Page 37 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

I begin the long trudge up the winding stairs to my apartment (did I mention that I live on the fourth floor of a building with an elevator that only works every third full moon?) with a humorless laugh at my own expense.

You’re so stupid, Ella.

You thought Ryker was different? You thought he was a good guy? You thought he really liked you?

My footsteps thunk out the words as I climb.

You’re.

So.

Stupid.

Ella.

Here I am thinking that maybe, just this once, a man might think that I’m special. He might see something in me that makes it worth his time to stick around. But my father didn’t stick around, did he? My ex-boyfriend didn’t stick around. Ryker is the most fascinating man I’ve ever known. Also the smartest, funniest, sexiest and, probably, the richest. Not that I care about his money, but everyone knows that rich men have more success in the dating world. That being the case, why would he stick around when he could have any doctor, lawyer, model, actress or CEO of his choosing? To be with me? A lowly pastry chef?

As if.

Breathless now, I snort back something that’s not quite a sob and not quite a laugh.

More to the point, what’s wrong with me? Do I drive away all men? Or just wealthy men?

Maybe that’s the key, I decide bitterly as I let myself into my apartment, drop my stuff on the floor, click on some lights and head for the kitchen to wash my hands before checking the fridge for leftovers. When I get up the energy for another round of online dating, I should update all my preferences and ask for blue-collar guys only. Maybe I’ll have more success.

The main thing is that I need to let go of any girlish notions about Ryker Black. He’s clearly not the guy for me— Ooh, chicken stir fry from the other night. Nice. There’s also a bottle of Riesling with a solid glass or so left, not that I plan to waste time with a glass at this painful juncture in my life. Why bother? I pull out the cork and down a healthy swig or two.

Much better.

Thus fortified for my long and lonely night of self-pity, I grab the bottle, the stir fry and the macarons I keep in the freezer for when I need a treat. I’m just about to get settled in front of the TV when my buzzer sounds, startling me. I freeze, my pulse rate going haywire.

It can’t be. But there’s only one way to find out.

I dump all the stuff back in the fridge and race over to the wall intercom. Then I force myself to count to five before answering, just so I don’t sound eager and desperate.

“Hello?”

“It’s, ah, me,” Ryker says.

I pray that he’s not going to tell me something random, like that I dropped a lipstick on his car seat, and he wants to return it or something.

“Everything okay?”

He clears his throat. “Can you come back down? We need to talk.”

I let out a silent whoop of triumph and pump my fist in the air, totally losing control for about three seconds. I don’t know what he wants to talk about, but I’m willing to listen. So much for putting him out of my mind and moving on with my life.

“Oh, okay. One sec.”

I go back downstairs at a semi-sedate pace and discover him on the stoop again. Only this time, he didn’t bother with the umbrella and is therefore soaking wet as he stands there in his shirt sleeves, hunched, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He looks cold. Miserable. Achingly vulnerable and not at all like the aloof man who left me five minutes ago. And he turned the car off.

“Hey,” I say, eyeballing him with concern when I open the door. “Do you want to come in—”

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he says, shivering. “I don’t have your number.”

My heart sinks. I’m not up for playing games. Not with him.

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