Page 41 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

I wait while he retrieves it, then we go into the building and begin the long hike upstairs in a silence that’s once again comfortable rather than awkward. I feel a wave of nerves as I unlock my door, but it dissipates as soon as I usher him inside and see his reaction.

He sets his things on the floor next to mine, turns in a slow circle and whistles in appreciation. I try to see it all through his eyes. It’s light and airy, which I love. I went for a day at the shore aesthetic, with my comfy sofa and chairs covered in a nice cream-colored canvas and matching linen drapes at the tall windows overlooking the street below. A bricked mantel frames a decorative fireplace. There’s a bookshelf. A small round table with two chairs and a galley kitchen. Plenty of plants and colorful pillows. Framed black-and-white photos of the beach on the walls. A small bedroom and a smaller bathroom.

What’s the saying? It’s not much, but it’s home?

Yeah. That.

“Gorgeous, sunshine. This couldn’t be anyone else’s place.”

“Really?” I say, beaming.

He shoots me a frown. “Always with the surprise anytime I give you a compliment. We need to work on that.”

I want to tell him good luck with that doomed project, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

“What are these?” he says, evidently shifting into real estate mogul mode. “Ten-foot ceilings? Nice oak floors. Crown molding. Plenty of natural light. Updated galley. Full-sized stove. Guess that’s a requirement for a pastry chef such as yourself, eh?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what’s this?”

He points to my debt thermometer, which has a prominent place on the wall. Hand drawn with glaring red magic marker, it shows my ongoing progress against my remaining student loans from cooking school.

“I’m trying to get out of debt,” I tell him, feeling a bit sheepish about all this attention and my remaining obligation of about fifteen large. He probably spends more than that per month on clothes and shoes. “I like to reward myself once a year or every time I pay off five grand. Whichever comes first.”

“Nice. What’s the carrot?”

“I like shoes. Heels, actually.” I gesture to the top shelf, where I have exactly two pairs of vintage Manolo Blahniks on display, including the blue pair with buckles that Carrie wore when she married Big. “I got them at a consignment shop. I only wear them on truly special occasions.”

“Like the night we met?”

“Cute. I actually haven’t worn either of them yet,” I say, frowning as the realization hits me for the first time. “I don’t want to waste them on a standard girls’ night out.”

“Sounds like you need more special in your life. We’ll have to work on that,” he says with a pointed look that sparks flitters of electricity up and down my arms. “This is a great place. Rent-controlled?”

“Sort of. The owner is a regular customer at Valentina’s. She loves our brioche loaves. She had a vacancy at about the same time that I graduated from cooking school. I keep her habit supplied and she keeps my rent low. Win-win.”

“Love it.” He crosses to the bookshelf and peers at my selections. “There’s a lot of Julia Child here… The Barefoot Contessa… And what’s this? James Patterson? You’ve got a dark side. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“What did you expect? Wall-to-wall romances? My days are already sweet enough working at a bakery. I need to mix it up a little.”

“I approve.” He checks out the coffee table and side table, smoothing his hand over both surfaces, which have a weathered look to them, as though they’ve been at somebody’s cottage by the beach for a hundred years. “You paint these?”

“I did,” I say, bemused now. He’s starting to act like I painted the Sistine Chapel in my spare time.

“And the lampshade?”

“I made it from leftover fabric from the pillows.”

“Of course you did,” he says wryly, turning to the oversized photos on the wall. “And you took these pictures, right? Sea grasses. A boardwalk. Sunset.”

“That’s sunrise, actually. But yes.”

“A thousand apologies. And there’s Valentina again,” he says, pointing to a smiling shot of my mother on the mantel that I took the summer before she died. “She must’ve been very proud of you.”

My smile falters as I feel the familiar lump forming in my throat. As always, it’s a combination of missing her and being grateful that at least one of my parents was proud of me.

“Yes,” I say.

---