“Your past was nothing I didn’t expect.” She shrugs. “So where does Robert come into play in all of this?”
“His monetary contribution helps, but his value to SoulM8 is in his experience in the industry and his vast network of connections with the media.”
“So it’s his influence you’re after.”
I take a sip of my drink, lean back in my chair, and just stare at her. How did we get here? How in the fuck am I sitting here, pretending to be a couple, pushing a dating website?
Fucking Kostas and his contest.
“His influence? Yes. Ever heard of IMM?”
I can see the confusion flicker over her face. The same confusion I first felt when I met him while I tried to rationalize that this unassuming man was the scrupulous businessman who founded and built International Market Media to be one of the top publicity firms in the country.
She eyes me as if she’s still trying to wrap her head around it. “You mean . . .?”
“Yes, as in International Market Media,” I say. “It was started, owned, and sold for a pretty penny and a lot of stock options by one Robert and Sylvie Waze about fifteen years ago.”
Surprise registers on her face, lips shocked in an O, those eyes of hers rich with colors flash with fascination. “He told me he had a company, but I would have never known that was it.”
“Not everyone is who they seem, Harlow.”
“HEY YOU.” ZANE’S MURMURED VOICE breaks through my fog of sleep and for the briefest of moments, I thinking he’s speaking to me.
My body stills, the affection in his tone sounding a little too familiar for me.
He chuckles softly, the sound echoing through the darkness of the bedroom, prompting me to open my eyes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand to find it’s three in the morning.
What the hell? Who is he talking to?
“You like that? Do you?”
I freeze, the playfulness in his voice and my sudden awareness of the blue light from his computer screen shocking me fully awake.
“Have you been playing with yourself? Do you miss me doing it? Huh? It seems you can do it all on your own?”
Please. No.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask louder than I should as I sit up in bed, pulling the covers around me. “Can’t you have some common courtesy and not do that when I’m lying right here?”
“Do what?” he asks as he turns abruptly to look at me, shirt off, face highlighted by the screen.
“That!” I say shoving a finger to the computer screen I’m petrified to look at.
“This?” He laughs in the most disbelieving of ways, pulling my eyes to what he’s pointing at.
And then I die.
Of embarrassment. Of sweetness overload. Of my own idiocy.
There on the screen of Zane’s computer is a room with a very large bed. Standing on said bed angling his head from one side to the other is none other than Smudge.
Yep. The dog.
He’s talking to Smudge.
Big, macho Zane Phillips is checking on his dog in the kennel and talking to him at three in the damn morning.
I must turn ten different shades of red as I flick my eyes from Zane’s confused expression to Smudge sitting pretty now waiting to hear his owner’s voice again.
“I’m sorry. I thought—I should—” I stop myself mid-sentence when I see the realization, plain as day, register on his face.
“Oh my God!” Zane throws his head back and laughs, hand to his stomach. “You thought that I was—fuck that’s funny.”
“I’m just going to shut my mouth now,” I say and flop back on the bed and cover my face with the comforter.
“I mean, I really like doggy style, Cinder, but that’s taking it to an all new level I’m never going to.”
“Will you be quiet, please?” I ask, my mortification heightened with every riff of his laugh.
“Fucking classic,” he murmurs through his laugh. “Sorry Smudge, I love you and all . . .”
And the smartass remarks continue, one after another, as I hold my hands over my ears and fight my own smile.
I’m such an idiot.
Zane talks to his dog via web cam.
I guess I need to reevaluate my initial opinion of him.
Any guy who does that gets an up-rating in my book.
“C’MON, LET ME BUY YOU a drink.”
I look over at the very handsome man to my right. Dark hair, light eyes, and an arrogant air to him that says he knows it. The one who has been making eyes at me all night long, regardless of the fact that I’ve been on stage with my supposed boyfriend talking about the love we’ve found on SoulM8.
“No, thank you.” I offer a tight smile and take a step back.
“That’s Zane Phillips, you know,” he says and takes a step toward me.
“I’m fully aware who he is. Thank you.”
“We run in the same circles. I know how he is.”
“I know how he is too.”
The man’s laugh is condescending. “So you’re prepared for your heart to be broken?”
“My heart. My business,” I say as kindly as possible, more than aware that I’m here representing a brand and so telling him to go to hell like I normally would isn’t exactly professional.
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” He trails a finger down my bare arm, and I immediately take a step away from him.