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  “Mr. Cole, it’s Lily—I mean Miss Snow—whatever—I need you to call me back. It’s important. A Nancy Little came to see me, and I…fuck. Just call me when you get this.”

  I went into my room, plugged in my cell, and left it charging on my nightstand. I don’t know how long I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to come up with some explanation that could possibly justify why Maxwell Cole had been recruiting these women and discarding them or why he hadn’t told me.

  Nothing.

  There was no reason under the sun for that. But what I did know was that I felt betrayed and afraid. This private affair, I naïvely believed existed in an insulated room that only Maxwell Cole and I could enter, wasn’t so private. There were others inside with us, and soon the world would get a peek.

  Oh God. The things they would say about me and assume.

  I began to cry. Yeah, it was time.

  ~~~

  Around three in the morning, I woke to my cell vibrating on my nightstand. I rolled over, my brain foggy with sleep, and looked at the number. It was Mr. Cole.

  “Hello?” I mumbled.

  “Open your fucking door.”

  He was here? At my apartment? Sonofabitch had some serious explaining to do. “One sec.”

  I hopped from my bed and made a quick pass into my bathroom. I looked like shit—even for me—like I’d been crying because clearly I had been. I rinsed with mouthwash and hurried to the door. Yes, I had my yellow ducky PJs, but this wasn’t a time for putting on something sexy like a lace teddy.

  Mr. Cole stood there, still in his jeans and black T-shirt, his hair looking even messier than ever. Is that a chicken wing stain on his shirt?

  “Nice pajamas. And what the hell took you so long?” he asked with a slight slur to his words.

  “Are you drunk?” I whispered, poking my head into the hallway.

  “Yeah, so what.” He pushed past me, and I closed the door.

  “Did you drive like this?”

  He headed into my kitchen and opened the fridge, immediately looking disappointed. “You now make two hundred thousand a year, but you have no food or beer?”

  With the light of the fridge, his hazel eyes looked redder than hell. Had he been crying, too? No. Hell no.

  “I’ve been traveling and haven’t had time to shop. Let me make you some tea.”

  He slammed the door shut. “I don’t want tea.”

  “Okay. Can I give you a ride home, then?” Because clearly he was in no state to talk sanely about Nancy Little, and this wasn’t the sort of situation we could resolve by screaming at each other with one of us being shitfaced.

  “My driver is downstairs.” He stumbled past me and went into the living room. “God, this place makes me sick.” He plopped down on the floral sofa.

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure not to have you over uninvited again.” I sat in the green armchair, leaning forward. His troubled stare really made me nervous. Simply put, he wasn’t the sort of person to unhinge or let things get to him. “Let me get you back into your car, Mr. Cole.”

  “You’re going to stab me in the back, aren’t you, Lily? You’re going to turn into one of those backstabbing bitches.”

  I blinked at him.

  He continued, “She thinks I killed her sister, but I tried to help her. She was more fucked up than me—if you can believe that shit.”

  “So you know about Nancy Little’s book?”

  He shook his finger at me. “I never promised those women anything, Lily. But I treated them with respect. I was nothing but a gentleman, and when things weren’t working, I stopped.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I just don’t understand why they turned on me. Maybe they wanted more. Maybe they wanted what they couldn’t have or they felt used—I don’t know, but they never said a word. Then they stabbed me in the back—people I trusted.” I tried to pick through his rant and piece together the entire story, but there were too many holes.

  “I’m not going to stab you in the back, Mr. Cole. I promise. But I need you sober for this. We can talk in the morning.” Not like this crap is going to crawl into the toilet and flush itself away in one night. No. This was not that sort of problem. And I was absolutely terrified.

  “Where’s the bathroom? I’m going to throw up,” he said.

  Speaking of toilets… “It’s right there.” I pointed to the door between my bedroom and Danny’s. “Second on the right.”

  He staggered to his feet, and when I rose to help him, he pushed my hands away. “I got it,” he said belligerently.

  “Fine.” I held up my hands. “Call me if you need any help.”

  I waited for a few minutes, and when I didn’t hear anything, I knocked on the door. “Mr. Cole? Are you okay?”

  Nada.

  I opened the door and found him sleeping with his head on the toilet seat. Yes, I desperately had the urge to take a photo, but lucky for him, I wasn’t a complete bitch.

  I gave him a quick shake, but he was out cold. Fabulous. What was I going to do with him? He was twice my size or damned near close to it.

  I went over to our living room window and looked out at the street. There was no limo parked there. Had his driver dumped him here?

  Okay. What am I going to do with you? Danny was with her boyfriend tonight, so I couldn’t ask her for help—probably a good thing because she’d be molesting Mr. Cole or posing him in compromising positions with herself and posting pics all over the place.

  I decided I’d lay down some towels and slide him off the toilet so he wouldn’t crack his head on anything. As gently as I could, I got him onto his side and covered him up. Lying there, passed out on my bathroom floor, I couldn’t help but stare at the man and wonder what was truly going on with him. Had he really been using these women, or had it been the other way around?

  I guess it’s going to have to wait until morning.

  I left the night light on, in case he woke up later wondering where the hell he was, and got back into bed.

