CINDERELLA
I do my hair, apply light makeup, and meditate for half an hour to get centered. I slide into the money dress, zip it, and eye myself critically in the mirror. Cinderella indeed. Where are my glass slippers? Being that I was a lapsed Catholic and Dylan has the Christian background, before I step out the door, I bow my head in prayer.
Dear God. Please help me give my all for this job. Please help me do my best. And this I ask for in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Half an hour later I walk through the doors of a gorgeous five star hotel on Wacker Drive. I might look Zen but my nerves are sizzling, barely contained under my skin. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting rich light, flattering just about everyone in its glow. I ignore appreciative glances and questioning eyes from employees and customers, and navigate the marble floors, my high heels barely making a sound. I make my way toward the bar where I’m supposed to meet Dylan. I pause for a moment before entering.
Three, two, one, Evie. You’ve got this.
I smooth the skirt down my legs and remind myself that at the end of the day this is just a job. Dylan McAlister is just another client, just another guy in another elegant hotel with extra money to burn.
I slip the lipstick from the Chanel bag that I borrowed from Amelia, and swipe one last reinforcement coat on my lips. I’ll do my best to be unemotional and remain professional. I’ll give this job my all. I hold my head high, take a deep breath, and move into the bar’s entrance. I’ve stared at Dylan McAlister’s picture I don’t know how many times now and yet I still worry that I won’t find him.
I don’t have to worry.
He finds me.
Immediately.
“Evelyn,” he says, standing up from an intimate round table in the corner.
Wow. He’s tall. Muscular. He’s wearing crisp dress pants with an immaculate white shirt open a few buttons revealing groomed chest hair. Be still my heart. Dylan’s hotter in person than he is in his pictures.
I make my way toward him feeling a little weak in the knees. I take in the smattering of light freckles on his high cheekbones, and the lock of chestnut hair that falls over his forehead. His blue eyes light up appreciatively. My pulse races, my cheeks feel hot.
Breathe, Evie, breathe.
He takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it. “Terrific meeting you. You’re even prettier in person. How is that possible?”
My heart bumps about so hard I’m scared he’ll hear it. “I don’t know. I mean thank you, Mr. McAlister.”
“Mr. McAlister’s my father. Call me Dylan. Sit.” He pulls out a chair.
I do as he asks and cross my legs.
A waiter arrives. “What can I get for you?”
“Mineral water, please,” I say.
“Two Pellegrinos,” he says.
The waiter nods and walks away.
Dylan pulls a small Tiffany blue box from his pocket and places it in front of me. “Considering I’m going to keep you working for the next 24 hours, I got you a little something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A super tiny espresso maker?”
“Ha.” He claims the seat across from me. “Is this the first poker marathon you’ve attended?”
“Yes.” I tear my eyes from his, and stare at the box, a petite pristine white bow on top. “You don’t need to do this.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “I want to. Open it.”
I’ve never been one to rip open presents. I enjoy the unwrapping, the peeling away of the layers, the unveiling almost as much as I enjoy the actual gift. Besides, I’ve learned the hard way that too frequently men give you things to feel good about themselves. A way to feel like they are courting you instead of purchasing a fantasy. Or worse, buying a GWP.
I search Dylan’s face for selfish motivations but all I see is kindness and anticipation.
“You’re killing me,” he says, looking like a kid waiting in front of a decorated tree piled high with presents on Christmas morning. “Open it already.”
I bite back a smile. “Okay, boss man.”
“Dylan,” he says. “Boss man’s my brother.”
I pull the lid from the box, unfold the tissue paper. Inside is a delicate diamond necklace. “It’s beautiful.” I pull the pretty pendant in the shape of a horseshoe from the box, and dangle it in front of me. The dim lighting in the bar catches the sparkle of the diamonds like they’re on fire.
“I think so too.” Dylan beams and springs from his chair. “I read your bio, saw your pic and this feeling hit me.” He thumps one hand on his chest. “Right here. You, Evelyn Berlinger, you are my lucky charm. It seems only fitting my lucky charm has one of her own.” He takes the necklace from me and pauses, his hands just inches from my neck. “May I?”
Tingles zip down my spine and I nod.
He gathers my long hair with care, lifts it off my back, and places it over my shoulder. Its length trails down onto my breast. His breath is warm on my skin and it’s all I can do not to fan myself.
He loops the necklace in front of my throat, the diamond charm landing possessively on my breastbone. The chain is delicate and cool in contrast to his elegant warm hands. He secures the clasp, brushing the little hairs on the back of my neck. The skin pebbles on the backs of my arms and my nipples grow hard in my lace bra.
The waiter drops off our drinks. Thank God, because I am in desperate need of something to cool me down right now. Unlike most of my clients, Dylan McAlister is hotter than sin. Also unlike most of my clients, Dylan isn’t thinking about himself.
“Thank you,” I say, completely rattled. I can’t recall a time when a guy went was so generous to me. “This is so kind.”
“It looks great on you,” he says. “I wanted my lucky charm to be taken care of tonight.”
“Lucky charm wants to help you tonight as much as possible. Make that easier for me,” I say, reluctantly retreating from the dopamine hit and returning to the business arena. “Tell me more about you. Things that aren’t on your profile.”
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
I size him up. Those cheekbones. Those eyes. Those lips that beg to be bitten. “You look like the kind of guy who would rush into a burning building to save people. You’ve got the classic ‘hero’ look.”
“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Berlinger?” He smiles, a smattering of crinkle wrinkles etched around his blue eyes, making him even sexier, if that’s possible.
I shrug. “Just calling it how I see it.”
