Текст книги "Fugly"

Автор книги: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

The entire drive to my apartment was a blur. I don’t remember getting in my red Mini and putting the top down. I don’t remember hitting the freeway north, and I don’t remember driving for an hour in the stifling August heat like a madwoman. I simply opened my eyes and found myself standing over my stainless steel kitchen sink with the cold water running, my face dripping wet and my blouse drenched in water.

I was in shock.

I shut off the faucet and patted my face with a dishtowel, my hand shaking with rage. Thank God my roommate, Daniella, was still at work so she wouldn’t see me like this. If I was lucky, she’d head over to her boyfriend’s place tonight. This was not how I wanted to be in front of anyone: falling the hell apart.

I grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured myself a giant glass¸ went into the living room, and sat on the couch. My entire body felt numb and on fire at the same time. All I could see was that hateful man’s face and the disgust in his eyes when he’d looked at me.

I’d never felt like this.

Ashamed.

Humiliated.

Angry.

I even felt pissed at myself because I’d let him get to me. He’d made me feel like a monster.

Not even growing up in the beautiful beach town of Santa Barbara, California, where some of the kids made fun of me on a daily basis, had I experienced this feeling. And trust me, kids can be cruel little bastards. Pug face, pig face, puke face…you name it, I’d been called it. But my mother and father always made sure I knew I was loved, and they never sugarcoated. They never told me I was pretty on the outside or tried to make me feel better about my looks. Instead, they fed it to me straight: “No one gets to have everything in life. They just don’t.” All I had to do was look at my older brother, a pretty intelligent guy with a boyishly handsome face—big brown eyes and blond hair, just like me—to understand what they meant. He was in a wheelchair. Born that way due to a rare deformation of the spine.

So that was my perception growing up. I got to have everything I wanted, except good looks. I didn’t like it, but at the same time I wouldn’t have traded my smarts for beauty.

