Chapter 3
3
Sunday
Southampton, New York
I blink at the harsh morning sun beaming through my window, which burns into my brain like the hot flames of blowtorches.
Ow.
Why didn’t I close the blinds last night? I always close the blinds.
It all comes flooding back to me.
Oh my god.
I went to that party with Sloane last night.
Oh no.
And proceeded to drink way too much alcohol and confess way too much about my pathetic backstory not only to Sloane but also to her extremely hot boss.
You idiot.
How did I even get back to my apartment?
I vaguely remember some luxury limo-type car dropping me off. Sloane and I were crying and hugging because who knows when we’ll see each other again.
“Ugh,” I groan, patting my bedside table as I squint in its general direction, hoping that last-night-Lila might have had the foresight to put a glass of water there. She did not.
I can’t move. That’s it. I’m deceased. My head throbs with a vengeance that could only be matched by a rabid woodpecker, and my mouth is as dry as the mighty Sahara.
Note to self: the next time someone offers me tequila, run in the opposite direction as fast as my legs will carry me.
I should never have accepted Sloane’s invitation to her company’s swanky Hamptons party. The thing about Sloane is that she can be very persuasive when she puts her mind to it.
When else are you going to get a chance to hang with a bunch of billionaires, she insisted. Get your ass into a skimpy little dress that shows off that banging body and be ready for me to pick you up at six.
Or something along those lines.
And so here I am.
My stomach rolls as I suddenly panic that I’ve missed my alarm and I’m late for work. That’s what you get for pretending you belonged with those people last night, Lila.
I’m about to jump up—jump being a relative term when your head and stomach are both spiraling like you’ve just hit the summit of a rollercoaster and are now headed directly vertical—when I remember I have two weeks off. Which would feel like a relief if I wasn’t currently so concerned with hurling all over my clean white sheets.
Then I remember the reason I have two weeks off.
I’m driving to L.A. today. Or at least starting my journey westward.
Shit.
Veronica did end up giving me the time off but she was such a passive-aggressive bitch about my request, I’m not sure if I’ll be welcome back after my two weeks anyway.
I can handle that. I’ve already decided I’m moving back to L.A. for good.
Haven’t I?
I still haven’t completely quit either of my jobs or given notice on my apartment, but I’d planned to do some of that this morning. Or on the way.
I was supposed to wake up early and get organized.
Damn it, Lila, why are you such a mess? No wonder you can’t get ahead in life. You can’t even make a few simple decisions.
That’s what this trip was supposed to be about. Thinking things through.
Except that having a thought right now feels a lot like wading through knee-deep tequila-heavy mud.
Ow. My head.
Lord, I need some water. And Tylenol. And caffeine .
I reach again to my bedside table and feel around for my phone—thank God it’s here. And completely dead.
A vivid memory slices into my brain.
Sloane’s ridiculously sexy boss.
God, that man was gorgeous.
I vaguely remember a conversation during which I overshared on an epic level. Then, when Sloane was talking to a colleague about work stuff, Sloane’s boss came up with some absurd plan that involved the two of us driving to California together. What the hell?
I groan again, my hand covering my eyes. Did he have a name? Oh shit, of course he did.
Colton Maddox.
The Colton Maddox. On the Forbes list, multi-billionaire, along with his brothers, who happen to be four of the most successful investors and entrepreneurs in the city.
Colton, I learned somewhere along the line from Sloane, is the youngest brother. The playboy. The most eligible bachelor in Manhattan who, as hard as they try, none of the socialites or influencers can get to commit.
Risking the entire contents of my stomach upending themselves onto my splurge-buy comforter, I sit up a little, trying to make light of the situation.
So I had a little too much to drink. It happens. Not to me before last night, but I guess there’s a first for everything. I’m sure Colton Maddox is laughing it off as a joke this morning too, just like I am. He probably makes teasing promises like driving across the country on a whim to lots of women. He’s notorious for breaking hearts, I remember Sloane telling me.
I cringe at the hazy memories.
