Page 36 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

He glides in, parallel parking like a dream. If this man does anything badly, I haven’t seen it. And then, too soon, he puts the car in park and turns to me, his expression grim even if he never quite manages to look me in the eye.

Here’s my moment of truth. The moment when he either asks when he can see me again or doesn’t and I discover whether I’ve been an absolute fool over this man or not. I wait, my heartbeat thumping in my throat like a jackrabbit’s hind leg as he scratches himself.

“Don’t forget your phone,” he says, gesturing toward the cup holder.

My phone.

Welp. I guess I have my answer.

“Oh. Right.”

I grab it. Tuck it into my pocket.

Another awkward silence. Then he clears his throat.

Still no eye contact.

“Let me, ah, walk you to the door. I’ll grab the umbrella.”

With that, he climbs out and lets in a blast of wind and rain that chills my skin. Then he heads to the trunk before meeting me at my door just as I grab my purse and get out. Along with my overnight bag, he’s got one of those giant golf umbrellas that provides enough coverage for a picnic table, but it doesn’t matter. The rain drives right into our faces, compounding my misery as we walk up the stairs to my brownstone’s well-lit stoop. I suppose the good thing is that it will provide cover in the unfortunate event that I lapse into tears, which is a distinct possibility.

I don’t know what people say at moments like this, so I decide to keep it upbeat. There’s my pride again. I’m not a sophisticated person, but I can play one on TV. No need to let the man know that I’m teetering on the edge of the ugly cry.

“That was an amazing weekend,” I say as I find my keys. I award myself points for keeping my voice steady and smiling. “Thank you.”

“Yep,” he says gruffly, giving me a direct glance as he passes me my overnight bag. The brief connection is a jolt directly to my solar plexus. No sign of my tender lover here, boy. No warmth. Just the strained expression of a man who wants to get this over and done with so he can move on to the next thing he needs to do. Or maybe the next woman. “Glad you could stay.”

I nod and hitch my overnight bag onto my shoulder. My smile wobbles but manages to stay upright.

“Me too.”

His jaw tightens as he glances around at the sidewalk. At his car. At anything but me.

“Well. I won’t keep you out here in the rain.”

“No worries,” I say, still upbeat. “I won’t melt.”

He nods, his lip curling into some hybrid of a smile and a grimace.

“Go on inside. I don’t want you getting kidnapped on my watch.”

I insert the key into the lock, grateful to have something to do with my hands and somewhere else to look besides at his wintry expression. But when I get the door open and see the familiar warmth of my hallway and its row of mailboxes on the wall, I hesitate with my hand on the knob.

Is this it between us after such a glorious weekend? Like this?

I can’t let it be over without saying something.

“Ryker—”

“Have a good night,” he says before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you.”

And he hurries back down the stairs to the welcoming lights of his car and out of my life, leaving me so dejected that I don’t even have the heart to call after him.

You never asked for my number, asshole.

Not that he’d call anyway. He’d probably take the number just to be polite and avoid conflict before ghosting me.

So that’s that.

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