Ashton Richards (yes, the Ashton Richards) is sitting in Mal’s living room, smoking a joint and wearing a golden robe with his initials printed on the breast pocket, along with sunglasses indoors. He sips his coffee and reads through something in Mal’s notebook, while his staff runs around in the background, cleaning and cooking like magical cartoon animals helping Cinderella get ready for the ball.

I can’t help but notice that Richards, despite his many apparent flaws if you believe what the media says, is undeniably gorgeous. He looks like a really hot version of Jesus—a long-lost Hemsworth brother with long hair.

Mal sits across from him in a recliner, his legs crossed over his coffee table, chewing on an unlit clove cigarette and throwing a rugby ball at the ceiling. “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure is playing from a portable radio, and I will not let the fact that Mal kept his cassettes or his old-school radio endear him to me. He is not a romantic.

There are platters everywhere in the open kitchen, breakfast nook, and on the table. They hold pastries, fruit, a full English breakfast, and coke.

Hold on. Coke?

My eyes widen as I zoom in on the silver platter with white lines running across it. Richards lifts his head from the notebook he’s reading and waves in my general direction.

“Someone hand the chick an NDA. I’m trying to work here.”

A blonde girl who looks eerily similar to Ryner’s PA, Whitney, jogs toward me with a thick stack of papers and a pen.

Mal ignores my existence. His cheekbones are ruddy, tinted pink, and I wonder if it’s from the cold or from last night’s orgasms. He has that lost Peter Pan look—charismatic and unassuming, yet so easily destructive. I can’t even hate him all the way, no matter how hard I try.

“Who’s the hottie?” Richards nudges Mal’s leg with his own, tilting his chin to me.

“My sex slave,” Mal deadpans, catching the ball and spinning it on his finger like a pro, his eyes still hard on the ceiling.

Is there anything this man can’t do?

Yes, stay faithful.

“For real?” Ashton rips his sunglasses from his face and leans forward, checking me over more closely.

I fold my hands across my chest, aware that my nipples are puckered from the cold.

“Isn’t she a little…underdressed?” He raises a thick eyebrow over his crystal blue, Caribbean Sea eye.

I’m going to kill Mal.

Straight-up choke him. Not even in his sleep. I want him to be fully present when it happens.

Mal follows Richards’ gaze until his eyes land on mine. I’m still silent because I’m waiting to see how far he’s going to take his weird story.

“She has a hobo fetish, so I turn a blind eye to her fashion choices,” Mal explains, resuming his ball spinning. “I humor her, but I draw the line at pissing in public and flashing randoms.”

I nod, sending a sugary smile to Ashton Richards. The blonde girl hands me a contract and a pen, and I sign it without even looking, my gaze still on her boss.

“Mal is just being humble,” I begin. “He’s the one with the hobo fantasies. In fact, he loooooves trash. Just look at this place.” I hand the girl the pen and motion around us. “Sometimes I think he won’t rest until this place is a dumpster. I once caught him making love to an empty can of baked beans.”

“Tomato soup, actually,” Mal amends, straight-faced, but his purple eyes are twinkling with mischief. “And that can has a name. Laura.”

Ashton is looking between us now, laughing so hard tears are rolling down his cheeks—a young, hot version of The Big Lebowski.

“Young love. Fucking inspiring. What’s your name, honey pie?” He grins at me.

“Rory,” I say at the same time Mal volunteers my full name.

“Aurora Belle Jenkins. Her ma’s entire cultural education obviously stems from Disney. Personally, I think Cruella de Vil suits her better.”

“Personally, I think men who cheat on their wives and keep secrets from them should be stoned to death by a herd of baseball pitchers,” I retort, heading toward the kitchen and treating myself to a cup of coffee from the new machine that’s been installed since yesterday.

I snag a pastry from a huge platter in the breakfast nook and tear off a piece of it with my teeth.

“You should move to Saudi Arabia,” Mal suggests. “Adulterers get the death penalty. Of course, that’d put you at risk, too.”

“I’ve never cheated,” I growl.

“Yet,” he says flatly.

Bastard.

“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were working?” I ask with my mouth full, ignoring Mal’s third-grade taunting.

Richards is currently trying to count something with his fingers, or perhaps he’s counting his fingers, and looks completely out of it. It’s obvious he and the coke are on intimate terms, and that he’s under the influence of multiple other substances.