“Our relationship isn’t unconditional,” he adds.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have needs, and if they’re met, you stay. If they’re not, you go.”
I’m so confused. We went from talking about my virginity to this? “So you’re threatening me. I have to tell you the intimate details of my sex life, or I’m out of your life?” Has he gone insane?
“I’m giving you a chance to stick to the rules.” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. “I want you to tell me how he touched you. How it felt.” Bex’s hand is suddenly sliding up my dress, stroking my inner thigh. “Did he do this to you?”
I freeze. Not because I fear him or because his touch is unwelcome, but because I’m afraid of how much I like what he’s doing—his warm hand, dangerously close to my most intimate of places.
OTHER WORKS BY MIMI JEAN PAMFILOFF
COMING SOON!
My Pen is Huge (OHellNo, #5) ← Fun awaits you!
Brutus (Immortal Matchmakers, Inc., #6) ← Is this the end?
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 4
Wish ← Yep. That’s right, ladies! Your wish is my command. I wrote you a single, non-series, no cliffy book!
THE ACCIDENTALLY YOURS SERIES
(Paranormal Romance/Humor)
Accidentally in Love with…a God? (Book 1)
Accidentally Married to…a Vampire? (Book 2)
Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? (Book 3)
Accidentally…Evil? (a Novella) (Book 3.5)
Vampires Need Not…Apply? (Book 4)
Accidentally…Cimil? (a Novella) (Book 4.5)
Accidentally…Over? (Series Finale) (Book 5)
THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR DUET
(Duet/New Adult/Suspense)
The Boyfriend Collector, Part 1
The Boyfriend Collector, Part 2 ← You are here.
THE FATE BOOK DUET
(Standalones/New Adult/Suspense/Humor)
Fate Book
Fate Book Two
THE FUGLY DUET
(Standalones/Contemporary Romance)
fugly
it’s a fugly life
THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES
(Standalones/Romantic Comedy)
The Happy Pants Café (Prequel)
Tailored for Trouble (Book 1)
Leather Pants (Book 2)
Skinny Pants (Book 3)
IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC., SERIES
(Standalones/Paranormal/Humor)
The Immortal Matchmakers (Book 1)
Tommaso (Book 2)
God of Wine (Book 3)
The Goddess of Forgetfulness (Book 4)
Colel (Book 5)
THE KING SERIES
(Dark Fantasy/Suspense)
King’s (Book 1)
King for a Day (Book 2)
King of Me (Book 3)
Mack (Book 4)
Ten Club (Series Finale→) OR NOT?
THE LIBRARIAN’S VAMPIRE ASSISTANT
(Standalones/Mystery/Humor)
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 1)
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 2)
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant (Book 3)
THE MERMEN TRILOGY
(Dark Fantasy/Suspense)
Mermen (Part 1)
MerMadmen (Part 2)
MerCiless (Part 3)
MR. ROOK’S ISLAND TRILOGY
(Contemporary/Suspense)
Mr. Rook (Part 1)
Pawn (Part 2)
Check (Part 3)
THE OHELLNO SERIES
(Standalones/New Adult/Romantic Comedy)
Smart Tass (Book 1)
Oh Henry (Book 2)
Digging A Hole (Book 3)
Battle of the Bulge (Book 4)
THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR
Two
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
A Mimi Boutique Novel
Copyright © 2019 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Kindle Edition
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.
Cover Design by Earthly Charms
Developmental Editing by Karen Harris
Copyediting and Proof Reading by Pauline Nolet
Formatting by Paul Salvette
To Pirated Book Lovers
“I’m not hurting anyone.”
“I can’t afford to buy books, so the author isn’t losing money. I’d never buy them anyway.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong. So many people do it.”
As an author who is supporting her family on this income, it’s really difficult to come up with the right words to convey how damaging ebook piracy is to me personally, to my fellow authors, and to the industry. (Remember, publishers HAVE to make money, too. We want them to. They have employees with families like anyone else. They create jobs and pay taxes in our communities. Businesses need to be healthy because when they’re not, people get laid off and lose things like their homes.)
As for the individual author, well, I just can’t imagine anyone being okay with working for four months at their job on a presentation and then their boss says, “Hey, I’m not going to pay you because I can’t afford it. Also, I know that I used the presentation and you did the work and slaved over it, but I never had the money to pay for it in the first place, so you really haven’t lost any money. Either way, you weren’t going to get paid.”
