I slid into my seat and reclined, turning away from him. I didn’t know how to feel about what I’d just done to him. I think I liked it a little too much, which was a huge mistake. A man like that was way out of my league.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
“Just tired, Mr. Cole. Goodnight.” I should’ve called him Max, but I didn’t want to—I felt the need to keep a little distance between us.
I heard him get up and leave. Probably to his own seat or something. Frankly, I didn’t care. I had no business wanting the things I suddenly wanted. And it scared the hell out of me.
You can’t let this go any further, Lily. You’ll just get hurt. I could feel it in my gut.
Around three p.m. Milan time, I woke up to a gentle prod from one of the pilots alerting me that the flight was over. When I sat up, Mr. Cole was heading out the door, screaming at someone on his phone in Italian.
I hoped everything with the show was okay. From his tone, it didn’t sound like it.
“Thank you.” I nodded to the pilot, stretching my arms.
“Miss Snow!” Mr. Cole screamed from outside. “Hurry your ass, please.”
I looked up at the pilot and shrugged. But then I realized I didn’t have to take the rude talk lying down. And I was capable of reciprocating.
“Hold your pants, Mr. Cole. I have to pee!” I supposed I should’ve used the word “piss” to mirror his rudeness, but pee sounded nicer.
I stood from my seat and gathered my things. As I passed the pilot, he gave me a wink, and I smirked like we were in some secret club belonging to the serfs.
In the bathroom, I took my time brushing my teeth for obvious reasons—yeesh, don’t think about it—fixed my hair into a ponytail, and washed my face. The entire twelve-hour flight felt like a dream. An erotic one. And now that the afternoon Milan sun shined bright, I needed a moment to gather myself. Mr. Cole and I were no longer inside our intimate, scotch-infused bubble. I hoped it wouldn’t be weird between us now.
You’re two grown adults. Of course it won’t be, I lied to myself. Still, I would make it absolutely clear that it had been a onetime thing—not that he’d want more from me—and as far as I was concerned the “deal” was fulfilled, not to mention he’d voided his right to accuse me of spinelessness.
I heard a knock on the bathroom door. “Lily? Are you all right” It was Cole. And he’d used my first name again, but I still felt uncomfortable using his. Distance was good. It would protect me.
Still, his concern made my heart do this little weird skip thing. “Yes, Mr. Cole.” I shoved my toothbrush into my accessory bag and then unlatched the door.
Mr. Cole stood there, arms crossed, his impatient frown greeting me. “There’s a shower at the hotel.”
“Good news. Because I’m feeling a little dirty,” I said, sliding past with a grin. I’d meant it in a good way, but the look on his face was filled with confusion. Or maybe curiosity? Then his cell rang, and the yelling in Italian commenced.
We made our way through immigration and customs, then on to the hotel. The area, at least from the limo, going down the Autostrada dei Laghi, looked so different than I imagined: normal with a lot of flat countryside, some trees, and I think I even saw…two McDonald’s?
How very Italian!
Once we got closer to the hotel, however, the Milan I’d seen in pictures started working its way into the scenery—the classic Italian-style architecture with that light brown and gray stone, wrought-iron balconies, and cute little shutters around the windows. The cobblestone one-way streets, barely wide enough for cars let alone the pedestrians or people on bicycles, were lined with art galleries, museums, and every pricy shop known to woman—Dolce, Pierre Cardin, Gucci. And then there were the crazy drivers in teeny-tiny cars or riding mopeds. The city buzzed with life, including tons of tourists and shoppers. Sadly, I wouldn’t be there long enough to do any of that, but I’d happily take whatever I got, which wasn’t bad at all.
From the limo, I snapped off a few shots of the Milan Cathedral and its elaborate Gothic-style turrets that stood off in the distance. However, when the driver turned down an adorable little street—filled with immaculately maintained, three- and four-story buildings tightly packed together—and then stopped in front of the Four Seasons, I put my phone down and stopped breathing. The beautiful arched doorways, the stone façade, the…everything. Later, I would do a little exploring and learn it had a full spa, indoor pool, cloistered garden, and had been built in the ’90s, to look like something from the fifteenth century. I would also make a mental note to have my ashes spread there.
“We’re staying here?” I asked, but Mr. Cole was busy yapping away on his phone. Pissed as hell.
The valet opened my door and let me out.
While Mr. Cole stayed absorbed in business, I absorbed the surroundings. The lobby—soaring arches, elaborate crown moldings, and antique chandeliers—was an eye-gasm. Italy on steroids with old-world style and modern drool qualities.
