Page 53 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

“Anyway,” I say, giving my face a quick rub. I’m determined to wrap this up and turn the mood around. This is all way too heavy for such a pretty summer night. “Talking to Liam and hearing about his mother reminds me of all that. That’s all. He resents me. I resent him. It’s not like we know each other well. We’ve only met a few times in our entire lives. But talking to each other stirs up all these old feelings. Which are really my father’s fault.” I laugh at the situation’s irony, but there’s no humor in it. “Too bad he’s not here. I could dump all this on him.”

“Ella.” He runs a hand through the hair at my nape, giving me a delicious mini massage that melts a lot of my tensions. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re a good listener.”

“Nah. I’m just trying to understand why discussions about money freak you out. I’m starting to get it. And I hope you’re starting to get that I have money like he did, but I’m not your father. And I’m not your ex. I hope you won’t put me in the same category as them.”

“I’ll try not to,” I say. “But it’s not that easy. I’ve been burned. Sometimes I think my biggest goal in life is just not to turn out like my mother and get the rug ripped out from under me.”

“Understood. But I don’t want this to be a sticking point with us. I have a lot of money. I’m going to be spending some of it on you.” His expression gentles. “Let me do that.”

I don’t want to push our new understanding of each other too far, but I feel like I need to be completely honest.

“The idea of going to that restaurant with you gives me anxiety, Ryker.”

“Anxiety?”

“Yes. I feel like people will take one look at me and decide that I don’t belong. And I’ve had enough of that in my life.”

“Fuck that,” he says, his voice and expression now steely. “We’re together now, and I go to that restaurant all the time. Anywhere that I can go, you can go. Matter of fact, before this night went sideways, I was going to mention that I’ve got a cocktail thing in a few days. My brother Damon will be there. I want you to come with me.”

I stiffen involuntarily.

I know there are women out there who would kill to go to a cocktail thing with him.

Me?

The idea makes my stomach clench. First, notwithstanding my mini obsession with Manolo Blahniks, which I consider wearable works of art, I’m not a “dress-up and schmooze with complete strangers” kind of person, even on a good day. Sorry, Carrie Bradshaw. I’m a quiet, dinner-for-two kind of person. That’s my lane, and I like to stay in it. Second, Ryker is not a random guy asking me to his firm’s summer barbecue for employees. He’s a guy whose picture gets splashed across the papers. Anyone he ends up with will be a target of interest and speculation. Maybe I’m just a coward, but I’m not up for that.

“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not ready for that. Please understand.”

He quickly turns away, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

We sit there in silence for a beat or two.

It feels like there’s a canyon in that silence.

Finally he turns back, his expression carefully neutral.

“Neither one of us can control our demographics,” he says. “I’ll never hold it against you that your mother struggled with money when you were growing up. I’m hoping you won’t hold it against me that my family didn’t struggle.”

I want to agree with his logic and promise him that I’d never do that. But memories of my painful childhood and painful breakup are still creeping around the edges of my brain, poisoning my thoughts. As is my underlying disbelief that a man like Ryker could ever want—truly want—a woman like me.

I open my mouth, eager to reassure him. But no words come.

I turn away in the end, getting up on the pretext of visiting the powder room so I can pretend I don’t see the flare of hurt in his eyes.

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