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.