could utter a word, his superbly masculine face went from having a subtly sickened expression to a displeased one—a slight hardness in his eyes and firmness of his lips. Body language says a lot, too, and the tension in his tall frame said he didn’t want to waste his time with me.
But wait. Why is he put off by my looks? That didn’t make sense given who this was. Had I imagined it?
“You must be Lily Snow,” he said, still standing in the doorway, his voice cold, hypnotically deep, and authoritative.
I smiled nervously and stood, extending my trembling hand. “Mr. Cole, it’s an honor to meet you. I did my master’s thesis on your company.”
His hand reminded me of an old, rusted-out clunker with a stalling engine, painfully chugging its way to meet my awaiting handshake. When his reluctant palm finally made contact, I couldn’t help wanting to interpret the human warmth of his skin as reassurance I had imagined his reaction to me.
Yes, he’s an important man with a lot going on. With a company this large and billions on the line, it was very possible he had a few fires on his plate. His mood had nothing to do with me. It couldn’t.
I shoved my nerves down a deep dark hole and gave his hand a firm, confident squeeze to demonstrate my assertive nature.
He jerked his hand away.
What in the…? My mind scrambled, reaching for an explanation, any at all, as I sat and laced my fingers together in my lap. I couldn’t make sense of this.
“So.” He took his seat and scooted back against the wall. He’d put himself only a few feet away, but it was an unnatural distance that left a space between the table and his long legs. “You are interviewing for the junior sales position.”
“Yes,” I replied, trying to hold it together and hoping to God I was wrong about what was happening. Perhaps he was a germophobe or one of those people who hated to be touched?
With an unsteady hand, I slid my résumé from my black leather portfolio and passed it to him. I’d sent a copy of my CV to his HR person, but who knew if he’d had time to read it.
Nope. I guess not.
His intense hazel eyes began skimming while I sat there staring, mortified and unsure of what to say or do.
“You’re not qualified.” He threw the sheet of paper on the table and shot me a harsh look before abruptly standing.
“But I—”
“Thank you for coming,” he said in a tone that told me he wasn’t thankful at all. More like put out, annoyed, maybe pissed off.
My mouth hung open as he walked out of the tiny conference room, not bothering to shake my hand or look at me or hear anything I had to say.
My emotions fell somewhere between epic rage and heartbreak. He’d treated me like a leper or some mangy dog with rabies. And as my mind quickly digested everything that happened in the last sixty seconds, I could only come up with one reason for his behavior: my looks. And, hell no, I wasn’t crazy or making it up. That expression on his face when he’d walked in the door? The way he’d shaken my hand?
I covered my face and let out a shaky breath. This can’t be happening. I expected this sort of behavior from a shallow, pompous asshole that only valued women for their beauty, but from Maxwell Cole?
My mind went into a tailspin of anger, despite my conscience urging me to take the high road—a road I knew like the back of my hand. After all, I was a nice, caring person. I didn’t yell at people—or hadn’t in years. But that had been back in school, and only when some jerk decided to mess with one of my painfully shy friends or my disabled brother.
But you can’t let Maxwell Cole do this, Lily. I’d worked my ass off to have the right experience for a job like this. Okay, yes, I had other options besides C.C.—I wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to put all my eggs in one basket—but those other companies weren’t Cole Cosmetics. They weren’t companies I related to and believed in. Those other companies didn’t tell the world you were beautiful for who you were on the inside and to buy their products simply because you enjoyed pampering yourself. Cole Cosmetics didn’t believe in making women feel ugly to sell makeup. And that’s exactly what inspired me to work in this industry. We all deserved to feel beautiful and have nice things regardless of what others thought about our looks.
Only that prick has been lying to the world.
I grabbed my résumé from the table and stormed after Mr. Cole, quickly spotting him disappearing into a room in the opposite corner. Probably his private office.
So what? Let them drag me out. First, he was going to hear what I had to say.
When I stormed through the doorway, Maxwell Cole already sat at his fancy-shmancy, black-cherry desk, talking on the phone in all his handsome asshole glory, looking perfectly unruffled, acting like that hadn’t just happened.
His eyes locked on mine, and he seemed unfazed as I approached his glorious fucking desk, where a glorious fucking built-in display case behind him exhibited his multitude of shiny plaques and awards like a shrine to himself. A giant whiteboard on the wall to his side had the words “I’m a Take What’s Mine Kind of Woman” written on it, and the floor-to-ceiling glass on the other side of the room gave him an amazing view of the city. One he probably didn’t appreciate.
Oh. I’m takin’ what’s mine, buddy. And I was after my pride.
“You’re a f-fucking asshole.” I threw my résumé in front of him, my hands shaking half with fear, half with anger, and half with adrenaline. That’s right. Three halves! I’m a dangerous woman!
His hazel eyes shot up at me with extreme irritation. “I’ll call you right back, Chuck.” He hung up the phone, not taking his eyes away.
“You didn’t even read my résumé,” I spat, my heart pounding. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, yet I couldn’t help myself. Maxwell Cole suddenly represented every person who’d ever done me wrong, and I was tired of taking that stupid high road. I was tired of shrugging it off. I deserved a fair fucking shake, goddammit!
“I read your résumé,” he said with a deep smug voice, lacing his fingers together over his stomach and leaning back in his shitty, black-leather exec chair like the huge dick that he was. “You’re not a fit. Now get the hell out of my office.”