  Saturday morning, Danny’s voice whispering in my ear woke me from a vividly sexual dream involving Maxwell Cole’s hard body grinding against my ass while he fondled my breasts and groaned my name in sweet sexual agony as I denied him.

  “Lily? Lily?”

  I slowly opened my eyes to a grinning, giddy Danny.

  “Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Is that Maxwell Cole?”

  Huh? I looked over my shoulder to the man spooning my body, his strong arm wrapped around my midriff.

  Crap. He must’ve gotten up at one point and found me, which meant that hard thing sticking into my tailbone wasn’t a dream.

  “Get out,” I grumbled.

  “Just one picture? Please, I’m begging you.”

  “No,” I hissed, “now get out.”

  She obeyed, mock-pouting the entire way.

  I looked at my phone. It was seven in the morning—Danny usually went to the gym at this time and her boyfriend did some sort of bike riding—which was why she was up. Mr. Cole, on the other hand, needed to get the hell out of my apartment. What if that Nancy lady was watching me? It would not help me avoid getting dragged into whatever the hell she was doing if my boss was seen doing a walk of shame from my apartment after a night of drinking.

  I shoved him off me, sat up, and gave the lump of dead-to-the-world manliness at my side a little shake. “Max, wake up.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Max? Mr. Cole? Maxwell? You have to go.”

  He rolled over, giving me his back.

  “Uh-uh. You can’t stay here. You have to go now,” I said sternly.

  “You go. My fucking head hurts.”

  “Yes. I know, but it will hurt much nicer in the comfort of your own bed.”

  “Fuck off,” he mumbled.

  Ugh. Fine. I reached down and pinched his ass. “Wake the hell up, Mr. Cole.”

  He sat up, his eyes moving around my room and then glancing at my face. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “Good quest
ion. One we can answer later by phone when we talk about Nancy Little’s book and the fact that you’ve fucked me over in a way I never dreamed possible. Time for you to go—I don’t want anyone seeing you leave my apartment.”

  “The book.” He stared at the wall for a moment, obviously trying to sort a few things out.

  “Mr. Cole, I’m trying very hard not to blow a fucking fuse here, so please just go.”

  Instead, he kept on staring at the wall, his jaw pulsing. “You’re moving in with me.”

  “Huh?” Was he still drunk?

  He looked over at me. Well, at my neck. “You’re moving in with me.”

  I didn’t respond with words, but the “are you nuts?” look on my face was sufficient.

  He stood from the bed, rubbing his face and making a little groan as his biceps flexed into half-hard mounds. “I knew about Nancy Little. It was the reason I took a risk on you.”

  “So this entire time, you were aware that this journalist was writing a book about you, using testimony from two other women to call you out as a fraud.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I fumed.

  “I didn’t want to discourage you from accepting my offer.”

  “So you withheld information that could potentially damage my life and drag me through the mud?” How could he fucking do that? “You’re such a selfish prick.”

  “I thought we’d established that already.”

  Flippant bastard. “No. That’s my answer: No. I don’t want anything to do with your little scandal, and when I clear my head, I’m going to try my absolute best not to fall apart because you’ve hurt me worse than every cruel motherfucker I’ve ever known rolled into one.”

  He tilted his head, looking offended. “It was never my intention to get you dragged into this, but you’re part of it now whether you like it or not. That’s Nancy’s doing, not mine.”

  Dammit. I didn’t want to argue about this; I wanted it to not happen.

  “Can you sue her, or get a judge to stop her?” Defamation of character wasn’t legal, was it?

  “My lawyers hit a wall despite my hopes I could make it all go away, so that book is being published in four weeks.”

  Stay calm. Stay calm. Do not murder the billionaire. “So what does she want me for?” I asked.

  “She probably feels you’d be of value if you spoke publically after the release of her story,” he said.

  “This is crazy.” And I wasn’t referring only to this woman’s book, but to his reaction to it. He was so calm, like it was just another business issue he needed to deal with. No prob.

  “Yes,” he responded.

  “So why not just tell the truth?” It was an honest question. He could come out publically and speak about his disorder. People might understand.

  He looked at me. “Tell millions of customers that the sight of unattractive people gives me panic attacks? Or that while I do believe women should be more focused on their self-worth, the number one thing I judge them on is their looks. Yes, I can see how that will work.”

  I stood and stared across the bed at him, feeling exposed. “Why will my moving in with you help anything?”

  “Accelerated therapy. When the book comes out, I need to be cured of this. I need to be able to look any woman in the face and prove to the world the stories are lies.”

  “But they’re not.”

  “It’s none of their goddamned business, Lily,” he fumed. “And the relationships I had with those women—years ago, by the way—were private, just like my relationship with you.”

  I could understand his point. I mean, if the guy had erectile dysfunction and was trying to work through it privately with a girlfriend, it would be genuinely wrong for her to write a book about it. On the other hand, Maxwell Cole had built his company on a philosophy he physically couldn’t prescribe to. The only way to deal with this was head-on before the book came out and to talk openly about his problem. He could make people understand that he’d been trying to overcome his issues any way he could.

  “What happened with the others?” I asked.

