“Aw.” I reach up, straightening his tie. “Is your memory from before or after you packed up in the middle of the night and moved across the country?”
His body goes rigid, his eyes slicing to my ring finger—beautifully bare of the princess-cut diamond slid onto it five years ago.
My stomach grows queasy at the memory, but I paste on a saucy smile and pat his chest. “You may have brought me that magazine knowing I’d love the story inside it, but everything that came of it was because of my ideas.” I glare. “And in case you were wondering, I despise the naive young woman who shared those ideas with the fickle young man with every fiber of my being.”
What a fool I once was.
“If I didn’t think you were capable of stealing the idea out from under me, as you not so subtly threatened to do—”
“I never threatened you,” he interjects.
“No, you just forced my hand, refusing to allow me to rescind the contract that kept us tied together, but again, if I didn’t think you were capable of screwing me over, I would have cut you out completely, contract be damned.” Eyes hard and condemning, I pin them to his. “Have a shitty night, Mr. Dominion. See you in the air.”
With that, I get the fuck out of there.
The perks of being co-owner of a multi-million-dollar company is avoiding the jungle that is an airport during the holidays. The downside is the dark-eyed, dark-haired, black-hearted other half of the equation, sitting right across from me and currently burning a hole in my cheek with his unwavering gaze as he waits for mine to meet his.
Roman Dominion, the six-foot-six walking, talking cologne commercial. You know, the kind where a mysterious man climbs from a sleek and sexy sports car, forever dapper in a freshly tailored suit. The ones where the man always has that slightly slicked hair he chooses the perfect moment to run his fingers through it, head tipping the slightest bit to really drive it home with that perfect shot of his sharp jawline and flawless lips, seconds before they hike into a dirty little smirk.
That’s the thing about marketing, though, isn’t it?
The prettiest of pictures are painted, creating an elusive image behind the screen, one never to be lived up to, but forever strived for, a couple thousand dollars at a time.
If only all women knew what I did, that the man behind the screen is nothing but a perfectly packaged façade. A hook, waiting to sink itself into the first fool to take the bait, but you know what happens when the fish gets caught on the line?
It’s appraised, carefully considered, and if she doesn’t impress, back in the water she goes… an ugly little scar left as a reminder.
As if she could forget.
Roman is literally a poster child for parents, the one where the fathers would say stay away from men like that, and the mothers? They’d doll you up and take you right to him.
“Careful, wouldn’t want to give yourself wrinkles.” Roman’s words are teasing, but his tone deceives him. Too low. Too cautious. Completely giving him away.
It’s killing him to be left to wonder what’s on my mind when, once upon a time, he was the one I chose to share it with.
Oh, how quickly things can change.
I feel the scowl on my features before he points it out, but I keep it firmly in place as I pull my eyes from the expanse of gray clouds outside the small square window, pinning them to the man sitting in the heated, luxury white leather seat across from my own, nothing but a three-foot, retractable table separating us from one another.
His gaze flits across my face with swift movements, desperately searching for a sign of what I’m thinking, so I give him what he wants, removing the mask and revealing the stark truth of what I see when looking at him.
I stare at Roman, the self-made mogul of Key West, who lives to buy, sell, and trade, and is damn good at it. The newly broadcasted billionaire—I knew I should have skipped that issue of Cosmo—who stands the tallest and most assured of any man in any room. Number one on New York Times’ list of the year’s most eligible bachelors. Successful, sexy, single, as printed in big, bold black letters beside his photo.
My academic rival through high school and college.
My business partner.
The man who loves thunder and warm whiskey.
And my biggest fucking regret.
Roman’s features harden, creases forming along his forehead and deepening as his neck stretches, allowing him to keep his attention on my face as I push to my feet.
“Noel—”
“I’m going to say hello to the pilot. Consider yourself lucky if your feet ever touch the ground again.”
Asshole.
CHAPTER 2
Noel
“Dina!” I throw my hands around my senior executive’s—a.k.a. my favorite cousin—neck, hugging her. “Thank god for your fear of commitment.”