Page 46 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

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Ryker

I’ve started hurryinghome after work, which is this new thing I’ve been doing in the two weeks or so since Ella and I got together. I hurry through the parts of my day that don’t include her, hanging on by my fingertips until she shows up again.

Except for this evening, when I swing by Nordstrom and grab a couple of things she might need when she stays the night at my place. Something she’s been doing a lot of lately.

Like clockwork, a shit-eating grin erupts across my face at the thought of her.

Cheesy? Yeah. But I can’t help myself.

I let myself into my apartment, toss my keys onto their shelf by the door and click on the lights, determined to make everything perfect before she gets here in a few minutes.

We’ve gotten into a flow. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to check in with her at the end of every day and decide where we should get together that evening. Sometimes my place, sometimes hers. They’re both fine with me. But her place won’t work long term (for one thing, she hasn’t got a wall large enough to accommodate my big-screen TV), which is why I’ve decided to lay a little groundwork to make sure she’s as comfortable as possible at my place.

That’s right, sports fans. I’ve already begun thinking about asking Ella to move in with me.

Not now, obviously. I may have lapsed into a form of insanity where she’s concerned, but I’m not that insane. She’s already skittish enough, especially given her bad breakup. I don’t want to scare her off. These things take time. I know that. We’re getting to know each other. Things could still go wrong.

But one of the benefits of being a thirty-year-old bachelor in New York City is that I’ve been around the block. A lot. I’ve seen a few things. I’ve learned a lot of things. About myself and about women. I’ve been divorced. I’ve come by some hard-earned wisdom when it comes to romantic relationships. I’ve become a great judge of character. I have that gut feeling that tells me everything I need to know about a person within the first five minutes of meeting them. That feeling has warned me when a potential business partner has turned out to be a liar and/or a backstabber. I wouldn’t trust this one as far as I could throw him, chief.Not unless you want to lose your shirt. It’ll say something like she’s all about the Benjamins when I meet a new woman for drinks and her attention lingers for half a second too long on my gold cuff links or my watch. My gut never steers me wrong.

And what does my gut say about Ella?

Don’t screw it up, man. Don’t let this one go. You won’t find another woman like her.

I shake my head at myself as I arrange the bags and flowers on the coffee table and then head to the kitchen to uncork a bottle of red, bemused by my own certainty. I wasn’t looking for this. I wasn’t in the market for anything. But if a glittering unicorn shows up in your front yard, you don’t shoo it away and ask it to come back at some indeterminate point in the future when you’ve got your barn ready.

Ella Richardson is a unicorn. I may not know much, but I’m smart enough to know that.

I’m not talking about her beauty or her sexiness. Forget all that.

I’m talking about her sense of humor. Her sweetness and warmth. Her brains. Her work ethic. Her independence, kindness and integrity. Her unassuming girl-next-door aura. What you see is what you get with her. She won’t ever pull her punches when it comes to telling me an uncomfortable truth. Or lie to me, take advantage of my money situation or sleep with my best friend. I’d stake my life on it.

And I won’t be the one to pump the brakes on this relationship. I’m here. I’ll be here. Full steam ahead.

Hence the gifts to grease the rails for me. Just a little bit.

I pour two glasses of wine and help myself to a sip, eyeballing my handiwork with satisfaction before going back to the living room.

I’ve already got the nightstand on her side of the bed cleared out, not that I ever had anything much in it. Same with the cabinets and drawers in her half of the master bathroom. Not that I plan to make a big announcement about it. I just want to make it easy for her to slip into my routine around here. Same thing with her access to the apartment. The doorman is already under strict orders to send her up whenever she shows her pretty face in the lobby. I’ll give her a key when I think the time is right. Oh, and I need to invite her to a cocktail thing later in the week—

Knock-knock-knock.

And there she is. Woman of the hour.

I set my wine down and hurry to the door, that smile commandeering my face again. I go through this routine every single time we get together. At times like this, I wonder what the hell I was doing for all those years before she showed up at Bemelmans. Can you live without being alive? How could I have existed for so long without realizing that I didn’t have the one thing I truly needed?

Most of all, how long will I keep asking myself these syrupy existential questions?

“Hey,” I say, my grin wide as I swing the door open for her. She’s weighed down with a couple of grocery bags in addition to her overnight bag. “What’s all this?”

“Not so fast,” she says, looking bemused. “What’s so funny?”

I shrug as I divest her of the bags and set them on the big dining table. “Can’t I just be happy to see you?” I ask over my shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s it,” she says as she follows me. “If you were happy to see me, you would’ve kissed me by now.”

“All in good time.”

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