Page 6 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

She seems to like this answer. Her attention dips to my mouth. Just for a second, but I notice. I also notice the way she runs a hand through her shiny hair, filtering the thick strands through her fingers. She’s got great hands, with short nails painted the same pink as her toes. I want those hands wrapped around my dick. Tonight. I want to suck those delicate fingers into my mouth. I want those nails to scratch my back when she comes.

No lie. The want is going to make me break into a sweat at this rate.

“I have a question for you,” she says just as the spiking tension makes my blood heat. “I already told you I’m not a natural blonde. So why do you keep calling me sunshine?”

I open my mouth to give her the obvious answer, which is that all that blonde hair makes a sunny halo around her head. But I realize that the color of her hair has almost nothing to do with the nickname. It’s much more about the brightness of her eyes. The glowing way I feel inside when she smiles at me. The hope I have that the next ten minutes will also feel like this. And the next ten. And the next ten.

Not that I can tell her any of that.

“Because something about you lights me up,” I say instead.

The answer seems to disconcert her as much as the question disconcerted me.

We stare at each other in a relative silence for a beat or two, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s thrilling. One part of me is vaguely aware of the murmuring crowd around us and of the pianist playing some familiar yet unidentifiable song. The other part is acutely aware of every fine detail about her. Like the way wisps of baby hair frame her forehead. And the perfect cupid’s bow of her lush upper lip. And the fact that my keen interest in her is mirrored back at me when I look into her eyes.

Corny? Yeah.

But still true.

She opens her mouth, but her voice arrives on a delay. “Why do I find you oddly appealing?”

“I don’t like that oddly,” I say, unsmiling because something about that qualifier rubs me the wrong way. If someone swooped in to ask me how appealing I find Ella, I’d have no problems producing adverbs like overwhelmingly or scarily. “How can I get rid of it?”

“I don’t know you well, but I’m guessing you’ll think of something,” she says with a wry and possibly resigned smile.

“We’re starting to get each other.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “So what are you thinking for the movie? On a summer night like this, I’m in the mood for a Steven Spielberg action-adventure. Maybe Jaws or Raiders of the Lost Ark. And I refuse to eat any pizza without pepperoni on it, so I’m hoping you’re not vegetarian.”

“What are the chances of me finishing my drink without you plotting your next move?”

“Slim to none. But I’ll plot silently for a while. If that helps.”

“Look at you.” She raises her glass to me. “A master of compromise.”

“Look at you. Remembering how to flirt,” I say, pleased.

She can’t completely block her laugh, much as she tries. “Let’s not get carried—”

“Ella? Is that you?” comes a strange new voice, startling us.

A masculine voice.

This unpleasant reminder that the world outside our little table bubble still exists, particularly coming in the form of a potential competitor, makes my gut lurch into a sickening nosedive. Which is stupid. You don’t stumble across a handful of flawless ten-carat diamonds on the way to your own bathroom in the morning, and you don’t interact with a woman like Ella for more than thirty seconds without encountering someone else who also wants her. That’s life. Still, the ferocity of my visceral response surprises me. I’m not saying I want to rip the guy’s face off. I’m just saying I’m not happy to see him standing there in all his good-looking, expensive-suit-wearing glory. I’m not happy at all.

Ella doesn’t look thrilled either. Another arctic wind sweeps over her expression as she stares up at the guy, wiping out the gains I’ve made in the last few minutes getting her to relax.

“Liam.”She says the name with all the enthusiasm of a woman addressing the repo man as he nabs her Rolls-Royce in full view of the neighbors. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m back in town now,” he says, giving me a speculative once-over before returning his attention to Ella. “My mother’s sick. She’s not doing well.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, her expression falling.

“You sure about that?” he asks, one brow hiking up.

“Yes,” she says. “I’d never wish anyone ill. No matter what happened in the past.”

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