I did shots with him. We drank more champagne and flirted. He pretended I was good at it. Then his playful banter was all about coming along on my trip while meanwhile…oh god. Did I…there’s another swirl of nausea to complement my morning regret…yes, I told both Sloane and Colton my whole sob story about my old college crush. Like, the whole sob story. And then I admitted to Sloane I’m still a freaking virgin . In front of Colton Maddox.
How completely mortifying.
Then Colton joked about offering to enlighten me in the art of seduction during our road trip across the country.
Help.
I need to call Sloane and tell her to apologize to her boss on my behalf for getting inebriated at the company party and spilling my guts. He probably thinks I’m a total nutcase. Hopefully he’s already forgotten about me and has moved on to some jet-setting tycoon’s daughter who doesn’t have any old college crushes and who definitely isn’t a virgin.
Clearly, it wouldn’t be safe for the good people on the interstate if I was to attempt to drive this morning. Maybe if I spend the day recovering and finishing up my packing—and getting Sloane to relay my fervent apology to her boss—I could get up super early tomorrow and make up for some of the lost time on the road.
I couldn’t have known I’d be nursing a monumental hangover and would need to spend the day over a toilet bowl rather than driving my ancient but hopefully-trusty Toyota Corolla across Pennsylvania.
But, hey, shit happens. At least I did have a tiny bit of fun for the first time in a long time.
Maybe a little too much.
Okay, way too much.
I decide to surrender to feeling like death warmed up and just sleep for a few hours. But first I really need to brush my teeth and drink several enormous glasses of water.
Carefully lugging myself out of bed, it takes a few seconds for my equilibrium to settle into place. Tequila, I’m swearing you off for good. Never, ever again.
I plug in my phone, limp to the bathroom, take two Tylenol and drink four glasses of water. Then I brush my teeth for five solid minutes and wipe the make-up from around my eyes. I leave my bird’s nest hair as is. That can wait.
Just as I get settled back into bed where I can feel sorry for myself and nurse my regrets, there’s a knock at my door. It’s got to be Sloane coming to beg for forgiveness for the obscene amount of tequila and champagne she allowed me to consume last night. No one else even knows where I live.
But Sloane went back to the city last night.
Maybe she decided to come and check on me to see if I’m still alive.
“We’re no longer friends after those shots,” I groan .
The knock comes again, more persistently this time. My girl is really pounding.
“Damn it, Sloane,” I mutter. “Okay, fine.”
I climb out of bed. Wearing nothing but a skimpy pink bralette and matching boy shorts, I shuffle to the door. I pull the door open, ready to give Sloane my most pathetically hungover and in-pain face, when I freeze.
It’s not Sloane.
Holy shit.
It’s…Colton Maddox.
Oh…no.
He’s standing there on the other side of the door, looking like…well, like a ludicrously handsome and slightly windswept ultra-hot billionaire…and not even remotely hungover. How is that possible?
Not only does he not look like he’s about to die, he’s even more beautiful than I remember him being last night. Admittedly, my memory is hazy, but I distinctly recall the butterflies in my stomach that worked their way down to…well, a little lower than my stomach…when he stood next to me at the bar as I marveled at his to-die-for rugged good looks. Which don’t even compare to the way the blindingly bright sun is lovingly showcasing him right now.
Wow.
Was his hair this…sexily tousled last night? It’s dark and wavy, like he’s overdue for a haircut. It gives him this rakish, panty-melting, gorgeous look.
Really, Lila ?
Yes, really. Absolutely panty-melting.
He had this effect on me last night too. And I’m not typically the kind of girl whose panties…well, melt . I’m usually too distracted by work and money or lack thereof and trying to establish myself and whatnot to notice a guy’s five o’clock shadow and wonder what it would feel like to touch my fingers to the roughed-up surface of his square jaw.
Or to feel a sort of tingling up my spine just from the sound of his deep, rasped voice.
Now, he’s wearing jeans and a white polo shirt that’s snug around the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and which shows off his tan, accentuating the dark hair and the white teeth. The whole thing is way too colorful and just…roguishly ideal, like he just stepped off a Ralph Lauren photo shoot after a perfect day of living the high life out on his private island.
