Page 10 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

You’d think that as someone who was recently burned by a rich boyfriend (and I don’t even want to get into my dismissive treatment at the hands of my wealthy father and his Mini-Me, my evil half-brother), I’d have sense enough to give rich guys a wide berth. But here I am, swilling expensive champagne from an expensive glass while sitting on an expensive-ass leather sectional in a massive apartment with soaring views of the Manhattan skyline in every direction, with a guy who could probably buy and sell my father and half-brother ten times over.

Hey. I’m nothing if not stupid.

And I like him. Even though I know that this kind of wealth comes with privilege, arrogance and indifference to the little people. Even though I know that I fall into the category of little people. I’ll never forget that life-changing day in middle school history class when I learned about the Russian Revolution with its wild class disparity between the czars and serfs. The day I learned that I was a serf in my own life. Sure, I’ve worked my way through school and into a career since then. But none of my essential facts have changed or will ever change.

I’ve cycled my way from being a lowly and forgotten child to a lowly cooking school student to a lowly pastry chef with cooking school debt. One day, if I work my ass off and achieve my biggest dream, I’ll become the owner of a lowly bakery. That’s it. That’s me winning in life. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Not at all. I’ve got too much pride for that. But I like to remind myself of my place in the pecking order. Just to keep things real and my expectations tempered.

You’re still just a serf, Ella. Never forget that.

Ryker, on the other hand? He’s a czar. And never the twain shall meet without an ensuing disaster.

But I still feel drawn to him.

Like, really drawn.

The same way a totaled car is drawn to one of those big electric magnets right before the poor car gets flattened into scrap metal.

He hits a button on the remote, dimming the lights. On screen, the handlers work on transferring the velociraptor into her new habitat. And Ryker retrieves his slice of cake and takes a bite with gusto.

“Whoa. This is insane,” he says, eyeing me with wide eyes and a healthy new respect. “You know what you’re doing with ganache and buttercream, sunshine. Kudos.”

“Yeah?” Ridiculously pleased with myself, I pick up my own plate, mostly to give my fidgety hands something to do. “Glad you like it. I wasn’t sure if I should add some—”

“Shh.” He faces front again, the side of his mouth twitching with a repressed smile. “No talking during the movie.”

“Funny,” I say, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to whack him in his taut abs with the back of my free hand.

From there, it seems like the most natural thing in the world for him to put his fork down, take possession of my hand and use it to reel me closer while never taking his eyes off the screen.

Well, what can I do? I’d already kicked off my heels when we arrived, so now I tuck my legs under me, arrange the throw across my lap and sit right next to him, in a spot where his bare right arm brushes against my bare left arm every time he takes a bite of cake.

I can’t explain the effect these accidental touches have on my overheated skin. His body is big and hard beside mine, full of latent power and electrical charges. Nothing special happens between us, but it’s like sitting next to a sleeping tiger. You never for one second forget yourself and mistake it for a housecat.

On screen, the scene switches to the lawyer wearing his white Panama suit in the jungle just as Ryker finishes his cake and sets his plate down.

As for me? I find myself mesmerized by his long lashes, straight nose and the strong lines of his profile. My attention dips to his tender mouth. To the dark smudge of ganache on the outer corner of his lower lip.

And I can’t help myself.

I shift my position, until my bent knees lean against one of his muscular thighs. Then I reach out and gently run my fingers through his thick hair, giving his nape a little massage. You probably know me well enough by now to understand that I’m not big on making the first move. Or any move. But my boldness is rewarded when I hear his breath hiss and feel a shudder ripple through him as I withdraw my hand again.

I wait, not daring to move.

He takes his time about turning his head to face me. The movie throws his features into light and shadow, highlighting the sensual gleam in his eyes and the new tension in his jaw line. We stare at each other, his gaze skimming my lips and my hair before centering on my eyes and locking in.

“Time for my kiss?” he asks, his voice husky.

“I’m here to watch the movie. I just thought you should know you have some ganache on your mouth.”

“Ah.”

“You’re a slob and a disgrace. I’m embarrassed on your behalf.”

He rests his elbow on the back of the sofa behind my head then uses his thumb to trace swirling figure eights on the side of my neck, making me shiver.

“Take care of it for me, sunshine.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, leaning in.

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