Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 71(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
"Oh? Could've fooled me. Your aunt looked ready to shank you with her Louboutin."
I laugh for the first time in a week. It feels wrong and right at the same time, like seeing sunlight after months of darkness. "How do you know it's Louboutin and not Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik?"
With a straight face, Cole shrugs. "You have the same exact pair. I saw her checking yours out at the company gala last Christmas, and she suddenly showed up at the NYE event wearing that."
"Oh my God, how do you even notice that?"
"I notice everyone who looks at you the wrong way, even those who only want to copy your style."
"She's setting me up with Brian Percy," I say when my laughter fades. "And they were already talking about marriage. Brian fucking Percy."
Cole's hands tighten on the wheel. "Yeah, looked mighty gleeful at your discomfort, too."
I turn toward him, curious. "And? What do you think about Brian? You saw him a couple of times."
"He's an asshole and has the personality of a wet sock. His biggest problem in life is whether to wear his hair down or slicked back."
"Not exactly a ringing endorsement. When I hear ‘wet sock,’ my mind thinks wet cock." I shake my head, trying to undo that image. My head swivels to Cole.
"Not my job to endorse him."
"And he usually wears it slicked back."
"Unless he's at the beach and he wants to go for the mussed-up look, which he’s convinced chicks dig."
"Right? Remember that party last summer in Mexico? He was glowing while women circled him."
"And yet, he couldn't stop staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar."
I let out an unladylike snort. Cole looks threatening and scary on the outside, but when it's just him and me, the guy's pretty funny.
We pull into the underground garage of Ashton Square—the luxury shopping center Dad built when I was in college. Location for a Michelin-starred restaurant, high-end shopping, including all our brands, and on the top floor, my penthouse. My sanctuary.
Dad's graduation gift for me.
Cole parks in my reserved spot and kills the engine. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's already out and opening it for me.
"I can open my own door," I say, the familiar exchange comforting. We've been doing this dance for a while now.
"I know," he responds, with a little mock bow, like he always does.
We take the private elevator that requires both a key and a code, accessible only to me and a select few others. The mirrored walls reflect us back—me in my black dress, Cole towering beside me in his black suit and white shirt.
Two years ago, my father wanted to give me half a dozen bodyguards. I refused, the idea of being surrounded by security makes me feel more like a prisoner than protected. We compromised on one bodyguard-slash-driver who'd stay with me 24/7.
When Cole first walked into Dad's office, I knew I was in trouble. The hottest, most gorgeous man I've ever seen filled the doorway like he'd been built to the exact specifications of my most secret fantasies. Well, well, two years.
Two years of inappropriate thoughts about him. Two years of filthy fantasies that keep me awake at night. Two years of trying not to stare at the way his throat moves when he swallows, how his shoulders stretch his suit jacket, or his big, veiny hands flex on the steering wheel, while his muscles roll and roil in his forearms.
Two years of noticing. Two years of torment. Abject failure to act.
In the mirror, I watch his reflection as he keeps his gaze forward, professional as always. The suit fits him perfectly. Dad insisted on that, said if Cole was going to follow me into board meetings and charity galas, he should look the part.
Honestly, Cole could wear nothing but a flannel shirt and jeans, and the effect would be the same.
I wonder, sometimes, if Dad knew. If he saw the way I look at Cole when I think no one is watching. If he noticed how I always look over my shoulder to check if Cole's there.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal my private hallway. Just one door—my apartment, the penthouse that takes up the entire top floor. Cole steps out first, checking the hallway before allowing me to exit.
God, I'm so tired. Tired of being strong, of holding it together, of pretending I know what I'm doing. Of holding my tongue. Being sweet, meek, Merry Meredith. Of being matched with men I wouldn't date if they were the last men on earth.
Maybe it's the exhaustion or something else, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
"Maybe you should just marry me instead," I say, leaning against the wall.
I expect Cole to brush me off in that adorably gruff way of his. To remind me that he works for me, that there are boundaries, professional lines we don't cross. That I am his client, nothing more, nothing less.