As for the eyes? I’m sure he had them last night, but I do not remember them being this startlingly blue in a way that makes you think of the glittering ocean and hot summer and the best days of your life. They’re sparkling with mischief, and his lopsided grin is...ridiculously gorgeous. And darkly intrigued, as though the sight of my hungover state is amusing to him.
“Hey,” he drawls, as his eyes rove over my thin and practically non-existent clothing, if it could even be called that.
My pulse riots. The universe sure does have a sick sense of humor, bringing this demi-god into my morning, when here I am looking like I just escaped from the nearest asylum.
I take a deep breath, trying to not freak out, when I get a whiff of his scent. Of course he smells like crisp mountain air mixed with just a hint of spicy cologne. My senses feel personally attacked.
Without waiting for an invitation, he strides in, broad-shouldered and tall, his athletic body filling my tiny apartment with zinging, stormy man-energy.
“I took the liberty of bringing you a supersized one-sugar black Americano. I figured milk wouldn’t go down too well but the sugar might help restore your electrolyte balance.” He holds out an extra-large cup of coffee with The Bear and the Bean’ s logo wrapped around the heat-protective cardboard band. How did he know that place has my favorite coffee? And that I like black coffee with one sugar?
It’s thoughtful, that he’s considered how I might feel. Possibly the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me in…a while.
He holds out the coffee and I take it from his hands—Jesus, they’re big—and try to ignore the sparks that shoot up my entire arm then funnel directly to my very intimate regions when our fingers touch. Yikes. My panties are getting…oh god. But he’s crazy if he thinks me looking like this is a sign I’m ready for anything other than a 90s romcom marathon in bed.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t help asking. “And how do you know where I live? ”
I watch as he makes himself at home in the midst of my organized chaos, stepping over one of my open suitcases with his long legs, leaning casually against the kitchen counter. “I might have asked a few subtle but well-aimed questions to my somewhat-tipsy assistant last night.”
Tipsy. That’s a very kind way of putting it. I grab an oversized t-shirt and put it on, since I’m basically standing here in my underwear. “She gave you my address?”
“Affirmative. I really need to check her data protection and confidentiality training is up to date.” He smirks briefly, then looks deadly serious as he says, “Are you ready to go?”
I try to fold my arms across my chest while holding hot coffee, to attempt to hide my nipples, which are reacting a lot to someone who is essentially a stranger. An extremely hot stranger, but a stranger, nonetheless. “Do I look ready to go anywhere other than my own funeral?” I attempt to deadpan—because making a joke of this is all I’ve got.
“You did seem to enjoy the tequila last night.” His eyes actually twinkle. “And the champagne.”
“I blame you entirely for that.”
“Sloane’s the one who got you started. And she’s your ‘bestie’, so…” he shrugs.
“Yeah, that’s a life choice I am starting to reconsider,” I mutter. “Look, I’m not sure why you’re here, but I’m not exactly up for visitors right now.”
A frown darkens his absurdly handsome face. “You don’t remember our trip?” For a fraction of a second, he looks at me like a wounded puppy .
“I mean, vaguely, but that was a joke, right? You can’t really be serious about wanting to come with me.” A light laugh escapes me at the ridiculousness of the situation. “I mean, aren’t you some kind of in-demand investment wunderkind?—”
“Wunderkind?” he grins.
“Isn’t that what they call people who succeed in a very competitive profession at a young age?” Ow, that one hurt my brain.
Colton presses his tongue against his bottom lip like he’s attempting to hold back a laugh. “I’m not that young. I’m twenty-six. Plus there was some nepotism involved—not that I’m not a successful investor. I am. My private portfolio outperforms all three of my brothers’ most quarters. I was trained well, but I also have a knack.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say. “That’s nice.”
“And yes, I am in demand.” More twinkling of those deep blue eyes, and it reminds me again that this guy is famous for his charm and where it lands him—specifically into the beds of rich, beautiful women.
“Exactly.” My reply sounds both pointed and not-at-all-affected by this dazzling package standing in front of me. I give myself some points for that. “Which is why I’m wondering why you’re here.”