Hell no would you put up with that!
Bottom line is we all have a right to decide how we’re compensated for our work and time. Strangers, the public, and book pirate sites don’t have the right to decide for us. It’s okay to have an opinion about what you’re willing to pay for my books or to have a political view about access to books, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to decide for me. Just like I don’t get to steal from you or tell you what I think your time is worth.
As for these sites that claim they’re not doing anything wrong? The sites pirated book lovers go to and think they’re not hurting anyone? We all KNOW THEY ARE.
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—Russian and Iran, for example—where they can’t 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 it 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 bo
ok, YOU ARE BREAKING the law and HELPING these people BREAK THE LAW. You are helping them get paid for my stolen work via web-traffic and ad impressions.
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.
Dedication
To all the women out there who deserved an opportunity but instead were given a brick wall, glass ceiling, or slap on the face (or ass). I hope you gave them the finger and conquered.
To anyone out there waiting for the world to change so you can live your dream, just know that you are the change.
#BeYourOwnHero
CONTENTS
About the Book
Other Works by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Title Page
Copyright Page
To Pirated Book Lovers
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon
About the Author
THE BOYFRIEND COLLECTOR
Two
CHAPTER ONE
Bex
I am a man. A strong man. But that doesn’t mean I lack feelings. For example, right now I’m listening to Mrs. Putnam whine about her cats, and I promise you I’m feeling all sorts of things. Jesus, woman. If you wanted a pet that comes when you call it, you should’ve gotten a trained monkey or a damned dog. Not that Sophie, my golden retriever, does anything I ask, but I’m not the one showing up to this couch, week after week, complaining about how brokenhearted I am because my pet doesn’t love me.
I should tell Mrs. Putnam that those are the fucking breaks. I should point out that she’s an idiot for loving anything or anyone in the first place, because she’ll only end up getting her heart pureed. I believe in honesty, so I might say those things if it weren’t for the fact that my anger has nothing to do with Mrs. Putnam.
Rose. Fucking Rose. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I spotted her from across the street, kissing some other man. I intended to propose to her. Had the ring in my goddamned hand and everything. Sure, I was the one who rejected Rose to begin with and told her that she needed time to heal and find herself because after everything she’s been through—her cruel grandparents raising her as a servant, lying to her about her inheritance, squandering away millions of Rose’s fortune, and then trying to have Rose killed—I’d wanted the dust to settle before opening this new chapter of intimacy with her. I wanted what was best for Rose.
That’s where I went wrong.
Despite the obstacles in her life, Rose has been taking care of herself since she could walk. So while yes, I am a licensed therapist with a PhD in neuroscience, who the hell am I to second-guess her? She is unlike any woman I’ve ever met, and I pulled the “Here, baby, let me take care of you” protector card instead of saying yes when she offered her heart.
“Dr. Hughes? Dr. Hughes! Are you even listening?” Mrs. Putnam’s shrill voice scratches at my eardrums.
Her sour face and puckered lips come into focus. “Yeah,” I say bluntly, “I hear you. And if you want my advice? Stop paying me two hundred dollars an hour to cry about Mr. Buttons. Call your son, tell him you’re an asshole for shutting him out of your life when he decided to be an artist instead of a lawyer, and then invite him to lunch next week.” I shrug unapologetically. “But if you really want to keep coming here, I’ll take your money. I simply don’t see the point.”
Her pale, wrinkly face shrivels into a tight little ball, reminding me of those apple dolls my aunts Eugenia and Virginia have in their living room.
“And you call yourself a therapist?” she seethes. “Your father never would have spoken to a patient like that!”
My father, the late Murdoc Hughes, was a philandering hypocrite who broke my mother’s heart and didn’t believe in treating patients. He blew smoke signals of encouragement up their asses for three hundred bucks an hour. Each week, they’d come back for more, like junkies looking for a self-esteem fix, but they never got better.
I clear my throat. “Yes, well, my father didn’t speak to his patients like adults. I do. And adults have frank, difficult discussions.” I lean forward in my leather armchair, lacing my fingers together. “You’re not a bad woman, Mrs. Putnam. Your cat doesn’t hate you. But clearly you messed up with your son and you miss him. Now it’s up to you to fix it while you still can.” I lean back. “But like I said, feel free to keep writing those checks. Just know that it won’t change your life.”