I threw back my wine and lay down on the couch, thinking I’d be able to pull myself out of what just happened, but this wasn’t the sort of thing a girl simply shook off.

~~~

When I opened my eyes again, the haze of sleep shielded me for a few precious moments from the realities of yesterday, but sadly, it didn’t last.

Then I started to cry and almost called my mother. A big mistake because she’d probably hunt down Mr. Cole and castrate him. That honor should belong to me.

I’m not doing this. Sulking was for suckers.

I threw on my white sports tank, shorts, and running shoes and then headed outside for a morning jog in a nearby park with a nice long running trail and lots of shady trees.

By the time I got back to my apartment building, I didn’t know the time because I never wore a watch, but the Illinois summer air was too hot to breathe for outdoor exercise once the sun came up unless you had a death wish or were crazy, which I must’ve been. My body dripped with sweat and shook from heat exhaustion. But running had always been the one thing that helped clear my head.

Still panting, coming off of my exercise high, I made my way down the sidewalk that ran alongside my small six-unit complex. It was a red brick building with three stories and white shutters. Nothing fancy, but it was driving distance to Chicago, ten minutes to the train, and affordable.

When I turned the corner, heading for the front entrance, I didn’t think much about the black car with tinted windows parked out front. In these parts, a lot of people used town cars to get to the airport, especially business people.

Muscles burning, I lethargically climbed the stairwell that wound through the middle of the building, stopping on the second floor to check Mrs. Jackson’s door. She always left a Post-it outside when she needed help taking out her trash. Everyone in the building kept an eye on the eighty-year-old since she didn’t do stairs well.

No Post-it. Someone else had probably helped her already. I’d stop by later, after my shower, and check on her anyway.

When I got to the third floor, my heavy pants caught in my throat with a gag. Maxwell Cole stood right outside my door, wearing a red tie and sleek black pin-striped power suit tailored to fit that athletic body. His full lips were pursed, and his slightly bloodshot hazel eyes held an emotion in them I couldn’t decipher. Nor did I try. I was too angry and shocked to see him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I stopped with my hands on my waist and felt the beads of sweat running like a little river down my spine.

His eyes moved over my body, almost reaching the top before they made another sweep, lingering an extra moment on my breasts. He still hadn’t uttered a word.

“What did you expect? Scales on my legs and a uni-breast?” I couldn’t believe I’d said that, but pretending to be civil to this horrible man felt like a lie.

His eyes reluctantly settled on my face, his revulsion immediate. “Not the uni-breast.” He cracked a dimpled smile. Totally forced.

I hissed out an unappreciative breath and marched straight to my door, pushing past him. I dug my key from the little pocket of my waistband while he just stood there staring at the view down the front of my panties.

Asshole. I shot him a look and released the elastic waistband with a snap. As I turned the key in the lock, I decided I’d be slamming the door in his face before he had the chance to say a single word. My guess was he feared I’d tell his little secret or sue him or something.

Let the man stew.

But the moment I pushed open the door, he said something that made me think twice. “Invite me in.”

Okay, it wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he’d said it: a demand. It gave me the urge to do far worse than shut a door and leave him on the other side.

I turned and looked up at him, shooting my own breed of disgust his way. I hated the gorgeous bastard. I hated every perfect hair on his perfect head, and I wanted him to know it. “Why the fuck would I do that, asshole?”

“You have a dirty mouth.” A subtle smile, laced with a hint of sadistic delight, twitched across his lips. That time his smile was real.

“You bring out the ugly bitch in me. Why are you here?”

“I want to talk. Invite me in,” he demanded again with that deep authoritative voice.

I laughed at his attempt to boss me around. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone the truth about you, don’t. I’d actually have to give a crap about you.” The only thing I cared about was getting on the road to starting my own company as quickly as possible so I could build a company where women like me were genuinely valued.

“Miss Snow, stop being such a hostile bitch and invite me in.”

My knee twitched with the urge to salute his balls.

“I’ve got a job proposal for you,” he added, “the opportunity of a lifetime.”

This sonofabitch wanted to offer me a job? After everything he’d said? Hell yeah, I’ll invite him in. Just to tell him to go fuck himself.

I stepped aside and replied with a noxious sweetness, “Why…won’t you come in, Mr. Cole?”

He dipped his head of thick dark-brown hair. “Why, thank you, Miss Snow.”

“Oh, please. Call me Lily. I insist.”

I showed him in, past the doorway leading to the all-beige tube kitchen, and into our small living room. We didn’t have much beside a secondhand floral sofa, a green armchair, and a small glass coffee table. No television. We were never home enough to watch TV (though I occasionally liked to catch The Fashion Police or Masters of Sex on my laptop). On the wall hung a painting of a lily I’d found at a yard sale. A white lily. The symbol of chastity and virtue. My mother said she’d named me after the flower because she thought they were elegant, beautiful, and timeless.