He pauses, his eyes barely narrowing. “I’m overdue for a vacation. Your chariot awaits.”
I blink at him, my smile almost lingering. This really is too much. The vision of him is literally blazing with way more big, rugged manliness than I can handle right now. “Look…Mr.—”
“Seriously?” He laughs, cutting me off. “Call me Colton. Like you did last night. I insist.”
“Colton, this is?—”
“Going to be a trip of a lifetime, I’m glad you agree.” He goes over to the window where he gestures down the street. “I already got the RV.”
“The what?”
“You’re dealing with a Maddox here, so we’re doing this in style, Sunshine. This baby has all the bells and whistles.” His words hang in the air like a punchline waiting for laughter. Only, it doesn’t seem like he’s joking. Is this gorgeous, fresh-air-and-worn-leather-scented hunky playboy actually serious about a week-long road trip to California? With me? “This was the biggest one I could get without a Class A license. I don’t have one because all I own are Shelbys, Lamborghinis, Corvettes, a Hummer and a Maybach. Oh, and the Maserati. And three Ducatis. And a couple of limos. I figured fuck the chauffeurs. I’m going to drive you myself.”
Class A? Maybach? Ducati? Is he speaking English? My tequila-sodden brain is struggling. “Honestly…this is a terrible idea. We don’t even know each other?—”
“Sorry, beautiful, but it’s a done deal. We shook on it. The RV is ready. Our itinerary is locked in. And you’ve got a wedding to get to and some asshole named Troy to seduce. So let’s go. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten. These good to go?” He gestures to my two open suitcases.
All I can do is stare at him, speechless.
Taking that as a yes, Colton bends down and zips up both suitcases—not without effort since they’re so stuffed. Then he lifts them and heads back through the still-open door and down the stairs, lugging the behemoths like they weigh ten pounds each instead of more like sixty.
“Um…”
But he’s already gone.
What in the actual hell is happening right now?
I go to the window and peer out, expecting a dilapidated Winnebago, like the ones you see midwestern families driving through Yosemite. But the vehicle parked outside does not look like an RV at all. It looks like a shiny, gleaming, luxury rockstar tour bus.
Whoa.
How did he manage to organize this since late last night?
Then again, he’s a billionaire. I guess they can organize things faster than normal people do, maybe.
My head spins in protest and I grip onto the window ledge. I take some deep breaths, trying not to inhale the remnants of Colton’s unfairly delicious cologne.
My forlorn little Toyota is in the actual shade of the colossal RV, looking almost relieved. If I leave my car behind, then I’ll have to come back for it. Or I could sell it— not that it’s worth anything. Maybe Sloane could take it and drop it off at a used car dealership for me.
Am I actually considering going with this? I must still be drunk, that’s the only explanation.
I mean, my suitcases are already almost on the bus.
Wow. A whole week with Colton Maddox…in a luxury house on wheels.
I take a sip of coffee and watch him load my suitcases into an open side compartment.
He really is gorgeous. And so…muscly. He must work out a lot.
His phone rings and he answers the call. He gestures with his hand as he talks and I catch some of the conversation through the open window. Because I’m overdue for a break, Cash, that’s fucking why…that’s none of your business…and that’s also none of your business. Consider it a creative week if you must—which I also haven’t had for over six months because I’ve been busy fixing your insider trading shit-show while you gallivanted around fucking Hawaii, remember? Okay…good. You should be. Colton laughs, despite his obvious irritation. Did you actually just say something nice to me, brother? That might be a first. More low laughter. Not if I see you first. Later, asshole.
One of his brothers. Wondering why he’s taking off for a week.
Why is he taking off for a week?
With me?
And is it totally crazy that a tiny part of me actually wants him to ?
Okay, more than a tiny part.
It is crazy. But I do in fact need to get to the wedding by next weekend and this luxury bus will clearly be a lot more comfortable than my ancient Toyota. I wasn’t entirely looking forward to the lonely roads and the divey motels along the way where drug dealers and serial killers probably hang out, as Sloane so generously pointed out.
