Page 4 of The Billionaire's Cinderella

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Ryker

“Doyou know what you’d like?” I ask her once the two of us and the cake are settled at the table and the server arrives to take our drink orders. Much as I’d like to pretend that I’m not thrilled to death that she’s decided to stick around for a while, that requires more acting skills than I possess. I can’t control my smile.

“I do. Booker’s. Neat, but I’d like a glass of water as well. Thanks,” she tells the guy after a glance at the menu.

“I’ll have the same,” I say, feeling a bit awestruck as the guy walks off and leaves me to gape at her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. “I’ve been wanting to try it. I’ve heard it’s good. It’s supposed to have notes of caramel, butterscotch and dark chocolate. Bold and intense.”

“You didn’t tell me you were a player,” I say, brows up. “What do you know about bourbon?”

“A little,” she says airily.

“Right. I’m betting you know a little about bourbon the way Tiger Woods knows a little about golf.”

“Excuse me?” she says with that thrilling laughter again. “Are you accusing me of being an alcoholic, sir?”

“Not at all. Fair warning, though. I took a tour through the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky last fall when the leaves were changing. Bourbon is that important to me. So if you put a splash of water in your drink, I’m going to have to marry you. Just so you know.”

“Interesting,” she says, raising those sleek brows of hers. “What if I ordered, say, five bourbons tonight? What then?”

“I’d still marry you. But I’d have reservations about it.”

We laugh together. This time, her laughter is unreserved and freely given. Not at all as though she wants to yank it back or regrets it.

I swear it’s the most delicious moment of my life.

I can’t tell whether I’m generating the entire heat flare by myself or if half of it comes from her side of the table. Luckily, the server reappears with our drinks, breaking what is seriously beginning to feel like a spell between us.

“Choose carefully,” I say, watching with eagle eyes as she reaches for her glass of water.

She makes a show of frowning thoughtfully and taking one of those dramatic reality-TV-worthy pauses before adding the perfect drop of water to her bourbon.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I say, gesturing for her to add a drop of water to mine as well.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her color creeping higher.

I raise my drink and wait for her to do the same. “To flirting.”

“To flirting,” she echoes softly, maintaining eye contact.

We clink. Sip.

“So? What’s the verdict?” I ask.

“Amazing,”she says before another appreciative sip.

The bourbon isn’t the only thing that’s amazing around here, or even the main thing that’s amazing around here, but I keep those observations to myself.

“So. Demographics.” I set my drink down and rest my elbows on the table so I can lean in and get a little closer without freaking her out. If it was up to me? I’d ask her to come sit on my lap and be done with it. “Ryker Black. Thirty. I’m in real estate. Never arrested, although I was disciplined once in college—Penn—when the RA found weed in my room.”

“Your roommate’s?”

“Let’s go with that,” I say, laughing. “I like how your mind works. Now you.”

“Ella Richardson. Short for Mirabella. Don’t ask. It means wonderful or beautiful, depending on which language you’re speaking. Twenty-four. Pastry chef. Culinary Institute of America. Never arrested, although I once let my library fine get up to eight dollars.”

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