by Erin Hayes
And I mean that. Through all of the millennia, I’ve never met someone who was so fiercely independent, so smart, and so damn sexy in her own unique way.
I head into my apartment building, noting how sterile and uninviting it is. The marble floor is pristine and white. Gerard, the night doorman, is a nice guy, but he’s stiff and very formal. Completely unlike Max.
“Good evening, Mr. Eros,” he welcomes.
“Good evening,” I say in a clipped tone, trying to get through the lobby as quickly as possible. After a whole night of dealing with pent-up emotions and conflicting thoughts, I don’t want to hang around making idle chatter.
Gerard takes note and calls the elevator for me. Alone in the lift, I sigh and comb my hands through my hair as I head up to the penthouse suite.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I shouldn’t have opened the door to these feelings for Max. Mixing work with pleasure—even fake pleasure—is never a good idea.
I made that rule myself.
My apartment, which had always felt like a swank, confident bachelor pad when I first moved in, feels empty and devoid of any personality other than arrogance. It’s not a home, I realize. There’s nothing to show that anyone lives here.
My lip curls at the realization, and I stalk over to my wet bar, pulling out a glass and some ice. I grab some scotch and pour it. Dionysus would have a field day over my choice of liquor, but I frankly don’t care. I need something to take the edge off.
I need to numb this feeling as quickly as possible.
I take my scotch with me to the living room, and I sit in the extremely uncomfortable chair that my interior decorator had chosen because it was from a famous designer and was a “statement piece.” Right now, I just want something to curl up in to take away the pain.
I sit there for forty minutes, alternating between staring at my phone and sipping from my drink, my sense of panic growing with every moment. I should text Max to see if she made it all right. After all, I’ve heard some horror stories about people getting into trouble on their way home.
Then again, I remember that Max had taken some self-defense classes, so she can handle herself fine. But still, the worry gnaws at my insides. It’s unfamiliar to me, like I care way too much about her wellbeing.
Just when I decide that I should call her, a text comes through.
Max: Made it home. Thanks for a wonderful time.
Max, in her precise, buttoned-up manner, always texts in full sentences with proper grammar. I don’t think she’d ever allow herself to send just an emoji in text.
But that’s what I do in return. I just send her the kissing face emoji. Almost immediately, her reply comes back.
Max: Why did you do that?
Me: Do what
Max: Send that through?
I snicker as I type out my response. You’re going to be my fiancée, remember?
There’s a long pause before she replies. Right. See you tomorrow. And there’s the kissing face emoji right next to it, which does odd things to my insides.
I don’t know what to make of it.
I head to my bathroom, turn on the shower to a temperature that makes my teeth chatter from the cold, and try to block out Max’s face from my mind.
Still, I can’t help myself as I touch my lips, remembering the feel of hers against mine. The way her luscious rose and lavender scent fills up my senses, making me lose track of everything else. I imagine it’s her hand on my body, on my hard cock.
And when I come, I have to fight from crying out her name.
Something was set into motion tonight, and I think it’s something that I can’t stop. I have to face Max in the morning and pretend that there isn’t anything developing between us.
But the question remains—what if I am truly falling for her?
7
“It worked!”
I look up from my desk as Steven Liu storms into my office, the door slamming into the wall behind him. I see Max’s unimpressed expression from her desk as she watches him.
Everyone seems to be barging into my office these days.
“What worked?” I ask my publicist, who’s grinning from ear to ear.
He looks damn triumphant, like a kid who has been given an early Christmas present. “Your little date last night did the trick. You and Max are hot news, you son of a bitch!”
It must be good for him to drop a vulgarity like that. Usually, Steven is much more refined than this.
I’d been avoiding the news or social media since last night. Not that I had any time to dwell on it really. After my shower, I tried to sleep in my huge king-sized bed by myself, although I couldn’t stop thinking about, well, everything. I just kept thinking about Max, what she told me about her son, and why she agreed to act as my fiancée.
There’s a reason for it. One that I could help her with if only she’d set aside her pride and tell me. Then again, I keep thinking that there’s more to it. And I really, really can’t dwell on it.
“Where were we featured?”
Steven sits in the chair opposite me and pushes a folder across the plane of my desk. He’s beaming, absolutely thrilled. I guess I would be too after I had a crazy idea that actually worked. I slap my hand on top of the folder and slide it over to me, peering down at the stack of magazines and printouts. The top is a cut out from the Who’s Who section of a big newspaper, and it’s a shot of Max and me looking at each other across the table. I swallow back the lump in my throat because we truly do look like two people in love. Max is exceptionally photogenic, I realize. Her smile even looks genuine.
And me? I look less like the playboy and more like a man enraptured by a single person.
“That’s a nice photo of us,” I murmur honestly. I don’t remember a photographer taking that one, although that doesn’t mean anything. We’d been dining for over three hours last night, there were plenty of opportunities for snaps.
“And that’s not all,” Steven adds as he moves the clipping aside. “You two made the cover.”