I’m doing it.
To hell with it.
Should I tell Sloane? Probably not a good idea. I know for a fact my phone would be ringing off the hook if she knew Colton was here. I can practically hear her scolding me. Do NOT in a million years go ANYWHERE with my playboy boss! Are you crazy? Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s in fact smoking hot, we can all agree on that. But do not befriend him! He is NOT boyfriend or relationship material AT ALL. He’ll totally charm you because it’s what he does and then the minute you think there could be something real there, he’ll be nowhere to be found. It’s always the same. Every freaking weekend I’m fielding irate phone calls and reading the headlines about how some heiress or socialite is broken-hearted, crying to whatever blogger will listen that she wants another night with him. This is a Code Red, Lila. DO NOT get on that bus!!
That’s the thing, though. I am most certainly not considering Colton Maddox as potential boyfriend or relationship material. Of course I’m not. He’s providing a means of transportation, that’s all. I’m not entirely sure why, but that detail is irrelevant right now.
What about the seduction lessons ?
I shove that thought out of my head. That was obviously a joke told under the influence of copious amounts of very strong alcohol.
It’s not like Sloane can be mad at me, once I tell her—after the fact. It’s not my fault he’s shown up here with a luxury tour bus. I know she’ll forgive me once I arrive safely in Los Angeles and we can laugh it off as a random escapade that’s now over.
With newfound energy I can only attribute to the double-shot of coffee starting to hit my bloodstream with gusto, I go into the bathroom and close the door. Then I run the shower, peel off my clothes and step into it. The hot water blissfully washes over my skin, rehydrating me by a single degree.
“I’ll grab some more of these smaller bags and this sewing machine,” Colton calls from the other room.
“Thank you!” I call back. “I’ll get the stuff in my bedroom. I won’t be long.” Whatever. I’m too hungover to question this. For all I know, I could be dreaming this whole scenario.
Ten minutes is not long enough in any lifetime to get ready to go anywhere with someone as hot as Colton Maddox, but it’s not about that, I remind myself. I’m not exactly sure what it is about, but I’m not in the state of mind to mull that over right now. So I put on a pair of cute jean shorts I made, with suede detailing on the side seams, and a fitted white t-shirt with a cheerful slogan about the demise of the patriarchy emblazoned across my chest. I leave my hair long, put on a little mascara and some pink lip gloss.
Then I pack the last of my stuff into my overnight bag and stuff my sheets and comforter into an oversized bag.
That’s everything. If I decide not to come back—which I have—at least the apartment is empty.
By the time I check once more for anything I’ve forgotten and say a mental goodbye to my tiny studio, I hear Colton blasting the horn in an annoyingly rhythmical pattern. My neighbors are going to love me for that.
I close the door behind me, jogging down the stairs.
Which is most definitely a mistake.
I stop on the sidewalk, doubling over, contemplating gripping the sides of a nearby trash can. Jogging was a bad idea. Movement in general was a bad idea. And the last thing I need right now is for a billionaire to see me on the verge of being sick. Please don’t get out of the bus.
“Need me to hold your hair and rub your back?”
Damn it. “No,” I manage. “Please. I need a minute.”
Maybe if I upchuck on the street, it would be for the best. Then he’ll drive away in disgust and we can forget this whole crazy plan.
“Feeling sick?”
Didn’t I just tell him I need a minute? But nope, he’s still standing right there, grinning like all this is normal and like we’re not complete strangers that are about to embark on a three thousand mile journey together.
He might be handsome, but I get the distinct impression I made a deal with the devil last night. No one should be this perky and charming and good looking after the amount of toxins we consumed last night.
I straighten up and the world spins. Colton notices me wobble. He holds my arm to steady me.
“You really have trouble picking up men?” he smirks. “I can’t imagine why. Almost hurling all over a guy’s shoes first thing in the morning is usually a real turn on.”
I glance up into eyes that are all the colors of a summer day. “Okay, you can fuck off a little less.”
Colton wraps an arm around my waist. “Careful, Lila, the last thing I need is a hard-on while I’m driving.”