“So, if we could get a copy of your references, I think we’re all done for today.”

Skye Summers looked up from her interview notes, her heart dropping straight into her stomach. “My… Right. Uh.”

Trying to hide her panic, she thumbed through the stack of extra résumés she kept in her interview binder. Résumé. Résumé. Résumé… No reference sheet. With the eyes of all three museum administrators boring holes into her forehead from across the table, she inhaled softly, then forced the most brilliant smile she could muster, given the circumstances.

“It seems I’ve left my reference list at home,” she told them, doing her best to ignore the way Marvin from HR scribbled something on the corner of his questionnaire sheet. Her smile widened and trembled, starting to hurt her cheeks. “But I can email you a copy.”

“Please do,” Gretta, head of the art antiquities department Skye had been trying to get a position in, remarked. “It is a mandatory part of the hiring process. I believe it was on the application checklist.”

“I apologize. I’ll have it to you as soon as possible.” That morning at another interview, Skye had been forced to give all four of the interviewers a printed copy of her references. She wasn’t sure why they couldn’t have just shared the one copy she had provided for them, but it didn’t matter now. From the looks on the faces of the trio in front of her, the damage was done.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Summers. We’ll be in touch.”

Skye stood on shaky legs, hoping the cold sweat from the start of the interview had finally dried up as she shook each of their hands. We’ll be in touch. It was a familiar song and dance. All those fake smiles. All the waning adrenaline. All the forced gratitude for them taking the time to even speak with her.

Job hunting sucked.

But at least she was getting called for interviews. She considered the idea as she made her way out of the small Etruscan Art and Pottery museum. Skye hadn’t specialized in the area by any means, but having graduated a month ago with a degree in Museum Studies and Archival Organization, she had blitzed every museum in Coral Bay—and the rest of California—with an application for whatever positions they might have open. So far, three had called for interviews. One had outright rejected her an hour after she’d submitted her résumé. As stressful, and sometimes demoralizing, as pitching yourself to strangers could be, at least a few people were calling her. Skye knew plenty of former classmates who had been met with radio silence since firing off their applications.

So, really, she actually ought to be grateful for the fake smiles and the adrenaline spikes and the serious trauma her hair had endured lately with all the overzealous interview styling. But just because she knew she ought to be grateful didn’t make the process any easier.

The first blast of salty, warm coastal air managed to wash the post-interview anxiety off her, and Skye stood on the front steps of the small museum sandwiched between a sushi bar and a vintage clothing boutique, breathing it all in. When she could finally take a step without her legs wobbling with nerves, she swapped her black pumps for teal flip-flops, shoving the heels into her huge pleather purse. Nothing felt better than taking off a painful pair of shoes and replacing them with comfort. Nothing. All her flip-flops were padded—none of this thin, zero-support nonsense for Skye—and she imagined this was exactly what it would feel like to walk on a cloud.

With tourist season kicking off in the sunny seaside town of Coral Bay, Skye opted to walk home instead of trying to flag down a cabbie, who’d only give her grief for being a local. They all wanted to cash in on out-of-towners who had no idea they were being driven the long way around. No thanks.

Halfway down the block she pulled her flaming red hair out of its severe ponytail, mussing out her waves with her fingers. One less uncomfortable thing to grapple with. Ten minutes later, by the time she reached her upscale apartment building—one that she had always thought was too good for her—the rings, bracelets, and earrings had come off too. Shuffling past the doorman, Skye felt more herself in that moment, wearing flip-flops and a pencil skirt that she had slightly unzipped and a flowy blouse that she had untucked, than she had all day. Two back-to-back hour-long interviews in a row wearing gorgeous, flattering, but ultimately not-her-style clothing had left her totally fried. The interviews themselves drained her mentally, but the clothes sapped her physically.

One day it would be acceptable to wear yoga pants everywhere. If she were Queen of the Universe, it would be a mandate.

“How were the interviews, Miss Summers?”

She shot Ben, one of the three men who ran the twenty-four-seven lobby front desk, a sleepy smile and changed course, heading straight for him.

“Could have been better, I guess,” she said with a huff, planting her elbows on the too-tall marble counter. “I don’t think I’ll be hearing from them, honestly.”

The first interview, a museum at the north end of the city that specialized in men’s fashion, hadn’t left her feeling excited, and this second interview had ended on a sour note. Neither one was promising. The very first museum-focused interview she’d had had been a group interview where three other candidates monopolized all the talk time by screeching over everyone. Skye hadn’t been able to get a word in—so, no History of Toilets tours for her. The loss had been devastating.

“Well, I’m sure you gave it your all,” Ben mused, then ducked down behind the huge podium that hid the security monitors, among other tablet-shaped tech. “You have a package from Mr. Daniels. His assistant dropped it off an hour ago.”

