Page 3 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

“You’re the most interesting woman I’ve run across in a while,” I tell her, working hard to stifle my amusement at her expense. She’s the one who’s wasting her time trying to talk me out of wanting her, poor thing. As if I care about any secrets she keeps with her stylist. “At this point? I doubt I’d care if you weren’t even a natural human, sunshine.”

Something in her expression slams closed with the force of a guillotine dropping. It takes my amusement and a healthy portion of my ego with it.

That’s when I realize that I’m flirting, but she’s wounded.

“Yeah, okay.” She hops down from her stool, smooths her skirt and slings her bag over her shoulder, looking stony. “Have a great night.”

I’m not going to lie. The sight of her about to take off, possibly forever, sends a low-key wave of panic through me. It also makes the analytical portion of my brain race into overdrive as it tries to figure out why she’s like this. Maybe it’s something simple. She’s diagnosed me as an asshole and can’t stand my presence for another second, for example. That would be fair. But my gut says it’s something else. Something that has nothing to do with me.

“Who did this to you?” I ask, putting a hand on her arm as she grabs the cake and turns to go.

The quiet urgency in my voice seems to take her by surprise.

It takes me by surprise, to be honest.

She hesitates. I remove my hand.

I can almost taste her ambivalence. I wage a private but epic battle between my fear of driving her away and my need to state my case for her to stay. Need wins.

“Listen,” I say. “If you hate my guts, tell me and I’ll leave you in peace. Honesty is the best policy, right?”

“You want to know what I hate?” she says without missing a beat. “I hate men who don’t show up or call or text or do anything that they say they’re going to do.”

Whoa. There’s a lot of vehemence there. The kind of thing I normally give a wide berth, especially on a first conversation. But, much to my surprise, I don’t feel the urge to duck and run.

I want to hear more. I want to hear her entire story.

“I hate men who sign up for dating websites and act like they want a relationship when really all they want is for you to sext them so they can add your boobs to their collection. I hate men who waste your time when they know or should know that they have no intention of being who you need them to be. Men who act like they care about you when they really don’t. That’s what I hate.”

Bingo. Bad breakup, like I thought.

“So you hate unreliable men,” I say, grateful for every puzzle piece about her that drops into place.

“Bingo.”

“But what if that’s not me?”

We watch each other in a wary silence for a moment, both taken aback by my evident sincerity. I gotta tell you, it’s a remarkable moment for several reasons. First, because I’m putting this much effort into a stranger who’s showing every sign of being needier and/or higher maintenance than the average bear. Second, because she seems to believe me. Most of all, because the entire weight of my world feels like it’s hanging in the balance, which is giving this thing way too much importance.

Either we want to have a drink together and ultimately fuck each other tonight, or we don’t. Simple. If the answer is no? No harm, no foul. We’re not researching a cure for cancer.

But it sure feels like something that matters.

“How about this?” I say before she can decide against me. “Let me buy you a drink. Keep you company until your friend gets here. See if I can get you to remember how to flirt.”

That gets her. Her dimples make a brief appearance.

And I feel like I can breathe again.

“That’s quite a mission for a Friday night,” she says, using her free hand to smooth her hair and twiddle with her earring as a pretty blush creeps over her cheeks. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m positive. And I’m hoping to get a slice of cake out of it.”

“I’m happy to give you a slice of cake to go,” she says sweetly.

“You and the cake are a package deal. I want both. And I hope that’s ganache.”

Her jaw drops. “You like ganache?”

“I live for ganache.”

That does it. She bursts into a tinkle of bright laughter that makes her eyes sparkle and does twisty things to my insides. I’m not joking. My heart pounds. My blood surges and my mouth dries out.

She affects me. Big time.

I sweep my arm wide to usher her over to my table, which, luckily, hasn’t been taken yet, thinking that too much of her at one time would be as bad for my system as eating that entire cake by myself. But I’m not planning to let that stop me.

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