"Because he knew what you were capable of."
I turn to look at him. Cole's eyes remain on the road, his jaw set in that determined way that means he believes what he's saying. God, he cuts such a sharp profile. No wonder women unashamedly ogle him. He's so much hotter than those men I see on billboards, flashing past as we drive.
“He knew you, always knew your potential.”
Cole, over six feet of solid muscle, gray eyes that miss nothing, dark hair cropped close to his scalp, and that perpetual five o'clock shadow. That jawline. He's what sexy dreams are hewn from. Even daydreams.
Mine, at least, for these past two years.
"You don't know that," I say.
"I do."
I shake my head. "You're supposed to agree with me when I'm being self-deprecating. That's the polite thing to do."
Cole's mouth quirks, almost a smile, and it does something to me. "I don't get paid to be polite."
"What do you get paid for?"
"To keep you alive."
"I'm not in danger from a family meeting, Cole."
"Oh? Could've fooled me. Your aunt looked ready to shank you with her Louboutin."
I laugh for the first time in a week. It feels wrong and right at the same time, like seeing sunlight after months of darkness. "How do you know it's Louboutin and not Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik?"
With a straight face, Cole shrugs. "You have the same exact pair. I saw her checking yours out at the company gala last Christmas, and she suddenly showed up at the NYE event wearing that."
"Oh my God, how do you even notice that?"
"I notice everyone who looks at you the wrong way, even those who only want to copy your style."
"She's setting me up with Brian Percy," I say when my laughter fades. "And they were already talking about marriage. Brian fucking Percy."
Cole's hands tighten on the wheel. "Yeah, looked mighty gleeful at your discomfort, too."
I turn toward him, curious. "And? What do you think about Brian? You saw him a couple of times."
"He's an asshole and has the personality of a wet sock. His biggest problem in life is whether to wear his hair down or slicked back."
"Not exactly a ringing endorsement. When I hear ‘wet sock,’ my mind thinkswet cock." I shake my head, trying to undo that image. My head swivels to Cole.
"Not my job to endorse him."
"And he usually wears it slicked back."
"Unless he's at the beach and he wants to go for the mussed-up look, which he’s convinced chicks dig."
"Right? Remember that party last summer in Mexico? He was glowing while women circled him."
"And yet, he couldn't stop staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar."
I let out an unladylike snort. Cole looks threatening and scary on the outside, but when it's just him and me, the guy's pretty funny.
We pull into the underground garage of Ashton Square—the luxury shopping center Dad built when I was in college. Location for a Michelin-starred restaurant, high-end shopping, including all our brands, and on the top floor, my penthouse. My sanctuary.
Dad's graduation gift for me.