She stares with her pale face, and I see the conflict bubbling in her gray eyes. “Well, I-I…” She rises to her feet. “I’ll see you next week, then.”
She marches out of my office located in the trendy Buckhead district of Atlanta, Georgia. I’m on the second floor of this renovated brick warehouse occupied by several boutiques and a coffee shop on the first floor. Upstairs, it’s all offices. I wish I could move to a swamp surrounded by gators. Maybe then, only people who truly take therapy seriously would come.
I release a frustrated breath and run a hand through my hair. Fuck, I need a trim. I never used to leave it so long—hate the way it curls up on my neck and falls over my eyes—but haircuts have been the least of my worries. Rose is the only thing I can think about. I don’t care anymore that she was my patient. She never wanted therapy anyway. She just needed an alibi, a place she could tell her grandparents she was while hatching her escape plan, i.e., looking for a husband on their secret list of suitable candidates. All part of claiming her inheritance. I agreed to lie for her while she went on dates, in exchange for her actually coming to a few sessions. I told myself it was because I wanted to help. Really, I think I just wanted her. Like a selfish bastard.
“Dr. Hughes? Should I send in the next patient?” My office assistant, Hailey, pops through the open door. She’s a brunette with a warm smile that reminds me a bit of Rose, though Rose is blonde and has wide brown eyes that sparkle with determination. Rose is also a little on the thin side—the result of being overworked and neglected by her grandparents—but nothing like when we first met. It infuriated me when I heard her story. I wanted to rescue her then, and I still do now, which is also part of the problem. That’s not what Rose needs.
I blink my way out of my bitter daze. I have to do something to make things right.
“No,” I finally say to Hailey. “Call my patients and reschedule them for next week.” I stand, go to my desk, and grab my keys and wallet, cursing what I’m about to do.
Rose
Last night was my fourth date with Markus, and while he pulled out all the stops—flowers, quaint French restaurant, a walk under the Georgia stars while holding hands, and a very nice kiss—I’m beginning to have second thoughts about tomorrow.
My birthday.
The big twenty-one.
Deflower day.
But do I really want to lose my virginity to Markus? I’ve held on to it this long
, and now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just wait until I find Mr. Right.
Dammit, Rose. No more fairytales. No more waiting for life to happen to you. I promised myself I would take control and embrace every moment of my newly found freedom, even if it means making mistakes. I’ve existed far too long inside a dark closet, sheltered from the world. Sleeping with Markus is just what I need to clear out the cobwebs. Literally. Okay, sorta literally.
I roll from my bed and pad to my small kitchen. It’s just past ten at night and all is quiet inside this modest little apartment building. My one-bedroom has a view of a treelined street where people love to walk their dogs, stroll with coffee in hand, or window-shop for vintage clothes and antiques. To some, it’s just another popular Atlanta neighborhood. To me, it’s my own little slice of normalcy.
No. Screw that. It’s heaven. I’ve never had so much to be thankful for. My own space. I only clean when I want. I eat what I want. I can sleep in late and take long showers. I even bought myself a miniature Christmas tree, though there aren’t any presents. Christmas is just a few weeks away, but I’m not sure I’m ready to celebrate. So much has happened.
Next year, things will be different. I’ll have more distance between me and recent events: Falling in love with my therapist and being rejected, almost being killed by that psycho hit man Gustavo, and finding out my family lied to me my entire life, all to get their hands on my inheritance. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt. It also pisses me the hell off, but I can’t afford to keep rehashing the things I can’t change. Especially when it comes to Bex.
I fill my kettle with tap water and place it on the stove. I dig out my only mug from the dish rack and pop in a bag of chamomile. I haven’t been on my own long, so I own very few possessions, but everything I buy has a purpose. It must be useful.
Rose Marie Hale, heiress to the Lana Hale fortune, does not waste money or take anything for granted. This is my rule and always will be, whether I’m broke as hell or a multimillionaire. At the moment, I’m somewhere in between and taking a few months for myself before figuring out my life, which will include re-enrolling in college. Wherever I land, though, whatever I ultimately decide to do, I will never be a materialistic, wasteful person. I won’t allow it.
The Boyfriend Collector, Two Page 1
