HE’S
PERFECT FOR HER IN EVERY WAY,
EXCEPT FOR ONE SMALL ISSUE.
HE’S TOO LATE.
IT'S A FUGLY LIFE
Fugly #2
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing Oct 11th, 2016
From New York Times Bestseller Mimi
Jean Pamfiloff, Comes a New Standalone Contemporary Romance.
HE’S
PERFECT FOR HER IN EVERY WAY, EXCEPT FOR ONE SMALL ISSUE. HE’S TOO LATE.
My name is Lily Snow. And I was once
the kind of ugly that turned heads and made people stare. The worst part was
how I let it ruin my life and destroy my relationship with the love of my
life—Maxwell Cole, one of the sexiest, wealthiest, enigmatic men on the planet.
All because I felt ugly and certainly not good enough for a man’s love.
But not anymore.
One car wreck, three reconstructive
surgeries, and some unexpected money have changed my life.
I’ve started my own company, I’ve
finally learned to like myself—not love, but like (hey, it’s a journey)—and
I’ve met a wonderful new man who’s helped me put Max in the past where he
belongs.
There’s only one problem: After six
long months, Maxwell Cole is back, asking for the one thing I can’t give him.
And he’s not taking no for an answer.
NOTE: This is a continuation of the
story FUGLY, but is a standalone.
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Every part of
my body and soul swelled with emotion and disbelief. “You really want to marry
me?” I said, trying to get it all straight in my head.
He slid a small
black box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a gorgeous diamond ring.
I was too
excited and overwhelmed to actually look at it or make my lips move or get my
feet to walk around the counter. I wanted to kiss him and cry and tell him how
damned sorry I was for fucking up our relationship.
“Well?” Those
hazel eyes drilled into me.
I held up my
index finger. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I turned and ran for the back of
my little store. I flipped on the bathroom lights and leaned my body over the
toilet, feeling the wave of nerves hit me hard.
“Lily?”
I panted, but
nothing came out. Breathe, breathe, breathe. The wave passed, and I stood
upright. Slowly, I turned my gaze toward the tall, muscularly framed, beautiful
man standing in the doorway, with one eyebrow cocked and his thick arms crossed
over his broad chest.
“This is not
going how I imagined.” He flashed a cocky little smile.
Oh shit. Reply.
Reply, stupid! “Yes! Yes. Wait. No!”
“No?” His head
jerked back.
Fuck! “I can’t
accept your proposal.”
He blinked at
me. “This is definitely not how I expected it to go.”
I stepped back
an inch, needing to put distance between us in any way possible. He had no idea
what I’d been through these last six months. He had no idea how hard it had
been to get up every day and not cry or hate myself for what I’d done to him,
to us. But I’d finally pulled my life together a few crumbs at a time.
I’d…moved on. At least, I was trying.
I tugged down
on the hem of my pink sweater and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry,” I said with a
firm tone, “but I can’t marry you.”
He stared with
a scowl I knew so, so well, reminding me of when he was Mr. Cole, my boss. My
hot dickhead of a boss with a very strange secret.
I inhaled
deeply. What I had to say next would not please him. Not in the least. But he
and I had always been honest with each other. It was the foundation of our
relationship and what I loved most about us. Okay, that and the sex.
I swallowed and
looked down at my pink flats—yes, they went with my sweater and my pink jeans.
Why hadn’t I worn something more serious today? Because saying what I had to
say next, dressed like a piece of Pepto, made me feel ridiculous. I needed a
black leather jacket or a flame-retardant suit for this.
“I, uh…” I
cleared my throat. “I’m engaged already. Well…mostly.” I hadn’t officially said
yes to my boyfriend, but I’d intended to.
“What! Who?
Who, Lily!” Max yelled.
I cringed,
knowing full well he would not understand. With one eye closed and the other
squinting, I turned my head to the side, preparing for a giant explosion. Boom!
Male ego everywhere.
“Patricio
Ferrari?” I eked out.
Max’s face
seemed to inflate like a giant angry red balloon. “The fucking actor?” he
roared.
It wasn’t a
question. Not really. Maxwell Cole knew exactly who Patricio Ferrari was. Nope.
