Fugly

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “SO I JUST RAN WITHOUT A SHIRT…

  …for a quarter mile and would’ve gotten to go anyway?”

  “Not really. But I wanted to make you feel bad. By the way, has anyone ever told you you’re completely mad?”

  I laughed and turned around to unravel my tank top and slip it over my head, a huge smile on my face. “So, what time do we leave for the air—”

  I suddenly felt his hot sweaty body pressed up against my back, his one hand on my bare waist, the other sweeping my long hair to one side. “No need to put that back on.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “Wha-wha-what are you doing?” I whispered, feeling his hands slide up the front of my body and begin touching my breasts over my bra. He was hard. Really, really hard, and straining against my lower back.

  “I think that’s fairly obvious; keeping our deal,” he said, his hot breath tickling my neck.

  I was about to say something to explain how I didn’t really want him to do what he was doing, but it would’ve been a lie. The heat of his skin on my back, his hard cock pressing into me while his hands massaged my breasts felt better than anything I’d ever experienced.

  His lips trailed down the side of my neck and stopped right on the little spot where my shoulder started.

  How was this happening? Because wasn’t he…didn’t he have that problem with…?

  Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Contents

  other works by mimi jean pamfiloff

  dedication

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  note from author

  acknowledgements

  upcoming releases

  about the author

  IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, Inc. (Book 1/Paranormal Romance/Humor)

  FATE BOOK (New Adult Suspense/Humor)

  FATE BOOK TWO (New Adult Suspense/Humor)

  THE HAPPY PANTS CAFÉ (Prequel/Romantic Comedy)

  THE MERMEN TRILOGY (Dark Fantasy)

  Mermen (Book 1)

  MerMadmen (Book 2)

  THE KING TRILOGY (Dark Fantasy)

  King’s (Book 1)

  King for a Day (Book 2)

  King of Me (Book 3)

  THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES (Paranormal Romance/Humor)

  Accidentally in Love with…a God?

  Accidentally Married to…a Vampire?

  Sun God Seeks…Surrogate?

  Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella)

  Vampires Need Not…Apply?

  Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella)

  Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale)

  COMING SOON

  MERCILESS (Book 3, the Mermen Trilogy)

  MACK (Book 4, the King Series)

  TOMMASO (Immortal Matchmakers Series, Book 2)

  BRUTUS (Immortal Matchmakers Series, Book 3)

  GOD OF WINE (Immortal Matchmakers Series, Book 4)

  TAILORED FOR TROUBLE (THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES Book 1) (Romantic Comedy)

  What sort of person or organization would put up a website that uses stolen work (or encourages its users to share stolen work) in order to make money for themselves, either through website traffic or direct sales?

  Haven’t you ever wondered?

  Putting up thousands of pirated books onto a website or creating those anonymous ebook file sharing sites takes time and resources. Quite a lot, actually.

  So who are these people? Do you think they’re decent, ethical people with good intentions? Why do they set up camp anonymously in countries where they can’t easily be touched? And the money they make from advertising every time you go to their website, or through selling stolen work, what are they using if for?

  The answer is you don’t know.

  They could be terrorists, organized criminals, or just greedy bastards. But one thing we DO know is that THEY ARE CRIMINALS who don’t care about you, your family, or me and mine.

  And their intentions can’t be good.

  And every time you illegally share or download a book, YOU ARE HELPING these people. Meanwhile, people like me, who work to support a family and children, are left wondering why anyone would condone this.

  So please, please ask yourself who YOU are HELPING when you support ebook piracy and then ask yourself who you are HURTING.

  And for those who legally purchased/borrowed/obtained my work from a reputable retailer (not sure, just ask me!) muchas thank yous! You rock.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 978-0-9962504-3-6

  Cover Design by EarthlyCharms.com

  Editing by Latoya C. Smith and Pauline Nolet

  Formatting by Writeintoprint.com

  To Cassie.

  Because you always know just what to say when everyone is having a fucking ugly day.

  They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And while I can’t argue with that, I can say the same holds true for ugly. Especially in my case.

  I used to think I was beautiful—on the inside, anyway—and he was the monster. A horrible, unscrupulous, arrogant prick hiding behind the face of a bona fide, modern-day sex god. CEO, model, a man who had everything.

  I was wrong. About both of us. And my blindness has led us to the edge. A pivotal cluster fuck.

  My name is Lily Snow. I am twenty-five years old, five foot six, weigh one hundred and twenty pounds, and I have just fucked up my life. Along with his.

  Good God, I never should have put him in a position like this. But what else could I do? I’m just an ugly girl in love with a beautiful man.