Maxwell Cole, whose shiny silver cufflinks, expensive suit, and supreme good looks made him look like a duck out of water in my fugly apartment, paused for a moment to take in the room. He subtly lifted a perfect dark brow, indicating he wasn’t impressed.

“Can I offer you some water?” With spit? Or some sweat wrung from my underwear? I asked while he took a seat in the green armchair, still surveying our humble abode with disgust.

“No. Thank you,” he replied stiffly.

Smart choice.

I traipsed back to the kitchen and found the tallest glass we owned—a Chicago Cubs pint glass—and filled it with tap water. I was sweaty and hot and dehydrated as hell. And now I got to add pissed because this bastard had come to my home.

I walked back into the living room, holding the glass in my hand. “You have until I chug this to tell me what you want, and then I’m kicking your ass out.”

He shook his head. “Must you be so garish and hostile?”

“You dismissed me from that interview in three seconds because I didn’t make your dick hard.”

He blinked with a forced calm, and I smelled blood. He was about to lose his cool, and it made me feel damned good, because I wanted to ruffle this man’s pretty feathers. Then I wanted to pluck them out and make a fancy headband.

“Yes. I did. And no, you didn’t,” he replied.

“Wow.” I decided now might be a good time to finish my water. I gulped so fast that half the contents spilled down my white sports tank. Hey, what the heck. I was already wet, and it felt damned good on my hot body.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and then looked down at Mr. Cole, noticing him staring at my breasts again.

Pig! “Okay. Time for you to go.” I tipped over my empty glass.

He didn’t flinch that exquisite body. Not even a dark brow twitched. “I spoke to Mark yesterday after you left. He says he offered you a job, and you turned him down.”

Mark Douglas, a fellow Stanford alumni and Maxwell Cole’s old fraternity brother, was CEO of a large clothing chain called Wow-Wow (a name Mark’s daughter—who was two at the time—came up with). He became my mentor during my graduate studies after I worked on a project related to price elasticity for his company. We kind of clicked. Or maybe he felt sorry for me? Now, I don’t know. But he and his wife, who I’d met later on, were hands down two of the kindest people I’d ever known—devoted parents, philanthropists, and just plain cool. Mark invited me into his life, his home, and even had me babysit his two beautiful spunky little girls—Elle and Sarah, now nine and ten. College wasn’t cheap, so I was always grateful for extra money, but I felt eternally indebted for the respect and encouragement he’d given so freely. It was how I hoped to give back when I got a shot at running my own company. I wanted to inspire and mentor young women.

Then, after I graduated, Mark graciously offered me a great full-time, permanent position on his marketing team. That was when I reluctantly confessed I had my sights set on the C.C. sales team. Mark told me the door would always be open, but if my dream was C.C., then he’d call Mr. Cole, a close personal friend, and make it happen. I’d given it some thought, because I wanted a job at C.C. pretty badly, but in the end, I needed to know that anything I had was due to merits and sweat. Not as a favor to Mark.

I did take that reference letter, though. That seemed like fair game.

“That is correct. I turned the job down,” I replied, wondering where he was going with this.

“Why?” Mr. Cole asked with a hint of criticism.

At this point, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. He didn’t deserve to know what I’d done for the chance to be in his presence. Dammit. How stupid had I been?

“I have my reasons—what do you want, Mr. Cole?”

“Mark says you’re the sort of person I can trust with things of a more personal nature. That means a lot coming from him, but is it true?”

The answer depended on what sorts of “personal” things he had in mind. If it was playing Lady Gaga dress up for five hours with Mark’s sweet and wild little girls while he and his wife had to quietly deal with his drunk father getting arrested, then sure. If it was kicking Maxwell Cole in his ass on the way out of my apartment, I could be trusted with that, too.

“I repeat: what do you want, Mr. Cole?”

He ran his hand over the top of his silky head of hair and leaned forward in my armchair. I couldn’t help notice how fucking perfect he looked—masculine, elegant, handsome as hell, and freshly shaved, yet still with a black shadow across his square jaw—and I wanted to punch him in the nose for it. Then punch myself for noticing how damned hot he was.

“I…uh…” The striking expression in his hazel eyes startled me. I suddenly felt like he was looking at me again, past my face. “My proposal is this: you come work for me.”

This was my moment to tell him to shove it, but before I got the chance, he held up his hand and added, “But not the job you applied for; as a senior manager—the role you are actually qualified for.”

My mouth fell open. Senior manager was two levels above the junior sales manager job.

“And you’d be reporting directly to me, instead of to a director,” he said.

My mouth fell open a little more. I really didn’t know it could open that wide.

I blinked at him, speechless. Just yesterday, he’d said I was too ugly to work for his company, and now he wanted me on his direct staff? He must’ve been quaking in his designer boxer briefs that I’d tell everyone how he’d treated me.