I resisted the urge to squeal. When the receptionist asked me about our reservations, I looked over at Mr. Cole, who gave me the scoot-scoot hand gesture.
“The reservation should be under the name Maxwell Cole,” I said.
“Sì, signorina. Here it is,” said the young brunette with an immaculate bun and red lips. “Two rooms, one night.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied.
She typed in a few things and then handed me the room cards. “If you need anything, Signorina Snow, please let us know.” The bellhop had already zoomed past us after gathering our luggage from the limo, so I assumed my things would be waiting.
I grabbed the keys, but when my eyes registered the room information printed on the envelopes, I coughed.
Holy shit. We were on the same floor in the executive suites with terraces. I had been sure he would put himself in the presidential suite and I’d be in one of their still fancy, but regular rooms. Had he downgraded just to be near me? And didn’t he realize the room he’d gotten me was way nicer than I needed? I was not Pretty Woman. I’m sorta the opposite, actually. Nevertheless, Roy Orbison’s voice still made an appearance in my head.
Holding up the keys, I looked over at Mr. Cole so he’d see we were all set.
Once again, he made the scoot-scoot gesture. I shook my head, trying not to appear ungrateful or nervous as we hit the elevator and he continued his call on his supersonic cell phone that stayed connected as we rode up. All the while, I kept wondering if he might ever decide to say anything about last night.
He had to say something, right? Or maybe I should? Then again, I didn’t want it to be weird between us.
The doors slid open, and I exited with him on my heels, subconsciously feeling a heat that wasn’t really there.
“Molto bene, Mauricio. Molto bene. But if you fuck this up, they won’t find the body,” he said.
I laughed as he disconnected the call.
“Something funny?” he snapped.
I handed him his envelope and then slid my key card into the reader at the door. “No, sir, Mr. Cole.” I held back a laugh.
“Good. Be ready at five o’clock.” He kept on going down the hall, and I watched him disappear around the corner. I felt relieved to see he wasn’t in the room next door. I don’t know why that would matter, but I suppose I didn’t want him hearing me sing in the shower.
I stepped inside my suite and instantly felt some of the tension drain from my body. I hadn’t realized how being around him really wound me up. He hadn’t said a word about last night, and while I would never resort to behaving like a needy woman, his lack of engagement had left my emotions stirring. Good or bad, I needed to know where we stood after last night.
Are you kidding me, Lil? Where we stood seemed rather clear to the negative fugly bitch inside my head. He was an extremely attractive, high-powered man who got anything he wanted from any woman he desired. Probably to him, my first coveted encounter with a penis was like a drive-thru
chocolate milkshake. Sweet and tasty, but cheap and nothing special. I needed to act like a mature woman and put it all into perspective.
You gave your boss a blowjob on the corporate jet. Which perspective might that be, Lily? That you’re a dirty, dirty woman?
No. I’m an opportunist with extenuating circumstances. Yeah, that sounded better.
I turned, and my eyes swept through the fancy room. “Holy crap.” Then I spotted the huge panoramic windows and glass doors leading outside. All of Milan was right there in front of me. The entire thing. I walked out onto the terrace and made a giant shame-free squeal. Just beyond the wrought-iron, waist-high railing, an ocean of little red tile roofs, the Milan Cathedral, and pristine gardens were laid out. I could seriously die happy on this terrace.
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 her
e.
“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!
Don’t get too carried away with yourself. You’re also Mr. Cole’s therapy tool. Yes, I needed to remind myself of that and stay grounded.
“I’ll wait here. You have five minutes, Miss Snow,” Mr. Cole said.
“Is Babs going to fit me herself?” Her company was based in New York—at least I think it was—but Babs was in town, so I could only hope!
“She’s at the show, but Margharita, her assistant, is waiting inside.”
Wow. Good enough for me! “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
I trotted up the cement steps that led to an arched doorway in the center of the building and rang the buzzer to enter the shop. I supposed they were an appointment-only sort of place given the cost.
The door popped open, and I stepped inside, immediately blinded by the bright lights, white marble floors, and sparkly dresses worth thousands displayed on elegant manikins. A few champagne-sipping shoppers stood on low platforms while seamstresses made adjustments to their hems with pins.
At the far end of the shop, a set of French doors with smoky glass popped open, and a petite brunette waved at me. “Lily! Come in. Come in,” she said hurriedly, with a thick Italian accent. I headed inside to what looked like a small private showing room, the walls lined with two tiers of racks and packed with shiny, colorful dresses.
“Wow. I think I just died.”
“And I will be di next to go if I do not get you into a dress queeckly.” She yanked down on the straps of my dress and peeled the thing off my shoulders. “Hurry up. Get out of dat thing.”