  I’m so sorry, Max. I’m so, so sorry.

  ~~~

  Two months earlier.

  Do not be afraid. He’s just a person. Do not be afraid. He’s just a person. As I fidgeted on the white couch in the middle of the minimally decorated lobby—bright white walls, floors, and furniture with a few oversized photos of red juicy lips on the walls—I quietly prepared for the most important interview of my life: a role as junior sales manager at Cole Cosmetics—aka C.C.—in Chicago where I now lived. Getting this job would symbolize walking through a door people said would never be open to someone like me. And once I got in, it would serve as a stepping-stone for everything I wanted in life, mainly start
ing my own cosmetics company.

  Someday.

  In the meantime, I needed this—the experience, the prestige—and to prove to myself I had what it took to work at the world’s most edgy, glamorous cosmetics company that had set every trend for the last six years. One whisper from C.C., and the stylish masses of A-list actresses, pop divas, and fashion designers scrambled to catch up. This summer, sea-foam-green eyeshadow and orange lips were God, but I didn’t dare wear anything so bold. Calling attention to my face was not a smart move.

  “Lily Snow?” I heard a woman call my name.

  I looked over at the slender, gorgeous redhead, not much older than me, wearing a fitted blue dress and strappy blue heels. Her smoky, mascara-caked eyes scanned the nearly empty lobby, looking right over my head.

  “Hi. I’m Lily Snow.”

  Her eyes fell on my face with a spark of shock she quickly tried to conceal. “You’re…Miss Snow?”

  I gave her a quick nod.

  “Oh,” she said stiffly. “Don’t you have lovely hair.”

  Her comment was what I liked to call a “conscience clearer.” It was when someone realized they just acted like a coldhearted ass and then quickly tried to make it up to me with a compliment. Usually about my long, wavy blonde hair or my “cute little body.”

  I stood from my chair and extended my hand. “Thanks. I’ll trade my hair for your shoes. Your Manolos are to die for.” They were a limited release made just for Oscar season. Very expensive.

  My shoes, for the record, were Franco Sarto heels I’d found on clearance at The Rack, black and simple, just like my pencil skirt and blouse. I would’ve loved to wear something more expensive, but the job I’d been in—a one-year consulting project at B&H Cosmetics—was for the experience rather than a big paycheck. I could’ve done better, but I’d had my sights on C.C., and I knew Mr. Cole, the owner, worked at B&H right after college.

  I’m on your heels, big man.

  A little smile popped on the redhead’s face. “My boyfriend got them for me,” she said, doing a little pivot to show off the shoes. “He works for Babs Levine.”

  Uh. Wow. Babs was the world’s top formal dress designer, who once worked for some of the biggest names in fashion before going out on her own. She practically owned the red carpet this last season.

  “Well,” I smiled, “if you ever get tired of your boyfriend, I’m single.”

  She laughed so loud her voice echoed off the sterile-looking walls of the lobby. “I don’t think so.”

  I wasn’t sure if she’d meant she’d never give the guy up or that he’d never go for me in a million years.

  Both. Definitely both. I didn’t take offense, though. I’d made the comment to break the ice, and it worked. She introduced herself as Keri and became all smiles and warm chatter on the elevator ride up. I liked her immediately.

  “So what’s it like having Maxwell Cole as your boss?” I asked.

  The stainless steel doors slid open, and we entered the executive lobby on the top floor of the Chicago high-rise. Holycrap. Everything had an epic, larger-than-life feel—the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, sleek black furniture, and five pairs of red lips with the C.C. logo etched onto the cement floor. I half expected angels to come fluttering from the walls, blowing their horns. It’s like meeting a real live god.

  And a god I would meet.

  Maxwell Cole, the founder and CEO, was thirty-three, a marketing genius, Stanford grad, and handsome as hell. And he had morals. No, I’d never met the man, but I did my thesis on his company’s business model, and he was the heart and soul of the place, which was why he handpicked his corporate office salespeople even if they’d report to someone else. Which I would. Something like three levels down.

  Still, I wanted to know everything about working for the man. I was ready to please him, bow to him, and make little origami shrines at his feet while he sat in meetings. The chance to work with a legend like this, even from afar, was a dream come true. And exactly what I needed if I were to run my own cosmetics company—one that I’d dedicate to making women feel beautiful and special no matter what they looked like.

  Someday.

  Keri’s smile melted away into something I’d describe as a polite smirk—like she knew something I didn’t. “Working for Mr. Cole is…great. Demanding, but great.”

  For some reason, the only part of her comment I bought was the word “demanding.” I found that strange.

  She added, “But you’ll get to see for yourself in two minutes.” She showed me into a small conference room in the corner, just big enough to seat four around the tiny orange table. The room, though it had an amazing view of Chicago and Lake Michigan, felt far too cozy and instantly put me on edge. I realized how close I’d have to sit to Maxwell Cole. And while I wasn’t ashamed of myself, I wanted him to focus on my words and my résumé, not on my face.

