Page 27 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

7

Ella

The partyfinally winds down at around two thirty in the morning. I grab my overnight bag from my room in the servants’ quarters, which reminds me of Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs, and make my way through various vast hallways and up the main staircase to what I assume is the east wing. I don’t run into anyone else, much to my surprise, although I hear sounds of human activity in other parts of the house. I glance over my shoulder every few steps, certain that a team of security guards will spring from some hidden doorway at any second, tackle me to the ground and throw me off the premises as a trespasser. So it’s with some relief that I arrive at a set of double doors that I assume are his. I’m just about to knock when one of the doors swings open.

“Took you long enough,” Ryker says, untucking his shirt and going to work on the collar buttons. He’s already ditched his jacket and cuff links, and his black tie dangles around his neck. “I was about to send a search party for you.”

“I would’ve appreciated a search party,” I say darkly as he shuts the door, takes my bag and sets it on an upholstered bench at the end of his huge bed. “Or a trail of breadcrumbs or something. This house is insane. You need to get a GPS system so people like me can navigate their way around.”

“I’ll try to make it worth your while.” The glimmer of amusement in his eyes gives way to banked heat. “I’m glad you came.”

“No sex and no chocolate cake but you’re still glad I came?” My cheeks flush with pleasure. “You’re a keeper, aren’t you?”

He gets a strange look on his face. “Funny. I’ve been thinking the same thing about you.”

“I get that all the time.” Rattled by his ongoing display of sincerity, I smooth my pants with a dramatic flourish. Anything to get my interactions with him onto firmer ground. There’s got to be an asshole hidden in there somewhere. It’s my job to keep him at some sort of emotional distance and flush him out sooner rather than later. Before I get in too deep. “Must be the uniform.”

Something turns sad in his expression. “You just can’t accept a compliment, can you?”

I hesitate. I don’t mean to act like a basket case but, on the other hand, the truth is the truth. I’m not in the habit of receiving a lot of sincere compliments. If someone says something nice to me, I generally assume that they are either a liar or an idiot. Possibly both.

“Guess not.”

“We’re going to work on changing that. Because I have a lot of compliments to give you. You can’t freak out every time.”

I duck my head, shove my hands deep into my pockets, clear my throat and shuffle uncomfortably while wondering how to maintain one scrap of dignity.

“I’ll try,” I say finally. “No promises.”

“That’s all I can ask for, sunshine.” To my surprise, he presses a lingering kiss to my cheek, making the spot tingle with pleasure. He heads to a small table with two chairs and leaves me standing there with the warm fuzzies. “What changed your mind about spending time with me? Asking for a friend.”

“Like you said,” I say, laughing. “I can’t resist the sight of you in that tux.”

“Works every time,” he says, grinning. “Not that I’d ever look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Just don’t get a big head. I don’t want you thinking that you’re irresistible.”

“Not at. Irresistible is your department,” he says, a silky note in his voice and veiled heat in his gaze as it skims me from head to toe. Someone should bring in some scientists to study the level of pheromones produced by his body. This can’t be normal. “Brought some food, by the way. You probably didn’t get the chance to eat all night. I can’t have you starving.”

“You brought food for me?” I say, grateful for the topic change. I always feel a little breathless in his presence. Worse, I never know what to do when he hits me with all that evident sincerity when he pays me compliments like that. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy. Come sit.”

“In a minute. I’m still trying to get my mind around this room. This house.”

“It’s been in the family for a long time,” he says, frowning as he follows my line of sight. “It’s a bit much.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say in what is certainly the understatement of the year.

The suite is a high-end man cave, with built-in bookshelves, dark upholstery over in the seating area, open French doors to let in the cooling ocean breeze, a giant TV mounted over the mantel and—I am not kidding—a roaring fire in the fireplace.

I turn back to him and raise a brow.

“What?” he says. “I like fires. They’re cozy.”

“It’s June.”

“Word to the wise,” he says before taking his seat at the small table and shooting me a dark look as he pops the cork on the champagne and pours it into the flutes. “The last person to criticize my fires was my ex-wife. And she’s no longer here.”

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