Her whole body warmed at the mention of that name, from the tip-top of her forehead, down along her curves, veering into her naughty bits, then to the tips of her painted toes. Cole Daniels. Internet security and tech guru, humble thirty-year-old billionaire…

Also Skye’s sugar daddy of four years, and the only reason she lived in a place with a lobby constructed of marble, granite, and silver.

“I didn’t even know he was in town,” she said in an effort to downplay her noticeable physical response to the man’s name. Ben straightened moments later with a large rectangular box in hand: white, with a red silk bow on top—the only true splash of colour in the otherwise mutely decorated lobby. She accepted it with a grin, her insides twisting and turning. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Miss Summers. Just let me know if you need anything else today.”

“You’ve always got my back.”

She clutched the box to her as she hurried for the elevators, which Ben had already activated. Cole’s gift was light and didn’t rattle when she gave the package a little shake. Clothes, probably. She had told him a thousand times that he didn’t have to buy her things—everything he did for her was more than enough already. Hell, paying her university tuition, the whole reason she had joined the sugar baby–sugar daddy service based out of LA, had been more than enough of a gift to last Skye the rest of her lifetime.

He never listened. Whenever he popped into town, usually in the summer months and around the new year, he came bearing gifts. Beautiful, thoughtful, expensive gifts that Skye didn’t need, but never had the heart to turn down.

Kind of like her apartment. After financing her first year’s tuition, Cole had handed her the keys to a swanky apartment and told her to use it for as long as she was in Coral Bay. When she’d protested, he had insisted that he needed her to house-sit the unit while he was away or else there would be insurance issues, a story Skye had never believed but used to validate her presence there whenever she was feeling guilty. After all, Cole never stayed with her when he was in town; he had a beach house on a huge private plot of land at the south end of the city. So, for the last four years, the apartment had been Skye’s and Skye’s alone.

After a smooth elevator ride up to the sixth floor, she hurried for her apartment, eager to rip into the box. As soon as she stuck the key in the lock, she was greeted by Oz’s boisterous meows from the other side, a sound that always brought a smile to her face no matter what kind of day she’d had.

“My baby Ozzy,” she cooed, slipping inside carefully—the little shit would bolt whenever the door was open wide enough—and scooping up the pampered ball of white fur. He purred noisily in response, rubbing his face along her cheek and chin, paws kneading the air in utter contentment.

Skye always considered tuition and the apartment to be the first gifts Cole had ever lavished her with, but really, Oz was number one on the list. The day before their first agency-arranged meet-up, the one couples used to figure out if they were a good fit, Skye’s cat of eighteen and a half years had finally crossed over the rainbow bridge. Devastated, she’d called Cole in tears, asking to postpone the meeting for a few days while she dealt with the loss. At the time, rescheduling had been the last thing she wanted to do: her funds were drained, school seemed like a dream she’d never achieve, and Cole had been the first and only sugar daddy at the agency to request a meeting with her.

The whole thing had been her last resort to afford school after years of working constant part-time jobs, first to pay down her mom’s debt after she died, then just to, you know, survive. Juggling multiple shifts while attempting to take the odd online class here and there, she had never gotten anywhere financially or academically. Back then, a friend had shared an article online about sugar daddy relationships, which led to a lot of research and internet sleuthing on her part. While Skye thought “sugar daddies” absurd in theory, one night, after downing a whole bottle of cheap wine, she had applied to the agency of her choosing when she was feeling particularly hopeless, overwhelmed, and exhausted.

Much to her surprise, the agency accepted her—for a fee. Most of her savings account, actually, with barely three months of rent left, plus a meager amount for food. The promise of a wealthy man covering her living expenses while she finally got her dream degree had forced her hand, and, for once in her life, the risk had paid off.

She had been fortunate that Cole stuck with her after their initial setback, considering how well they got along now and how smooth the whole process had been for her. That initial meeting, however, could have spiraled into disaster if he’d thought she was rejecting him—or whatever other reasons a fragile macho-male ego might have dreamt up.

Skye had quickly learned, thankfully, that Cole had the farthest thing from a fragile male ego.

After they had rescheduled for the following week, with Cole sounding super sympathetic on the phone, he had showed up at the outdoor café that they agreed to meet at bearing Oz in kitten form, a baby blue ribbon knotted into a bow around his neck, the colour matching his striking eyes.

Skye would never admit it, but since that moment, she’d been smitten—both with her precious Oz and Cole.

“What have you been up to?” she murmured as she pressed kisses to Oz’s silky soft fur, kicking off her flip-flops and strolling into the sprawling apartment. The two-bedroom had an open concept area living/dining area and sandy-pink tile flooring. Seventy square feet of balcony space off the living room gave her a ton of space for breakfast outdoors and yoga in the sunshine, and the jacuzzi soaker tub in the master bath was to die for. Cole had furnished the apartment with the basics, though over the years she had added bits of herself to it in the form of abstract paintings, favored textbooks, and fresh floral arrangements—all cat-friendly, of course.

