Page 9 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

3

Ella

“How about a blanket?”Ryker, ever the good host, fishes a fringed throw out of one of his boxy black ottomans and offers it to me just as I settle in the corner of his enormous sectional and put our slices of cake on the coffee table.

We’ve eaten. Stashed the leftover pizza in his fridge. And my decision point is creeping steadily closer, turning me into a twenty-first-century female version of Hamlet.

To fuck the sexy guy, or not to fuck the sexy guy. That is the question.

The answer?

I have no idea.

“I think you know as well as I do that watching a movie requires a blanket,” I say, taking it.

“You’re a sensible person. I like you. Not as much as I’d like you if you’d chosen Jaws for the movie tonight, but no one’s perfect. What about a fire? I like fires.”

“I’m fine with the blanket.”

“Suit yourself. More champagne?”

“I’m good for now. Thanks.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he says, sitting a socially acceptable distance away on the next cushion with his own throw and reaching for the remote.

I watch him hit a few buttons to call up the movie on a giant screen over his fireplace, thinking that this is not my life.

At all.

My Friday nights generally involve hanging out with my friends or, on the nights when they’re unavailable, binge-watching Sex and the City while binge-eating my favorite tortilla chips with a hint of lime in them. I may or may not make myself a margarita. I may or may not fall asleep on the sofa before ten. On particularly unlucky Friday nights, I may find myself being ghosted by some guy from a dating app who was supposed to meet me for drinks, or having drinks on some deadly dull blind date set up for me by my friends and wishing the guy had ghosted me.

Once upon a time, my Friday nights consisted of joyous reunions with my cooking school boyfriend, Jonas, who wound up getting a job in a Boston restaurant after graduation. But those days ended after about a year of the long-distance thing, when he cut me loose and said he doubted he’d ever get married because he was all about his career. I’ve heard recent social media rumblings about him reuniting with his high school girlfriend, the very same woman he always said he was over because they were just friends,even though I knew he was in touch with her the entire time we dated. So there’s that. But hey. None of my business at this point. Which is just as well, I suppose, because his snooty, blue-blooded parents never approved of my, ah, colorful family background and never-married parents.

But I digress.

The topic at hand is my sorry social life. And never, under any circumstances, have my Friday nights involved being hit on by a sexy, rich man in a bar and going home with him for an evening that may or may not include sex.

Nevertheless, here I am.

In my defense, I tried to resist Ryker’s pull. I tried to remind myself that I don’t do one-night stands. Other people tend to do fine with the hookup culture, but I find myself attaching far too much importance to sex and making emotional connections. And if I were in the market for a fun hookup, it wouldn’t be with another wealthy guy like Jonas who, more likely than not, has his eye on another blue blood as wife material. Not that I have marriage on my mind at this stage of my life, per se. Especially since I may be out of a job soon if Valentina’s goes belly up, which it’s perennially threatening to do. But still. Why get involved with someone when the glass ceiling to your relationship potential is already firmly in place?

These were all perfectly reasonable considerations. Until I hung up from my phone call at Bemelmans earlier and discovered Ryker Black standing there.

Youtry resisting the dizzying intensity of those brown eyes and heavy brows. You try not to smile when confronted with the white flash of one of his boyish grins. You try to keep your head on straight when a guy built like Chris Hemsworth in a custom suit acts as though you’re God’s gift to men.

Can’t do it, can you?

Neither can I.

Oh, and here’s one more detail I forgot to share.

He changed clothes when we arrived and now wears a white T-shirt and black knit shorts. Now I’m supposed to sit here and pretend I’m not acutely aware of this six-foot-plus Zeus and all his masculine perfection within arm’s length. And he smells good, too. Some intoxicating high-end combination of fresh linen and leather that makes me want to follow my nose to its source, which is probably at the base of his golden throat.

Honestly, if I spend a few more minutes in his presence, I’ll be able to make myself come just by, I don’t know, squeezing my thighs together while watching him sip his champagne. Maybe that’s the best outcome I can hope for tonight. Then I could head home with no further involvement with this walking red flag and congratulate myself on taking the edge off my sexual frustration in the least self-destructive way possible.

But then I wouldn’t get to touch him, would I?

What fun would that be?

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