Whatever. I didn’t want the job. I didn’t want to work for a man like this. A fake. A heartless asshole. Nevertheless, I had to ask…

“Why?”

He leaned back in the chair, all smooth and cool, like he was delivering a sales pitch and knew he couldn’t lose. “To use your own words: I am a superficial asshole. I did not necessarily get a choice in the matter; however, we are all dealt a hand in life and must play with the cards we’re given.”

I scratched the back of my sweaty head. “That reply didn’t come close to answering my question.”

“We can help each other.”

“Oh, really?” I spat. “Mind telling me how someone like you, who finds it offensive to be in the same room, believes I can help?” Or that I’d ever want to?

His large hand glided up to the knot on his red tie, his eyes digging into me. “You are the most unattractive woman I’ve ever met. And you are exactly what I need.”

He did not just say that to my face. I didn’t know whether to run to the kitchen and grab a knife to stab him with or drop on the floor laughing.

He continued, “Which is why I will also pay for your plastic surgery—top notch, no expense spared—if you agree to work for me.”

He’s fucking serious. “You’re fucking serious.”

He nodded with a calm stare and blinked those big hazel eyes at me. There was a hint of something behind them.

Oh my God. Is it fear? Fear I might turn him down? I knew my brown eyes were probably bulging from my head like two chocolate orbs.

“I am dead serious,” he replied. “And you’re a smart woman—prickly as hell with a surprisingly crude vocabulary, but smart—so there’s no need to point out that the role pays extremely well and will allow you to take your pick of positions at any company when the time comes. With a new face and that very beautiful body of yours, there will be nothing in your way. Nothing. You’ll have superficial assholes like me at your mercy, licking your shoes, eating out of your beautiful hand the rest of your beautiful life. All you must do is come work for me.”

I was speechless. Literally speechless. Except that it was time to say those magic words. “Go fuck yourself.”

He stood, shaking his head. “I fucking love that you fucking speak your fucking mind, but you’ll need to tone down that filthy little mouth of yours when we aren’t alone.” He glided past me as if he hadn’t heard a word I said.

“I didn’t say I’d work for you.”

He flashed an arrogant grin. “Then I’ll expect your yes in the morning.”

He left, and I remained standing in the living room, wondering if what just happened wasn’t some bizarre hallucination after hours of running in the heat. But it wasn’t. The delicious scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the room was proof.

Finally, I willed my feet to carry me to the sofa and sank down. A senior manager role at C.C.

Setting Maxwell Cole aside, it was a job that could act as a springboard for my entire career. However, what he wanted from me was…was…Well, what did he want from me? He’d said I was “the most unattractive woman he’d ever seen” and exactly what he needed.

So what the hell did that last part mean?

I covered my face and groaned.

Twenty-four hours ago, I’d felt like a stable, well-grounded person with a bright future.

Now I am a bitter, foulmouthed cynic. I don’t know who I am anymore.

And I certainly didn’t know what I would do next.

No doubt about it, I had had a long, turbulent day filled with fruitless inner debate. After Mr. Cole left, I spent an hour—or three—looking at open positions online and postings from a recruiter I knew. I still had the option of going to work for Mark Douglas at Wow-Wow Clothing, but it felt wrong taking a role knowing I wouldn’t bring my A-game passion.

Are you saying you would bring it to C.C.?

I didn’t know. Yesterday, I would’ve said yes, but then Maxwell Cole entered the picture, the biggest asshole in the world, and offered me…the world. (Insert visual of me knocking head against the wall.) I could either accept the terms, him being the boat anchor, or I couldn’t. It was an all-or-nothing situation where I wanted nothing to do with him; meanwhile a part of me felt like this could change my life. And I wasn’t talking just about the job.

Surgery. I sighed. It was something I hadn’t thought of in years.

To be clear, I learned the importance of loving myself at the ripe old age of eight when Tania Reilly, my best friend at the time, who had a severe overbite, was verbally accosted by the too perfect, too pretty Lisa Walters. Lisa came up to her in the lunchroom for no reason at all and said, “Joel thinks you look like a dog. And so do I, so we voted you our class pet.” Joel was the official cute boy and every third-grade girl crushed hard on him. But the look on poor Tania’s face when she heard those words wasn’t child’s play. She would probably carry that moment around with her forever. I know I did. But that could also be because I stood up from the lunch table, took my fruit cup and threw it into Lisa’s face. “You’re mean, and mean people burn in hell,” I’d said. Okay. Don’t judge me for that. I was eight, and I’d overheard two other girls talking about something they’d heard at church. The point is that Tania would remember that moment, too. At least, I think she would. The smile on her face told me how good it felt to have someone stick up for her. It made her feel loved. And that’s when I realized how love could insulate a person from just about anything. Especially self-love. It could also help them—me, in particular—make friends for life.