Settling on the edge of the couch, Skye placed Oz on her right and Cole’s present on the coffee table, then hastily unwrapped the bow. She gave Oz the thick red ribbon to play with, wrapping it around his lithe figure—made larger by an insane amount of fur—and he immediately went into kill mode, flopping back on the cushions, mouth wide and back feet kicking. After a few moments of watching him play-kill, Skye lifted off the top part of the box and grabbed the note inside. As she suspected—upscale clothes of some kind, wrapped in tissue paper. At least the note was in Cole’s handwriting; Skye had become quiet adept at differentiating between his scrawl and his assistant.

Skye squirmed, heat flaring between her thighs, as she read the words, Cole’s gorgeous British accent dancing around her head.

Well. So much for her yoga class tonight. Skye had hoped all the stretching and deep breathing and socializing would help her forget the stress of post-grad interview season, but a fancy gala on the arm of a billionaire would probably work just as well.

“Ouch!” Oz had gone from murdering the ribbon a foot away to doing it directly against her thigh, and she pushed him back down the couch to avoid another clawing. Shaking her head, she flipped the small card over, then frowned when she spotted something on the back.

Skye sat back on the couch, card falling to her lap, then ran her hands through her hair. Wear something sexy underneath? Like…sexy underwear? A flood of adrenaline pounded through her at the thought, a delicious spike of excited energy paired with repressed desire.

When she had first read about sugar daddies and their relationships with sugar babies—ugh, the term still made her cringe—Skye had just assumed all these women were glorified escorts, despite the agency she used vehemently denying the accusation. Skye had taken their word for it at the time, but she hadn’t trusted it, not entirely, even after she signed her contracts to use the agency’s services. After all, why would a rich, successful guy buy someone the world without expecting anything but companionship in return? That didn’t make sense to her—until Cole. They had a clause in their personal contract that stipulated physical affection was not required under any circumstances unless expressly agreed to by both parties. It was not to be used as payment for gifts, and if it was used as an intimidation tactic, the contract was null and void—and the guilty party would have to make financial restitutions at an agreed upon amount.

Essentially, sex had been off the table from day one, just as Skye requested when she had applied to the agency. Once she had been paired with Cole Daniels, however, she regretted not thinking things through a little more carefully. Nowadays, since she had no desire to muddy their friendship, Skye hadn’t acted on her underlying feelings. Not once in four years. In return, Cole hadn’t done more than hold her hand, kiss her cheek, and give her a friendly hug.

Sure, at parties they ramped up the cuddling and touching for the benefit of others. After all, that was what Skye brought to the relationship: she appeared in public as his girlfriend. Cole traveled so much, worked so hard, that he had no time for a real relationship. Unfortunately, the press in the US and Britain had crucified one of their most eligible bachelors for appearing standoffish and uncomfortable with the dating scene. Like he was some weirdo for not having a model on his arm.

Skye had quickly learned that Cole wanted a genuine connection—he just didn’t have space in his life to pursue anything romantic long-term. He wanted a close friend whom he could bring to parties and on vacations so the press would leave him alone. Apparently none of the women in his private life had fit the bill, so he’d gone with an outside hire. When Skye had heard his terms, she’d decided she could easily manage them, especially for a guy as sweet as Cole. In return, he supported her financially through school while she earned a degree at age twenty-nine that she could have had by age twenty-one but had never been able to afford.

But in her mind, it had never been just a friendship between them. To Skye, there had always been something more, some underlying tension, heat, that flared whenever they got together.

She had always just assumed it had to be one of two things when it came to Cole Daniels, sugar daddy and all around wonderful human being. One: he wasn’t interested in her romantically. But if that was the case, he had a future in acting, given the way he treated her in public. Or two: he also didn’t want to ruin what they had by complicating everything with sex. Skye had always hoped option two was the truth, but given how tight-lipped Cole was about his personal feelings, it could have easily been option one.

Lips pursed, she read the card over one more time, absently dragging the ribbon around to keep Oz busy. There were an awful lot of x-kisses here, even for Cole. And he had never asked her to dress sexy before. Generally, the term he used was appropriate, though he had always given her a rundown of the event beforehand so she could style herself accordingly.

Maybe it was finally happening.

Maybe he had decided to throw caution to the wind and cross the line they had both been dancing around for years.

Was she ready to take the plunge? Was she ready to make things messy, to complicate what had always been so clear-cut and easy?

Skye hoisted a purring Oz onto her lap, deciding she had about four hours to figure it out.