“Aha. A straight shooter. I’m in trouble now.” He shakes his head and sits down. “I’ve never run into a burning building. But you’ve obviously heard about the frog.”
“The frog?”
“It was just that one time and yet, like a fairytale curse, the legend follows me wherever I go.” He sighs theatrically and drums his fingers on the table.
“Wow. Sorry to hear that. Did you… kiss a frog?” I shove back a giggle.
“Gross,” he says, and shakes his head.
“Did you think the amphibian incident would escape my scrutiny?”
“Nope. It didn’t escape my biology teacher’s either.”
“Did you… I’m going out on a limb here, rescue a frog?”
“Yes. Biology class, freshman year in high school, but it feels like yesterday. Would you want to get pithed by a panicky, pimply high school kid?”
“Your lab partner?”
“Nope. Suzie Ashurst was cool as ice tea on a Sunday afternoon. Sadly, I was the panicky kid. I was the pimply pither who, at the last minute, couldn’t go through with it.”
I inhale bubbly water, and burst out coughing and laughing at the same time. One hand flies to my face trying to contain the seltzer that sprays out of my nose.
“Uh-oh.” Dylan bites back a smile. “The curse of the frog rescue story strikes again. Are you okay? Or do I need to give you mouth to mouth?” He waggles his eyebrows.
I stop snorting, my cheeks turning warm, and I stifle giggles. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Albeit a little wet.” He grabs a napkin and pats my wet face. My wet lips. My wet chest right above the dress where it takes a V turn down my cleavage.
“Sorry.” My face might be flushed from laughing but that doesn’t explain why the V between my legs is also warm, throbbing, and wet. “You crack me up.”
“We’re going to do just fine together, you and I,” he says, removing his hand – dare I hope reluctantly – and regards me with something more than affection, his blue eyes twinkling.
We sip on our bubby water that I miraculously manage to keep inside this time, and chat like we’ve known each other forever.
“Cubs or White Sox?” he asks.
“Don’t care as long as Chicago makes it to the playoffs,” I say. “Dallas Cowboys or the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders?”
“That depends on what activity you have in mind.”
“Point taken.”
“Why is Chicago called the Windy City?” he asks.
“You did not include ‘pop quiz’ in your instructions.”
“You read that?”
“Of course I read that.”
“Geez, no one reads anything I write.”
My nose scrunches. “I call bullshit.”
He laughs.
“And Chicago’s called the Windy City because the politicians talk B.S. all the time,” I say.
“Get out. I thought it was the winds gusting off the lake.”
It’s a dance without a dance floor. And so it goes for another twenty minutes. Dylan’s funny. Self-deprecating. Kind-hearted. Gorgeous. The more time I spend with him the more I like him. The more time I spend with him the more I want to spend.
“You’re smart, Evelyn,” he says inside the elevator as we ascend to the Penthouse. His gaze slides from my face down to my breasts, then back up.
His lips are so full, his cheekbones high and strong, and the glimpse of groomed chest hair revealed by the two undone buttons might be my undoing. Good God, this man is hot. “Call me Evie.” I avert my eyes and fiddle with my hair, pushing strands behind my ear so I don’t spontaneously combust right here, right now in the elevator.
“Evie, it is. Ready to meet an intimate crowd of my worthy adversaries, dearest enemies, and ruthless hosts? I’ve got to warn you. They’re not the nicest people in the world. I should have put that in the instructions, but God forbid that goes public, these assholes will never let me hear the end of it.”
“I’m not sharing anything you tell me with anyone.”
“Good,” he says. “I’m not kidding. Gamblers are a weird lot. Case in point. The Fast Food King plays tonight. I grew up down the road from him in Dallas. He’s got this disturbing habit of licking his lips when he sees a pretty girl. If he stares at you and licks his lips, run for the hills, darling. His next move will be trying to get in your pants.”
“The Fast Food King will fail because I’m wearing a dress.”
“The heiress will take one look at you all gorgeous in that dress and get jealous,” He eyes me appreciatively. “She’ll toss pointed shade in your direction and speed text her plastic surgeon for an emergency appointment.”
“The heiress can stand in line behind the rest of the chicks who throw shade at me.”
“You’re not going to sleep, the room’s cold, you’ll be breathing recycled air,” he says leaning closer to me. “The internet connection is blocked, the food is impossibly healthy, and you might die of boredom.”
“Perfect.” I look up into his gorgeous face and shiver. “Sounds like my average Friday night.”
“God, I like you.” He takes my hand, squeezes it, and intertwines his fingers with mine. My stomach flip-flops and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if he kisses me. What if the elevator grinds to a halt, we are stuck between floors, he just leans in, puts a hand behind my head, pulls me to him and kisses me. Lips soft on mine at first, until he becomes more insistent, tangling fingers in my hair, his tongue exploring my mouth.
But the door slides open, rudely interrupting my fantasy, and he gestures. “Shall we?” We walk down the hallway, our shoulders grazing and I’m a little high from his touch. It feels like I’ve known him forever. It feels like I want to know him longer than that.
He raises his hand to knock on the last door at the end of the hallway and pauses. “Last chance to fold, Lucky Charm. Call it a night before you even start. I won’t even ask for my money back. I haven’t had a chance to tell the frog story in a few years. That was cathartic. Kind of like therapy.”
“Hell, no, I’m not leaving.” I’m standing on a tall cliff ready to dive off into choppy, white-capped waters far below. “I’m all in.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He leans in, and kisses me on the lips. Finally. Yes.
He is kissing me and his lips are soft, but firm. There’s a hint of tongue and all the breath leaves my body in one spectacular whoosh.
And I’m diving…