Page 17 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

He’s here. He came to see me.

Me.

The shock of his sudden presence nearly knocks me out cold and sets off a wave of panic. I dart away from the door and flatten myself against the nearest wall like a woman trapped on a ledge on the fiftieth floor of one of our nearby skyscrapers. I tip my head back and let my eyes roll closed, both my heart and my brain stalling out.

Ryker! Here!

“We’ve got everything you could possibly need,” Aunt Gilda tells him, her voice only slightly muffled by the door. “Unless you’re vegan or gluten-free. In that case, we don’t want to know you. This isn’t your kind of place.”

He laughs.

That laugh. It makes me lightheaded and does fluttery things to my insides. I press a hand to my belly, trying to decide whether I should put on my big-girl panties, go out there and greet him like the confident woman I should be by now or sneak out the back door, hail a cab and go home for the day.

Why can’t I think?

“I have a cast-iron stomach. Trust me,” he says. “Let’s see…I need a serving of that flan right there. Maybe a palmier on the side. A large coffee to wash it down. Thanks.”

“A healthy appetite. You’re welcome here anytime,” Aunt Gilda tells him.

“So listen,” he says idly. “I met one of your, ah, employees the other day. Ella Richardson.”

I can almost hear Aunt Gilda’s brows shoot up.

“Oh, really?” she says.

“She’s not here, is she?” he asks.

“Let me just check for you,” she says, all syrupy sweetness now. “One second.”

I barely have time to straighten and try to act normal before the door swings in my direction and she appears, quickly noting my complete paralytic shutdown and flashing me a smug grin of triumphant nosiness.

My secret is out. And it’s out big.

“Ella, do you have a minute?” she calls in a genteel voice that doesn’t fool me for a second. “A nice gentleman is asking for you out front.”

“I’ll be right there,” I say, taking a flustered swipe at my hair beneath its pink chef’s hat. Wisps on both sides insist on escaping from my bun, and I’m sure I look like a complete mess.

My normal look, to be honest.

Poor Ryker. He’s going to feel as if I fooled him when he sees me like this. Sure, I managed to throw together an acceptable appearance the other night at Bemelmans, but a few grooming issues fall by the wayside when you’re required to show up for work at four in the morning. Namely hair and makeup. Not to mention the fact that I’m wearing my starched whites, pink apron and sensible shoes and probably also rocking a healthy dusting of flour and/or powdered sugar on my person.

It’s not a sexy look. Trust me.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about any of that now.

“I’ll let him know,” Aunt Gilda says, thankfully reining in her smirk before she disappears again.

Leaving nothing for me to do but take a deep breath, follow her outside and send up a silent prayer request that Ryker is, in fact, here because he wants to see me again. I don’t think I’ll survive if he’s here to ask for my ganache recipe.

Not that it matters either way, since I have no plans to see him again, no matter how tempted I might be. I’ve had the misfortune of being burned twice by wealthy and privileged men. First by my father, then by Jonas. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I eventually learn from my mistakes.

A one-night stand is one thing, but any sort of an ongoing relationship is something else entirely. An indulgence my battered heart and ego can’t afford. And I plan to remember that when I walk through that door and face Ryker Black again.

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