It’s a local socialite magazine, much smaller than the newspaper, but it still makes its rounds through my clients and prospective ones. I raise an eyebrow at it’s a shot of Max and me getting out of the limo and into the restaurant. Again, she’s smiling like she only has eyes for me. Like I’m the only man for her.
HAS CUPID BEEN STRUCK? the caption says. Then, to my horror, the article speculates about my relationship with Max and if I’ll dump her like I did all the other women I’ve dated in the past. Nadya’s interview truly was damning.
“Looks like some are still skeptical,” I mutter.
Steven’s triumphant expression falters. “Well, you have to allow the news to get used to the idea that you’re this great guy, Damien. They’ve spent the last two weeks raking you over the coals, they can’t just do a 180 and say that you’re suddenly a one-woman man.”
I snicker. “You mean like the 180 they did when they decided I’m a womanizer?”
He shrugs. “They always love a bad guy. But,” he taps my picture, “if you keep this up, they can’t deny that you look like a man in love. That you’re changing your ways for ‘the One.’”
I can’t even deny it myself. I wonder if Max has seen this picture, and what she thinks of it. She looks like she’s reciprocating my feelings. And there’s a weird thrill that runs through my body at the thought of it.
“Well, we’ll see how it goes,” I say with a small smile. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Steven, who claps me on the back. I shoot him a cool look and, to my relief, he shrinks away. “So what’s next?”
“Well,” he says, thinking out loud, “you just keep doing what you’re doing. Go out on dates. Eventually a public proposal. Keep up this act.” He points to the picture again. “Oh, and you’ll have to find another personal assistant.”
I blink. “What?”
He chuckles, oblivious to my panic. “Well, you can’t expect Max to remain your personal assistant after this. Remember, you’re
supposed to be in love with her. It’s a love story waiting to happen. But if she remains your assistant, you’ll always have a power struggle with her. So, she’ll have to change roles in your employ. Be your partner.”
I glare at him, about to rip into his stupid smug smile for suggesting such a thing.
“I like this plan,” Max says from the doorway. We both whirl to see her standing there, crossing her arms as she leans against the door frame.
I look between the two of them and then shake my head. “No. Absolutely not.” Max raises a quizzical eyebrow. I can’t believe she’s agreeing with Steven. “You’re the best damn personal assistant. I…” My voice trails off, because I was about to say, “I can’t do this without you.” Which is exactly what a man in love would say, but I don’t know what my own feelings truly are. The lines between us are blurring and I can’t keep up.
Gods of Olympus, I’m in way over my head with this.
“You’re always threatening to fire me,” Max points out. “Because I don’t get you your stupid coffee. Among other things.”
Fuck, she’s serious. Can’t she take a joke? “That stuff is trivial,” I say, desperate. “You’re brilliant at helping me manage my clients. Manage my life. You can handle the worst of them and you’re always ahead of me. If you’re not there to do that…”
“I’m not saying for her to be fired outright,” Steven says. “I’m suggesting that she takes on the role of partner. Which is what your relationship would be anyway.”
“I’d still do the most important duties,” Max adds. “You’d basically just need a secretary to sit out there.” She gestures with her head toward her desk beyond the door “I know a few staffing agencies I can contact to get a good fit immediately.”
“And where would you sit?” Her eyes roam the office, and I realize that she’s measuring the space for her new desk. “No. No, you’re not sharing my office.”
I realize how pathetic I sound in that moment.
“It’s cheaper than renting out more space.” Her arms cross again. “This is the easiest—and cheapest—way of doing this.”
Our eyes meet, her green-eyed gaze daring me to protest. To cross her.
And I don’t. Shit.
“The media would hate the fact that you’re keeping Max as your personal assistant,” Steven says. “After all, this is the woman you love—” he indicates Max, who blushes deep scarlet, “—so you’d want to keep her close to you at all times. And not have her do all that menial work. It shows that you value her as a partner in life.”
I glare at Steven and then look back at Max. “You’re not getting another raise from me.”
She smirks. “No, the promotion is good enough.”
Aggravating woman.
I comb my hands through my hair. “This is blackmail.”
Max has the audacity to laugh, but Steven is still trying to smooth things over. “This is just for your public persona. You can have a temp do Max’s public duties while she continues to do what she does best behind the scenes.” At my dubious expression, he adds, “You know it’s true. The media will love Max’s Cinderella story.”
“You’re getting no glass slippers from me,” I snarl to her.
She only laughs. “Those sound even less comfortable than stilettos.”
“And it will change your reputation from being a bad guy to being a good guy,” Steven continues. “It’s for the best.”
“For the best,” I mutter. Max is watching me keenly, and I sit back with a sigh. “Fine.”
She thrusts out her hand. “Partners?”
I roll my eyes. I seem to be making terrible deals lately. “Partners.”
Then, to my shock, she turns to Steven with a sugary sweet smile. “I guess this means that you work for me now, too. So how about getting me a nonfat latte from Starbucks?”
I can’t tell if she’s joking, but Steven’s expression makes it all worthwhile. I laugh at Max’s delighted expression. And that makes everything—from making her my “partner” to this whole charade—worthwhile, too.
