Page 48 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

Again, she folds the thing up with the care of a conservator at the Smithsonian handling Jackie Kennedy’s wedding dress. Then she turns to the small bag.

“A candle! Water lilies!” She pops the top and gives it a whiff, her grin widening. “It smells amazing!”

“Women like candles,” I say wryly.

She presses a hand to her heart, looking close to tears. “This woman loves candles. You’re so thoughtful. Thank you.”

With that, she plants her soft hands on either side of my head and gives me the sweetest kiss on the cheek. Swear to God, she melts me from the inside out. If I’d known I’d look like such a genius, I’d have gotten her some real gifts. One time I bought a woman I was dating a Louis Vuitton overnight bag for our weekend trip to Miami, only to have her complain that it was the wrong pattern. Another time, I bought a woman a pair of expensive gold earrings for her birthday, only to watch her deflate when she opened them. I think she expected diamond studs inside that little jeweler’s box or, God forbid, an engagement ring.

Maybe those experiences just show I’ve been hooking up with the wrong women.

But Ella? I have a feeling she’d carry on this way if I bought her a coffee mug and an oversized chocolate bar from some airport souvenir shop.

Maybe it’s all part of her grand plan to reel in a rich man. If so, it’s working. Because I am now prepared to lavish her with gifts just so I can feel like a king. To keep her smiling at me exactly like that, I’ll do anything. And I mean anything. Hell, I’m prepared to walk to Peru and bring her back a llama if that’s what she wants.

“Let’s go,” I say when my mood gets too weighty. My spinning thoughts are using up way too much emotional energy way too early in this relationship. I need to pace myself. I give her a final kiss, stand and look around for my suit jacket. “Hopefully, they’ll take us a bit early. I’m starving.”

“I hope I’m dressed okay,” she says, also standing, smoothing the skirt of her summery dress and eyeballing her flat sandals. “Where are we going?”

“Le Bernardin. They’ve got the best seafood,” I say, my heart sinking as I take a closer look at her. To me? She looks fabulous. As usual. As long as she never turns up wearing a padlocked chastity belt, I can’t say I’d ever care what she wears. But the place requires jackets for men, so they don’t mess around with their dress code. And I’d hate for her to ever feel uncomfortable.

“Uh-oh. That’s fancy, isn’t it?” Her expression falls. “I’m underdressed.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that they wouldn’t dare give any date of mine a hard time about her clothes, not with the kind of money I drop in that place with business meetings and whatnot, but my brother Griffin is the arrogant asshole in the family and I’d never want to challenge him for the position.

“Shit. My mistake. I should’ve warned you we’d be dressing up tonight. I didn’t think. But I really wanted to take you. I know how you love your fish.”

“Can we go some other night?”

“We could, but…” I snap my fingers as a brainwave hits me. “We’ll just swing by Nordstrom on the way. We have time. You can grab whatever you need.”

The suggestion seems to startle her.

“I’m on a budget, Ryker,” she says, her cheeks reddening and her shoulders drooping. She suddenly reminds me of a wilting flower. “I’m trying to pay back my student loans. I can’t afford Nordstrom right now. Or anytime soon.”

This suggestion startles me. Matter of fact, for a second or two, I’m so baffled by what I consider to be a non sequitur and a nonstarter that I can’t figure out why she’d even mention her budget. Then it hits me.

I can’t entirely stifle my laugh.

“I understand about your budget. I’d never expect you to pay for anything in a million years,” I say, doing what I think is a good job tamping down my incredulity while also, hopefully, protecting her pride. I also make a mental bookmark to pay off her remaining student loans as soon as the time is right. Hopefully sooner rather than later, although I don’t want to move too fast for her. Still. What kind of man with my kind of money lets his woman struggle with debt? No, sir. Not on my watch. “Your money’s no good around here, anyway. I pay. End of story. Let’s go.”

Pleased that we’ve reached a swift and satisfactory solution to the problem, I reach for her hand and head for the door. I can taste the striped bass already. So it’s with some surprise that I feel her stiffen and pull her hand away. I turn back to discover her scowling at me.

I freeze, startled by the swiftness of this mood change.

This, obviously, is bad.

When she smiles, I smile. When she smiles, we both laugh, we have fun and, more to the point, I get laid. All is right with my world. We’ve been smiling a lot, which means that everything is coming up roses in my world. I do not like frowns. What can I say? I may be one of the owners of a billion-dollar real estate empire, but way down deep, where it counts, I’m a simple man.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m not a charity case,” she says, her voice as cold and sharp as cracked ice in the middle of a thawing lake. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like one.”

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