My name is Maxwell Cole. I am now thirty-four years old. I am six foot three, and I was once the man millions of women longingly stroked themselves to each night, wishing for a taste. I am also fucking ugly.

Yes, they say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but so is ugly. And if anyone’s picture were to be posted in the dictionary, surely my photo would deserve the spot beside the word.

No, I am not lacking when it comes to looks—a face that can stop any woman’s heart with a subtle twitch of my lips, and a body I’ve dedicated the last twenty years, several hours each day, to sculpting and perfecting, right down to the diagonal ridges that run below my six-pack and end right at my large dick.

My bank account is nothing to sneeze at either. I am, by most people’s definitions, fucking handsome as hell and a great catch.

Yet, there is a part of me, buried deep inside, that thinks so many ugly thoughts that sometimes I wonder if I’m human. How can anyone with a heart or a soul think such despicable things about women?

Because I do.

Those who fail to meet my standards of beauty have revolted me as long as I can remember.

My mother beat those thoughts into me. She nearly drove my sister mad, too.

But knowing those toxic thoughts weren’t my own, yet feeling them anyway, triggered a lifelong obsession. Ironically, I also found inspiration in these women who cause such deep emotional conflict inside me.

Short, tall, small tits, big asses—didn’t matter. I found a certain fascination in these people who, despite their superficial imperfections, clearly loved themselves. I can learn from them, I’d thought. And I can be that voice that tells them not to listen to the Mrs. Coles of the world.

That was why I founded C.C.—to prove to myself that I did not have to be a product of my mother’s illness. There was a sweet, twisted, vengeful beauty making billions by preaching to the masses how wrong her ideals were.

But everything I had was built on lies. My lies. Because I shared her same sickness.

Then I met Lily.

It’s difficult for a man, especially one like me, to articulate how someone like her affects you. But the moment she refused to accept my disgusting, afflicted ways, the belief inside her that a person was more than what my eyes saw, I knew; I’d never seen a more beautiful woman. And that moment in Milan when I couldn’t stop smiling? That was when I saw her beginning to realize it also. If there was hope for her, there was hope for me.

Unfortunately, too many assholes like me had gotten to her. She wasn’t a lost cause, but it would take some work to get her to see herself through my eyes.

Only I’d failed. I’d failed to get through to her.

She said that she didn’t deserve me, but it’s only because she had no clue what I’d been before I’d met her. And now, I needed to tell her everything, including how I had never planned to keep her as my employee. I’d planned to have her work by my side. Forever. Only, I hadn’t had the balls to come clean before it all went to shit.

A fucking coward.

Yet, here I was, standing outside her little store with daisies painted on the window that she’d created with her own two hands. Those soft, loving, sensual hands.

I stepped inside her small clothing boutique, just a block from the main street in downtown Santa Barbara. I knew she had no employees—yet—worked twelve hours a day, if not more, and had paid off her loans from the settlement with those fucking news vultures who’d stalked her. She would never have full strength in her left arm again, the scar on her forehead would never fade, and despite the surgeries, her nose would always lean slightly to the right, according to Dr. Bloomfield.

But I knew I would love every imperfection more than ever, because despite six months of separation, I couldn’t move on. And I had finally forgiven myself just like I’d forgiven her. Like me, she’d been blinded by that ugly voice in her head. But she’d also given me back my life. Lily was everything to me.

“Hello, Lily.”

She turned, and her beautiful brown eyes went from a warm friendly glow to trepidation.

“Max? What are you doing here?”

Looking at her face, now healed, took me by surprise. It still looked like her, but the bulbous nose was replaced with a thinner more delicate shape. That large square chin had been sculpted down into a rounded point. And those eyes that once had lids sagging over the sides were wide open and round. The scar on her forehead left a little mark that ran into her hairline, but other than that, I couldn’t see much evidence of the meat grinder her face had gone through during the accident.

However, as I stood there staring at her, the beauty of her new face was completely lost on me. All I could see when I gazed into her eyes was us.

“I heard you’re hiring a part-time assistant.” I pointed to the sign in the window.

With a stern expression, she placed that petite hand on her sexy little hip in that feisty way I so adored.

“I also heard you might be looking for a husband,” I added. “But I don’t have any experience. Think you might consider me anyway?”

She smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

THE END

Hi All,

Usually, I have a note at the end of every book telling you about what comes next or swag or some other fun stuff. But I felt like this story deserved something different. A little backstory.

While it is perfectly okay to enjoy this book as entertainment, the underlying piece of this comes from a recent realization in my life.

It’s insane, but despite my beautiful children, loving husband, triumphs, and degrees, I realized that there is something broken in the way I think. And I’m not alone.

Getting older, grayer, and larger has made me question my self-worth. But here’s the kicker: When I was 15, 19, 22, 28, 35 and 42, the face staring back at me in the mirror has always been the same: Not good enough. 110 pounds or 190, I’ve despised aspects of my body equally.

This book was never about a young woman looking for acceptance, but about that derailing inner voice determined to sabotage our best intentions and potential. It tells us women that we don’t deserve to love ourselves because we’re not perfect. And it’s toxic. (Just like Mr. Cole’s mother.)

But we all know that beauty fades. And true love does not. And that includes self-love. So I hope if you’re like me—constantly struggling to keep your fugly voice from taking you down—this story will inspire you to never give up and trust those who love you. There is a reason they love you: because you deserve it. And when those moments come when you doubt yourself, just take a moment and try to see yourself through their eyes.

With Love,

Mimi

P.S. Yeah…I’ve still got some swag made up.   :-)   Send a note to [email protected] with your address. Be sure to mention if you POSTED a review so I can include something extra as a “thank you.”

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PLAYLIST:

“Written In The Water” by Gin Wigmore

“Respect” by Aretha Frankllin

“Between Love & Hate” by The Strokes