Sadly, though, it had never been enough to win me the other kind of love. I’d never had a date, a flirty smile, or a kiss. No, I won’t bother walking through the parade of tragic stories filled with painful memories—guys laughing at me, making the standard dog jokes—but trust me, they’re there. Ironically, I remember that not even the pretty girls were exempt from this sick breed of torment. And if they couldn’t escape it, what about me?

Which is why I always told myself there were more important things, like family, friends, your journey in life, and the mark you leave on this world. But I think deep down inside I always knew that being genuinely ugly (not just “unattractive” as Asshole had called it) would slow me down.

The uglies of the world simply don’t have it as easy as the beautiful people.

And there was no denying that having men look at me, and want to look again because they liked what they saw, had an appeal.

But the price of surgery, Lily. The price.

There were no words. I would have to endure the worst emotional pain, suffering, and humiliation on a daily basis. I would have to drink buckets of it. Because—no way—would I have surgery on work day one.

Oh no, Mr. Cole will have strings attached. Probably time and performance; I do well for him, be a good little C.C. employee, and he’d buy me a new face. Until then, every time I’d be in the room with that beautiful, hateful, smug piece of garbage, I’d know what he was thinking: She’s disgusting. I can’t stand the sight of her. Please, God, don’t let her touch me.

Who could possibly endure that? From a man they’d once idolized? And why the hell would he want me to? What did Mr. Cole get out of this? He could hire anyone he liked from the top schools, his competition, and any Fortune 500 in the world.

Fuck, the man’s probably a sadist and wants to watch me suffer. So then why was I even considering this?

But as I sat there, staring at my laptop displaying page after page of jobs I could probably get my hands on and blow out of the water, none of them were what I really wanted. Call it something to prove to the world, call it ambition. I didn’t know. But wanting big and bold was who I was. I also hadn’t racked up one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in student loans so I could live like a college student for eternity.

“Lily, you home?” my roommate’s voice called out moments after the front door opened. Daniella and I met through a friend after I graduated and moved to Chicago last year. On the outside, she was a prim and proper associate finance manager for an investment bank, while on the inside, hilariously vulgar. She also looked a little like Katy Perry but with brown eyes, like mine.

“In here, Danny,” I replied from my bedroom, sitting at my vanity, which was an old whitewashed thing I’d found at a yard sale.

She entered my room, which was decorated in classic “Fashion Junky” with stacks of magazines piled in the corner and a huge collage of my favorite outfits pinned onto my oversized corkboard. She plunked down on my bed with a loud sigh, beginning to shed her standard summer work ensemble: black skirt, heels, and a solid color blouse. Today it was green.

She kicked off her shoes and unzipped the back of her skirt, her eyes freezing on my face the moment she looked up. “Oh shit. They didn’t offer you the job.”

“Not the job I wanted.”

She pulled her brown hair from her ponytail and then began rubbing her feet, “Fucking heels. The only reason I wear them is so the guys don’t think they can step on me. So what happened?” She was on the short side, so I got the whole “must wear heels” ridiculousness.

“They offered me…” I debated whether to tell her everything. On the other hand, I could really use an external perspective, and I did consider her among my best of friends.

I decided to go with a partial truth until I knew what I’d do. “They offered me a senior manager role, reporting directly to Maxwell Cole.”

Her eyes bugged from her head. “Seriously? Mr. Pleasefuckmenow Cole would be your direct boss?”

Like me, she had Mr. Cole on her top ten list of men to masturbate to. And yes, before you ask, I had already removed him and replaced him with Boris Kodjoe. A girl’s gotta have a nice even ten on the roster, especially someone like me who only had her imagination to keep her warm at night.

I nodded.

“And you are debating…why?” she asked snidely.

I shrugged pathetically, lacking a proper answer.

“If you don’t want the job, then I’ll take it. What’s it involve? Bringing him coffee? Morning blowjobs? I’ll so do it.”

“Gah! Danny,” I scolded.

She smiled. “What? Don’t judge me for wanting to be his right hand—he is right-handed, yes? Because whatever hand he jerks off with, I want to be it.” She sighed contentedly and stared at the ceiling.

“I don’t think you understand.”

“No? What am I missing? He’s a hot-as-fucking-hell CEO—and we know he’s hot because he posed naked for us ladies in his quest to sell lip gloss,” she shook her head, savoring the memory, “so, so generous. And he’s a successful businessman and all-around awesome guy, and he’s asked you to work for him. In your dream job. What’s the problem?”

How could I put this in a way that would net me the advice I needed, without spilling the extremely uncomfortable and confusing beans?

“He doesn’t really like me,” I said.

“Oh, sweetie.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on my knee. “I know it must be disappointing, but don’t take it personally. He’d be your boss, and he can’t flirt with you or anyone on his staff. That would be inappropriate. Can’t you just be happy knowing he sees value in you and that you could learn from him?”

