Page 69 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

18

Ryker

My patiencefor the stupid ball begins to wane around midnight, which seems like day fifty-eight of some ongoing nightmare. I feel as though I’ve been trapped in a hostage crisis with no sign of the Navy SEALs charging in to liberate me. I’ve had enough of all the elegant decorations, from the glittering candles to the floral arrangements and the massive tent out back. The jazzy music hits my ears like the sound of amplified nails scraping down a chalkboard. I’m done making small talk with all these clients and business acquaintances, most of whom are drunk on my expensive liquor by now. I want to kick all of these fucking people out of my house so I can go upstairs, barricade myself in my room with a bottle of bourbon, find a game or a match or a tournament of some sort to watch on TV and wallow in my misery for the next week or so.

I had such high hopes for this night at the beginning of the week, and now it’s all gone to shit. Hard to believe I hoped that Ella would be here on my arm or that tonight might be the right time to propose. Was that just a few days ago? Seems like a million years. I haven’t seen her since then. We’ve exchanged a few stilted texts, but that’s it. Which explains the persistent feeling I’ve had, as though I’m suffocating inside my own skin. As though my soul has been replaced by one of those lead blankets they use for x-rays at the dentist’s office. Funny how I’ve lived nearly my entire life without her but seem to have forgotten the skill. It’s not like getting back on a bicycle after years of not riding, I’ll tell you that.

Can I survive without Ella? Of course I can. But don’t expect it to be pretty.

And don’t expect me to give up on her. I’m giving her a few more days. But only a few days.

In the meantime, there’s always bourbon.

I set my empty tumbler on the tray of a passing server as I emerge from the great room into the foyer, where it’s less crowded. Some of the partiers have turned this area into an extension of the parquet floor in the tent and dance to the distant strains of music. I skirt them and lean against the banister at the bottom of the staircase, hoping for a moment or two to myself.

“Can I get you another one, Mr. Black?” the server asks.

“Appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” the server says, heading for the nearest bar.

Leaving me alone with my dark thoughts.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out how Ella and I got here. Nor can I figure out how we get ourselves unstuck. Well, I’m not stuck. She’s stuck. But if she’s stuck, then we’re both stuck. That’s how this thing goes.

Maybe I’ve taken things too slowly. Maybe I should’ve told her I love her months ago. Maybe I should’ve—

“There you are,” my brother Damon says, spying me as he extricates himself from the crowd and emerges into the foyer. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Shit. Double shit. He’s got Griffin with him. Worse? The light of mischief twinkles bright in both sets of eyes, so I know what’s coming. My heart sinks.

The two of them have evidently unglued themselves from their respective significant others long enough to make the walk over here to torment me.

This is my lucky, lucky night, goddammit.

Honestly, this is no more than I deserve. I confided in SpongeBob and Patrick here earlier this week during what could only be described as a weak moment. Obviously, I regret that now. Since they’re both happily in love with great women (Damon is engaged to a British woman named Carly whom he met the same night I met Ella at Bemelmans and who, get this, is the granddaughter of the Queen of England), I figured that they might have an encouraging word or two for me. Some wisdom to help smooth my rocky romantic road. I should’ve known better. These two could no more produce salient advice than a silkworm could scrunch up its face and produce a stream of honey from its ass.

I’ve got zero energy or inclination to deal with this clown patrol on top of everything else. Luckily, the server returns just then with my refill, giving me the fortification that I need for another round of merciless teasing about how I let Ella get away.

“Look,” I say wearily. “If you two start in on me again about letting a great woman get away, I’m going to start naming names about which one of us once dated a woman who slashed his tires and which one of us once dated a woman who turned up in his best friend’s bed when he wasn’t looking. Fair warning.”

“You’re going to have to brace yourself for this one, Ry, but it’s not about you.” Damon claps a heavy hand on my shoulder and keeps it there. “Not everything is. Well, except for the part about how the great woman got away. That’s about you. This is about Griffin. He’s got news.”

Gut instinct tells me what it’s going to be. Namely, the very last thing I can deal with right now. Not with any grace, anyway. I try to brace myself, but there’s no time.

“Getting married.” Griffin’s smile threatens to engulf his entire head. “She said yes. Popped the question a little while ago.”

This joyous news hits me like an uppercut from Floyd Mayweather. It’s not that I’m not thrilled for Griffin. I am. He’s become an entirely different person since he and Bellamy got together. Much happier and more laid-back. He’s managed to steer his life in a direction that gets him the girl and the happy ending, while I’ve managed to sink my ship on some craggy rocks that I didn’t even know were there.

Even so, Griffin deserves this moment. My long face and personal disasters won’t ruin it for him. Not if I can help it.

“Great news,” I say, pulling him in for a hug with my free hand. “I feel like someone should talk some sense into Bellamy, but great news for you.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Griffin says, his color high as he ducks his head and continues grinning when I turn him loose. There’s something distinctly boyish and vulnerable about him. Something that reminds me of when we were kids, before our mother walked out on us. It touches my heart. And that’s something I don’t usually say about Griffin. “My plan is to make it official before she thinks twice.”

“Smart,” I say, trying both to keep my smile from slipping and to drum up some enthusiasm about someone else’s pending wedding. “Set a date yet?”

“Not yet,” Griffin says. “We need to coordinate with Damon and Carly. Don’t want the dates too close together. Women evidently get testy about that sort of thing. Getting married is a big deal, Ry. You wouldn’t know that from recent personal experience, but you might find out one day. If you ever manage to patch things up with Ella. Before someone else snatches her up.”

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