8
“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Eros,” Carrie, the new secretary says with a nervous smile. She looks every part the secretary, from her blonde hair pulled back with two pencils, to her smart skirt.
But she’s no Max. She’s giving me this coffee way too willingly to even come close to Max.
“Thanks,” I grumble. She sets it on the corner of my desk, a paper cup with coffee she made in the waiting room. I pick it up and frown at it. She put too much creamer in it. Again.
“And here’s your coffee, Miss Galloway,” Carrie says, setting down a cup on Max’s brand-new desk that sits adjacent to mine.
Max takes it and blows on it, giving the new secretary a warm smile. “Thank you, Carrie,” she says.
“Can I get you two anything else?” Carrie asks, pausing between our two desks. She clasps her hands in front of her like an expectant, waiting puppy. Max never did that. If she ever did ask if I needed anything else, it was always as an afterthought.
Shit, I’m in such a bad mood. It’s only been a week since I promoted Max to “partner” and I’m still all discombobulated. She still stops by my apartment every morning, and we still walk to the office together, along with many of her previous duties. But there’s something different between us now.
So, sue me.
I’m an ancient god, and I take change very hard. I just want things to go back to the way they were. I want this awkwardness between Max and me gone. I want to get rid of this feeling. I want to be back in control of my life.
And I want my damn coffee the way I like it.
“That’ll be all,” Max says, interrupting my thoughts. “Thanks again.”
She gives me the side-eye as Carrie leaves us alone in the office. It’s been incredibly hard working with Max a few feet away from me. I can smell her rose vanilla perfume and the mint toothpaste she uses after every meal.
It’s damned distracting.
Max drums her nails on the smooth polished wood of her desk. She watches me with intent. “You need to lighten up.”
“What?”
“If you frown any more, you’ll have to get a facelift to look happy in photos.” Max sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Which is exactly the opposite of what you’re going for.” She winks at me. “You’re supposed to be happy, remember?”
“I am happy.”
She lifts a brow, and I pointedly ignore her.
In fact, I cannot remember a time when I’ve been more miserable. And it’s not that I’m wallowing in my despair—quite the opposite. It’s because I can’t think straight when I’m spending so much time with Max.
We’ve been on a few dates since that first one, all at places where we are guaranteed to be seen by the right people. An art opening in Soho. A charity event with the mayor of New York. Dinners at the chicest places. Every time with Max at my side, grinning and looking her most beautiful.
And that professional line between us keeps blurring. Whether it’s her hand on mine, her eyes shining in delight, or her full, luscious lips pulled up into a radiant smile, I have to fight my own urges to take it too far. I can’t tell if she’s acting or—impossibly—if she’s covering up her own feelings for me.
Like I’m doing for her. I think. Gods dammit, I have no fucking clue these days.
All I know is that I’m swinging from bliss to self-loathing and getting whiplash in the meantime. I could use my powers to test the waters with her and get a read.
But that feels like it’s cheating against Max. And I don’t want to violate her privacy in that way.
But, I guess Steven earns his money well. The media is alight with glowing news about Max’s and my blossoming “relationship.” Tentative publications have started to embrace the idea that I could change my ways. And true to Steven’s word, they love Max’s role in everything. With any other woman, she may be ripped to shreds and shamed for essentially “sleeping with her boss.�
�� But her exuding confidence has helped her reputation skip over gold digger and land firmly into hard-earned territory. Everyone thinks she belongs in her position as a high-profile partner of my firm.
And, if I admit it myself, she should have been promoted a long time ago.
Maybe it’s my arrogance. Or maybe I’m just an asshole. But putting Max into this new role has made me realize that she deserves this. She’s brilliant.
And I’m so damn lucky to have her in any capacity. As a fiancée or as a partner. Hell, even as a friend.
I took her for granted, I know.
But…I so wish I could have a decent morning coffee with the change. Begrudgingly, I get up from my chair and toss the full cup into the trash before walking over to the Keurig machine. I shove a coffee mug underneath it and press the button with a little too much gusto.
“That’s the third day you’ve done that,” Max calls to me. I stiffen at her voice, refusing to look back at her. “And it’s wasteful.”
“It’s terrible.”
“So have her stop getting you coffee then.”
“We should find a new secretary.” Someone like you. “One who used to be a barista.”
I hear her exhale slowly and glance back at her, curious. “You’re not firing Carrie,” she says in a low voice. “You may have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, Damien, but I know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck. And I think she needs this.”
She crosses her arms and waits. Because she’s right. I am keeping Carrie. Because I don’t want to disappoint Max.
“Fine,” I say with a pout as I take the now-steaming mug out from under the spout. I blow on it and take a sip. It’s better. Only marginally so, but at least I can blame myself.
“Shoot,” Max exclaims, getting to her feet. She grabs her purse and her blazer.
I frown back at her. “What?”
“I have to leave. I have this stupid hair appointment in twenty minutes, and—”
My frown deepens. “Hair appointment?” It sounds very un-Max-like, and judging from her expression, she’s not looking forward to it either.