Okay. My plan for extracting advice from Danny blew. She had drunk the Maxwell Cole stud-spiked party-punch, but I couldn’t fault her for that. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been sipping from the same fountain of delusions.

I looked at Danny, thinking aloud. “He and I have different views on the world, so I’m not sure we’ll get along.”

“Really, Lily. You only need to work for the guy for a year. Maybe two max. Then someone else will steal you away.”

What? One to two years. Uh-uh. I wouldn’t survive that long.

“Either that,” she added, “or Cole Cosmetics will go public, and you’ll be a millionaire before you’re thirty if you can score some stock options.”

I blinked at her.

“Didn’t you hear?” she asked.

I shook my head dumbly.

“According to the rumor mill, his company is getting ready for the big IPO.”

Wow. Going public. That was big. And no, I didn’t know.

She went on, “But I heard from my coworker Terri, whose boyfriend works with G.S.—”

“Goldman Sachs?” I asked.

“No. Gary and Smitty—a day-trader outfit they run out of Gary’s parents’ basement.”

“Oh.” How terribly reliable.

“But she said that he said that Cole’s competitor, B&H, is trying to do everything it can to derail the stock offering. They know if that capital infusion happens, they’ll be wiped out. C.C. will eat up their market share.”

I sat back in my vanity chair and let that sink in. I was suddenly in a position to destroy C.C., because if the truth about him got out, it would trigger some serious outrage from his adoring, everyday-woman customer base. He did not respect them or care about anything other than making money.

I gave it some thought, the little vindictive devil on my shoulder rubbing its hands together. No, stop. It didn’t matter how horrible that man was, I wasn’t the vengeful sort. But I could be an opportunist.

Whoa. I suddenly realize I wasn’t in some weak “take it or leave it” kind of situation. I had leverage. I had some power of my own here to negotiate a different deal.

So what exactly did I want? It wasn’t plastic surgery.

Was it?

“Can I ask you something, Danny? And I want you to be honest with me.”

“The answer is yes. You should get a tattoo of Maxwell Cole on your back.”

I flipped her off with my eyes.

“Sorry.” She held up her hands. “Ask away.”

“Do you think I should have my face done?”

Her eyes flickered with shock. She hadn’t been expecting that question. “Does this have anything to do with your meeting Maxwell Cole today?”

Yes. But not in the way she probably thought—that I wanted to be his girlfriend or something stupid like that.

“Just answer the question,” I said.

“Umm…that’s a hard one.”

“Danny, I want an honest answer. No BS.”

She nodded and looked down at the floor. “I think that if it’s something you want because it’ll make you happy, then great. But if you’re considering it for any other reason, then no. You shouldn’t change who you are just to make other people like you. You’re also the happiest, most genuine person I’ve ever met. So I’m not sure messing with your face would make you any happier.”

I sighed. Danny was right.

“What’s brought this on, Lily?”

“Nothing.” I cracked a smile to lighten the mood. “But you’re right. All of the pretty girls I know are miserable dirty whores. And, yes, that comment was directed at you.”

She laughed. “Bitch.”

“Crazy bitch,” I countered.

“It’s a dirty job.” She stood from the bed and grabbed her heels from the floor. “But not as dirty as the rim job you’ll be giving Max Cole, you sick little slut.”

“Ewww!” I laughed. I was anything but a slut, and we both knew it. But even if I were, I doubt I’d ever go around licking butt holes. Yikes.

“Did you at least offer him your customary ‘thank you’ blowjob?” she asked, trying not to crack herself up.

“Yes. I offered. He accepted. And next I have my sights set on getting pregnant with his love child just to make you jealous. My years of hard work and graduate school are finally about to pay off.”

“Excellent. And be a good friend, would ya? Ask him to throw in a quickie for me as part of your signing bonus?” She made a dreamy little sigh. “Okay. I gotta mix up some vitamin water and take a shower now.”

“Meeting up with Calvin?” Calvin was her new boyfriend, and for whatever reason, she always drank a bunch of vitamin water before seeing him. It was kind of strange.

“Yep, I’m meeting up with my real man for some real dinner and real, very mediocre but vigorous sex. Let me know what happens with my dream lover, ’kay?” She left the room, leaving me there with my thoughts. My very indecent sex-fantasy-filled thoughts.

No, I decided. That was ridiculous. I would never ask for that. I didn’t even want Maxwell Cole. Especially after learning what a disgusting pig of a human being he was.

I groaned and pushed my hands through my hair.

So I didn’t want surgery. Or sex. (Ridiculous.) What did I want out of this deal? A line on my résumé and a paycheck didn’t cut it, considering what I’d have to endure seeing that man on a regular basis. Maybe I should be asking for stock options to fund my own company.

God. What am I thinking? I can’t take this job. It’s degrading. Besides, he only wanted me for some hidden agenda and not because he believed in me, which meant accepting the role would go against everything I believed in.

But then why had I already made up my mind to see him in the morning? Was it to turn him down to his face? Or was it because I had a burning desire to see him again and find out the truth?