  It’s Maxwell Cole. He’d never judge you like that. How’d I know? In an interview he’d done for Money Magazine, Maxwell Cole talked about how he only dated women whose “souls turned him on.” Anyone who followed celebrity gossip knew he’d meant it, too. That man had been seen dating some of the least attractive women in Hollywood. Okay, some pretty ones, too. But he didn’t seem to care one way or another. More importantly, he’d built his entire company on one philosophy: “When it comes to your looks, the only opinion in this world that matters is yours.” C.C.’s in-your-face, anti-idealization of women went as far as frequently featuring some pretty imperfect models in their ads. Definitely not your standard Victoria’s Secret gals. Of course, the C.C. women—wrinkles, gapped teeth, very average looking—were all runway beauties compared to me. But that was something I’d come to grips with years ago.

  “Thank you,” I said to Keri and took the seat that put my back to the view of the city so I wouldn’t get distracted during the interview.

  “Can I get you anything, a water or coffee?” Keri asked with a warm smile before taking her leave.

  She seemed like a genuinely sweet person, which felt encouraging. I wanted to work with nice people. It was why I came here.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Water would be great.”

  “I’ll be right back, then.” She left, and I looked up at the clock above the doorway. Four o’clock on the dot. Interview time. Okay, stay calm. You are smart, overqualified for this role, and have a perfect résumé. And you’re nice.

  As I gave myself a pep talk, I noticed a large figure looming in the doorway, and then, just like in the movies, everything around me dissolved into nothing. There was just him.

  Holy shit.

  His beauty was pure male magnificence—high cheekbones and strong jaw that gave his face a masculine sculpted look; and lips that were full and sensual, surrounded by a wash of dark brown even though I could tell he’d shaved this morning.

  Mr. Cole was so goddamned beautiful it hurt to look at him. But how the hell is it possible he’s better looking in person? And his cologne was…was…I never knew a man could smell that good.

  It’s really him. Then my blasted brain kicked on and urged me to mentally strip away that perfectly tailored, navy-blue power suit covering his lean, muscular, exquisite body—the one he’d shown the world last season in the “Get Naked. Get Real” campaign for their new Nude and Natural makeup line. With the exception of his penis, which had been tragically blocked by his large hands, he’d displayed every ripped inch of his abs, chiseled pectorals, bulging arms, and tats.

  He is un. Real. I mentally sighed. And those eyes…

  As I basked in their hazel beauty, his eyes met mine, and it felt like a cold slap. I saw that same look on everyone’s faces the first time they saw me. Pity or revulsion. Luckily, most tried to mask it once the first wave of shock passed. Then they got to know me, and I won them over.

  However, before I could utter a word, his superbly masculine face went from having a subtly sickened expression to a displeased one—a slight hardness in his eyes and firmness of his
lips. Body language says a lot, too, and the tension in his tall frame said he didn’t want to waste his time with me.

  But wait. Why is he put off by my looks? That didn’t make sense given who this was. Had I imagined it?

  “You must be Lily Snow,” he said, still standing in the doorway, his voice cold, hypnotically deep, and authoritative.

  I smiled nervously and stood, extending my trembling hand. “Mr. Cole, it’s an honor to meet you. I did my master’s thesis on your company.”

  His hand reminded me of an old, rusted-out clunker with a stalling engine, painfully chugging its way to meet my awaiting handshake. When his reluctant palm finally made contact, I couldn’t help wanting to interpret the human warmth of his skin as reassurance I had imagined his reaction to me.

  Yes, he’s an important man with a lot going on. With a company this large and billions on the line, it was very possible he had a few fires on his plate. His mood had nothing to do with me. It couldn’t.

  I shoved my nerves down a deep dark hole and gave his hand a firm, confident squeeze to demonstrate my assertive nature.

  He jerked his hand away.

  What in the…? My mind scrambled, reaching for an explanation, any at all, as I sat and laced my fingers together in my lap. I couldn’t make sense of this.

  “So.” He took his seat and scooted back against the wall. He’d put himself only a few feet away, but it was an unnatural distance that left a space between the table and his long legs. “You are interviewing for the junior sales position.”

  “Yes,” I replied, trying to hold it together and hoping to God I was wrong about what was happening. Perhaps he was a germophobe or one of those people who hated to be touched?

  With an unsteady hand, I slid my résumé from my black leather portfolio and passed it to him. I’d sent a copy of my CV to his HR person, but who knew if he’d had time to read it.

  Nope. I guess not.

  His intense hazel eyes began skimming while I sat there staring, mortified and unsure of what to say or do.