Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(14)

Oblivious to me, he shifts on the couch. He’s perfectly relaxed lying there, shifting around, displaying a peek of his ass.

Oh my god, he’s naked on my couch?

My eyes widen. I alternate between being curious and angry and thoroughly, disturbingly . . . a little bit aroused.

I take a picture of him sleeping and shoot it to Jeanine.

Me: Fuck, marry, or kill?

Jeanine: Fuck. No regrets.

Me: I need a man that women will want to both fuck and marry. He needs to look like Prince Charming.

Jeanine: Dude I’d fuck him even with that godawful haircut and without a shave. And Prince Charming is way overrated.

Me: Right. But not marry this one? YET?

Jeanine: You marry that thing, and your dad will disinherit you. Where did you find him?

Me: It’s a secret.

Jeanine: Wait just a damn minute. Is that dude in your apartment NOW? Did you sleep with him?

Me: No . . . but he is fuckable, isn’t he?

Jeanine: Yes, but . . . that’s about it. Please tell me you’re not thinking of anything else.

I pause just long enough for her to get exactly the idea that I’m thinking.

Jeanine: Holy fuck! No. Back away. Bad idea. Your dad will kill you if he finds out! When I said you should go smaller, I didn’t mean cockroach small.

And I wonder who I’ve been texting this whole time.

Jeanine: Your dad has high expectations and Lizzy? That guy on your couch? Will not meet your dad’s expectations. EVER. Even with a shave and a cute suit. Wake him up and GET HIM OUT OF THERE.

Before I can respond, Jeanine pops back with: Do me a quick favor before you send him on his way. Lift the blanket, flip him over, and take a CLOSER snapshot.

I think about it, smirking.

Me: Jeanine, I still need the perfect man.

Jeanine: Perfect? There’s no such thing, Lizzy. You might as well go to a lab and create him. Like in Weird Science.

Exactly, I think; then I survey him again. He’s tall, and I like tall men. He’s very masculine, and I like those too. A shiver runs through me as I inspect him. Because though he’s not clean or polished, I’m viscerally attracted to him.

And that means other people will be too.

Jeanine: What gutter did you pick this one out of?

I wince. Is it obvious?

Me: I know he looks a little rough now, but . . .

Jeanine: I’d REALLY do him. Even without a shower or a shave. BUT THEN I WOULD THROW HIM BACK IN THE GUTTER.

Me: You’re not the only one.

I don’t tell her about the intense romp in the cab. She probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

Jeanine: Yum yum.

Me: Tell me about it.

I inspect the breadth of his shoulders. His dark, rather longish hair.

Hmm. Okay, so, we have slightly under two months until the fashion season begins with the West Coast Fashion Week in LA. There will be a few other dinners with major buyers in between. Then, a month later, the season culminates at the biggest event of them all, Men’s Fashion Week in New York City.

This is doable.

I think.

Exhaling, I march to the kitchen, bring out my trusty notepad and pen, and start making a list.

Haircut.

Shave.

Wax.

Eyebrows.

Skin care.

Wardrobe.

UNDERWEAR!!

MANNERS!!!!!!

I walk the length of the sofa, tapping my pen against the notepad as I try to imagine what he’ll look like when I’m finished with his transformation. The full makeover will take a lot of work. We’ll definitely need to work on his manners too. If he’s going to own the Banks look, he needs to be the total package. No slipups. We have to make every single person in every room he walks into think that he’s the real deal, born into high society, a regular English freaking lord.

I wonder for a minute how hard it would be to get him to speak in a British accent.

No, scratch that—I have enough work on my hands as it is.

I circle him again, thinking about all the things he’ll need to learn. It would’ve been much easier if I’d hired someone with the right skill set.

Maybe if I’d done my man shopping at the local country club, I’d have a chance. But I shouldn’t even count on this guy knowing how to tie a simple bow tie. Maybe even a regular tie.

Ugh. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.

He shifts, open his eyes. He looks at me, and I start.

“Well, well, well.” He sits up onto his elbows, a slow smile curving his mouth as he stares at me.

I jump a little, pricking angrily. “I’d appreciate if you wore something when you sleep on my couch. It kind of grosses me out to sit there now.”

He raises one sardonic eyebrow. “Are you always this prissy, baby?”

I grab his dirty clothes and send them flying at his chest. “Get dressed. We need to talk.”

He just piles the clothes in his lap and stares at me, and he smiles, then lifts a picture from the side table. It’s the one of me taken three years ago, from my Stanford graduation. Puts it down.

As I walk away to let him change, I hear him say, “Tell me something, sweetheart.”

The thick way in which he says sweetheart makes me halt in the middle of a stride. “Yes?” I’m afraid to look back, scared if I do that I’ll never be able to turn away.

“Look at me.”