  He looked down at his black shiny shoes—yes, he’d worn his shoes to bed—my bed. “I guess they lied to me and couldn’t truly handle it.”

  “That’s it?” There had to be more.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “So you…what? Tried to work on desensitizing yourself and—”

  “I paid them money to spend time with me. I had no progress with one woman and moved on. The next eventually wanted more from me and we quit when I couldn’t reciprocate—she seemed to understand. I broke it off with the last one, Sarah, because she was unstable. She killed herself six months after we ended our sessions, but not because of me. She was depressed. That was four years ago. I gave up trying despite my therapist’s insistence I continue confronting my issue.”

  I believed him. I really did. But still. Knowing he’d had other women in his life like this made me feel disposable or cheap somehow.

  “Did you fuck them, too?” I asked.

  He gave me a sharp look. “No. I just told you, it wasn’t like that. At least not for me.”

  “Oh.” I nodded, trying to think that through.

  “You’re the only one I’ve been able to make progress with, Lily. The only one in seven years since I started therapy. Which is why I want to move things faster.”

  Seven years? He’d been trying to overcome this for seven damned years? “I think you should find a new therapist.”

  “The problem isn’t her, Lily. It’s me.”

  Yeah, no kidding.

  “Well, you should’ve told me before dragging me into all this. And now it’s time for you to go.” What the hell was I going to do? I’d been at C.C. a little over a month, and I didn’t want to leave—I loved working there—but once this book came out, that Nancy lady was going to pull me into all this. I’d never get a job at another company because I’d be known as…whatever…one of Mr. Cole’s ugly women. I honestly wanted to beat the crap out of him. How dare he do this to me?

  “Lily, I know you’re upset with me, but you can’t run from this—”

  “Yeah. I get that, Mr .Cole, but I need to think.”

  “Fine. I’ll go, but think about what I’m asking. Come live with me. No one will know.”

  I still just couldn’t make sense of how that made any sense to him. He’d spend more time with me, accelerate his “healing,” and then face the world and tell them what? Was I missing something? Because this man wasn’t stupid or crazy. So for whatever reason he wanted this, I simply wasn’t seeing the rationale.

  Or he’s not telling you everything. I shook my head, biting my tongue.

  He turned to leave. “One other thing,” he said, stopping in my doorway, “if you think this is really about me or you, then you’re wrong. There are thousands of people who will lose their jobs—and homes and cars and won’t be able to pay for their children’s college—if C.C. goes under because of this.”

  “Then resign. Hand the company over to someone else.”

  He blew out a breath. “My leaving now would be just as destructive—especially right before we go public.”

  I supposed he was right. That man was the face of the company.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said. “Please think about it.”

  Think about it. Think about it? Think about it! I wanted to run over him with my car.

  “Sure,” I replied, just wanting him to go. “I’ll think about it.”

  I watched him leave, trying not to get emotional. If I got hung up on getting angry and playing the blame game, it might make me feel damned good, but it wouldn’t save me or C.C., the only place I’d be able to work after this was all said and done.

  God, Max. How could you do this to me? On the other hand, I had only myself to blame. I agreed to this arrangement, and I should’ve known something was going to happen.

  All right. So when most people find themselves in a
position where everything hinges on a single decision, they go to the people they trust for advice. But my situation was already set to destruction mode, only there were two degrees. The lesser degree would be that when the book came out, Mr. Cole would refute the women’s stories and I would end up a footnote of sorts and the center of a lot of tabloid and office gossip. That was the best case. Worst case was no one believed him, the company tanked, and my name still got dragged through the mud. Either way, I was ruined.

  Ruined.

  The man who’d promised me a bright sunny future had effectively placed me in a position where I’d be known not for my accomplishments or intelligence, but for being ugly. Just another woman he had “therapy” sessions with. I would be laughed at, ridiculed, and criticized.

  Then there was my own part in this. I’d agreed to this relationship. There’d been no gun to my head.

  That’s why I didn’t need advice; I needed a strong shoulder to cry on.

  I took a shower, dressed in my most comforting black yoga pants and white tee, and then went in my room and called my brother. It was about seven in the morning West Coast time.

  “Lily?” he answered with a groggy voice.

  “John, I’ve fucked up.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “I’m serious. I’ve ruined my life with this one.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  When I got done telling John the entire story, even the part about sleeping with Mr. Cole—minus the unnecessary details—I expected my big brother to say something like “Wow. You’re screwed.”

  But that’s not what he said. “I’m going to fucking kill that guy.”

  I sighed. “I’ve got that covered on my to-do list already.”

  “No, I’m serious, Lily. That asshole needs to pay. You have to go public with the other women.”

  “What? Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because he took advantage of you. He used you. And now your life is going to be fucked because of him.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Of course, I’d agreed to the using, just not the public scandal part. “But going against him doesn’t help me.”