Page 22 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

6

Ella

“Ella,”comes a harried female voice that Friday night. “There you are. Thank God.”

I’m feeling pretty harried myself right now and don’t appreciate this unwelcome interruption. I’m in the middle of catering the desserts for Ryker’s family’s huge corporate event for investors at their home in the Hamptons. The command center for my operation is one of the gleaming stainless-steel tables inside the restaurant-grade kitchen of their waterfront mansion.

The place is in-sane.

I don’t know if, say, Oprah has a home out here, but if she does, it probably looks a lot like this. I’m no real estate expert, but we’re talking about at least twenty thousand square feet of priceless antiques, glittering chandeliers, sweeping staircases, marble, gilt and jaw-dropping art on the walls. And don’t get me started on the manicured grounds, gardens and sweeping ocean views.

The place is currently teeming with black-tied, couture-clad and bejeweled people who all look as though they’re on their way to the Academy Awards. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that I received my own makeover for the event and have traded in my pink-and-white Valentina’s uniform for a crisp white shirt, black tie, black trousers and black apron. I’ve even got new shoes for the occasion, a pair of truly hideous clogs. Clunky but surprisingly comfortable.

As a drab but hardworking wren amongst all these glittering peacocks, my job is to keep everyone supplied with pastries. I don’t expect pleasant smiles, words of thanks or even simple human acknowledgment as I shuttle Black Forest gateau and other specialties out to the sprawling tent all night, and I certainly don’t get them. My only hope is that word of mouth and discreetly placed cards on the dessert table will generate new business for Valentina’s. One can only hope.

Anyway, I stop artfully arranging the gateau on my silver platter, frown in the direction of the voice and discover Bellamy ducking and dodging the chefs and caterers as she hurries toward me. She looks gorgeous in her floaty yellow gown, and I can’t help but envy her in her finery. We’re both working girls tonight (she’s here in her capacity as Griffin’s executive assistant), but at least one of us doesn’t look like an escaped server from the local pub. Unfortunately, she also looks angry enough to snatch one of the chef’s knives from the magnetic strip on the wall and dismember someone with it.

Uh-oh.

Something serious is up.

I grab her arm, steer her into the pantry, slam the door behind us and click on the light.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“No big deal,” she says, barely getting the words through her locked jaw. “Some woman just grabbed Griffin’s crotch. It’s nothing. I’m fine. Let’s move on.”

My jaw drops. This is the first time in my life that I could accurately describe someone as being incandescent with rage. She evidently hasn’t gotten any better at controlling her feelings for her boss in the last several days.

“This is fine?” I gesture up and down, encompassing her entire body. “You look like you’re either going to start crying or grab one of the knives and go cut someone.”

“I’m fine. I can’t flip out every time some woman makes eyes at my boss. Hell, every woman at the party is staring at him and his brothers. They’re all blinking out Fuck me now in Morse code every time he glances in their direction. And if he decides to fuck any or all of them, it’s none of my business.”

I laugh. “I don’t know,” I say. “I caught him watching you earlier. If I had to guess, I’d say any fucking that he wants to do involves you. Because he looked all soft and gooey-eyed. But what do I know?”

“The Beast doesn’t do gooey-eyed,” she says, but I know her well enough to see the involuntary flare of hope in her eyes.

“Yeah. He does,” I assure her.

We consider each other for a moment in silence.

“He was acting like he might want to hook up again,” she says. “This morning on the helicopter.”

“Really?” I clap and hop, succumbing to a girlish and unexpected wave of excitement on her behalf. She works far too hard and doesn’t have nearly enough romantic fun in her life. Griffin certainly looked as though he wanted to swallow her whole a little while ago. I think she should indulge. She deserves it. “So what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that I don’t want to get my heart smashed,” she says, sounding annoyed. “You know I’m not good at casual sex. Duh.”

“So get good,” I say, shrugging. “This is your chance to practice.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she cries.

“I’m talking about you having a little fun. A summer fling before you leave for law school. You both enjoy yourselves while it lasts and get each other out of your systems. Then it ends when you leave. No harm, no foul.”

She frowns. “And you’re not worried about me getting my feelings all mixed up in this harebrained scheme of yours? Because, I gotta tell you, I am.”

“No,” I say. Possibly with more optimism than the situation warrants. “You’re going to separate them out. Sex over here. Feelings over there. Never the twain shall meet. Easy.”

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, her expression turning shrewd.

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