They weren’t friends.
“Yes,” I
whispered with my eyes closed, “the actor. Who else?”
Max opened his
mouth to speak, pointed his finger in my face, and then snapped his mouth shut
and looked away. I watched while he repeated the action—open mouth, point,
close mouth, look away, open mouth, point, close mouth…
“Max.” I
stepped forward and gently grabbed his arm. “Please try to understand. You
didn’t want me. You said goodbye.” Or at least that was how it seemed at the
time when I’d said something like, “I am so sorry. Please give me another
chance.” And he’d said something like, “Thanks for coming by, but I have to
meet with my lawyers.”
“But you…” he
snarled. “You…Patricio. Really?” He shook his head in disgust.
“Max, I’m
sorry, but yes, really. He loves me, and he makes me happy.” Patricio and I cooked
dinners together and watched silly movies. We wore stupid hats and rollerbladed
at Venice beach. We took off to the mountains and went skiing. I couldn’t
remember having so much fun and that was because I never knew how. Not before
Patricio. He’d introduced me to a part of myself I needed. And he taught me how
to breathe again. His looks weren’t so bad either.
Max ran his
hands through his messy dark hair. “Do you fucking love him, Lily?”
I didn’t even
need to think about the answer. Yes! Maybe? No, definitely yes. But did I love
him like I loved Max, with pure chaotic passion? No. Patricio and I were more
like friends, and after having my heart decimated by Max, that made me feel
safe. Yes, Patricio was definitely the type of guy I should marry and could
grow to love more over time.
“Yes. I love
him,” I replied without specifying the type of love. It wasn’t any of Max’s
business.
Max’s rapid
pulse ticked away on his neck. “How…but…me…but…”
To see such an
articulate, opinionated, stubborn-as-hell man like Max fail to find his words
tore out my heart.
“Six months,”
he growled like a horrible accusation. “Six fucking months!”
“Stop yelling
at me,” I snapped. “Not when I could say the same to you, Max. Six months.
Where were you?” I hadn’t heard a word since that day I asked him to forgive
me, about a month after the accident.
“I was taking
care of some very important things.”
“Can you be any
vaguer?” I asked.
“What does it
matter what I was doing? Because clearly you were keeping yourself occupied.”
Jerkface. Why
did he expect me to sit around for half a year like a helpless, lovesick woman?
That was not me. I was the type of person who picked herself up after she fell
down.
As for
Patricio, he was a very intense man who pursued his desires with passion. No
different than Max. Ironically, Patricio and I had met at a party in Milan
right before Max and I started our relationship. Anyway, Patricio and I had
danced at that party and had fun. He didn’t care about my presurgery looks or
my fameless status. And a month after my Maxwell-meltdown slash very public
breakup, Patricio somehow tracked down my number and asked me out for a drink.
I said no at first. And the second and third and fourth times, too. Finally, a
few months ago, I felt ready to take a step forward and move on. I accepted.
Patricio made it clear on the very first date that he knew Max had broken my
heart. “I don’t care if you still love that asshole. I am here, claiming my
stake. I want you, Lily. And I know what you’ve been through. I know what you
must feel. But I also know what I feel. You,” he’d kissed the top of my hand,
“light up my life like no odder.” He’d meant “other” but his Italian accent
became exaggerated when he was excited or emotional. “Jess” instead of “yes.”
“Chew” instead of “you.” “Hot” instead of “heart.” Jess, Leely. My hot belongs
to chew.
I loved it. He
had a wild, crazy side, and when he had his breaks from filming, usually in
L.A. where he now lived, I enjoyed spending time with him. No, Patricio and I
didn’t know each other extremely well, which was why his proposal seemed
sudden, but like I said, we were good friends, we had fun, and what woman
wouldn’t want a famous, hot, Italian actor as a husband? We were a good match.
Max, in comparison, made me feel lost to emotion, vulnerable, and…well,
extremely aroused. Stop that.
I lifted my
chin. “I’m sorry, Max. But you’re six months too late. I’m marrying him.”
MIMI JEAN
PAMFILOFF is a USA Today and New York
Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and
worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that
it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream.
Mimi
lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the
rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh
when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make
a big comeback for men
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