Page 15 of Cinderella Is Faking It

When I came back from washing my hands, I halted dead in my steps because the room was filled with loud moans and a woman yelling ‘harder, harder, harder’ at the top of her lungs. It stopped a moment later. Beck slipped his phone back into his pocket. Oh, for goodness’ sake. “Were you just watching porn? In the middle of a restaurant?”

Beck raised his brows at me, then turned around pointedly. Got it. Obviously, wewerein the middle of a restaurant but there was nobody here to judge him. “It’s technically not porn,” he said when I didn’t sit back down.

“Technically?”

“If you must know, someone illegally obtained a recording of myself and my ex. I had to open the video to confirm its authenticity to my lawyers.”

Where did you even start with that? The illegal part? The lawyers, multiple, who must have seen that video? “That was a sex tape?” I asked because my brain was still catching up with the information.

“Yes.”

“Of you?”

“Yes.”

He either had a great poker face or he was actually telling the truth. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I decided to take my seat again. Apparently, men who bought restaurants on a whim also made good targets for illegal sex tapes. Scandal followed money. “It sounded like porn,” I said. Astute observation, Delilah. Truly highlighting your intelligence.

“It sounded like good sex,” he chuckled.

Sure. Right. Ugh. I wouldn’t know anything about that. Time to make it a little less awkward. “So, is this some sort of blackmail situation? Are you going to pay the people who sent it to you?”

“No.”

“Sue them?”

“No.” He smirked and popped another mini donut in his mouth. I had absolutely no reason to find that one specific move so compelling that I couldn’t look away from his lips. Jeez.

“Then what?” I asked, stabbing my fork into a kiwi slice, “Hire a hitman and have them taken out?”

“What does good sex sound like to you?” He asked instead of answering me. I was going to go with the hitman theory then.

“That’s none of your business,” I said.

“Oh, but I intend to make it my business, sweetheart.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Sweetheart? Nope. Big nope. “I think we’re done here.”

“You proposed a truth for truth deal. I answered six questions since you came back from the bathroom. You owe me six answers.”

And that’s why I was an English teacher, not a corporate contract negotiator. I bit the inside of my cheek before I said: “More verbal.”

“Ashleigh was very verbal, but you thought she sounded like a porn star.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “That wasn’t a question.”

“You’re catching on.” He took a sip from his coffee cup, regarding me over its edge. “What does verbal mean to you?”

Okay. I could playthisgame. That was an English teacher’s game. I grinned. “Verbal means relating toorin the form of words. It can also mean relating to averb, specifically.”

He laughed and tapped his temple with two fingers in a fake salute. “What does verbal mean to you in the context of good sex?”

The tension had strangely ebbed from the question. It was about sex, but it was also just a question laced with genuine curiosity. “I suppose it would be lessharder, faster, strongerand more communicative. It’s not just an act. It’s an interaction.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, seeming to actually consider my words, “can you give me an example?”

Ha. That was a yes or no question. “No,” I grinned, awfully pleased. “I don’t do fake orgasms in restaurants. I’m not Meg Ryan.”

“I can draw a real one from those red lips if you’d prefer that.” He leaned over and dropped a hand into my lap, knuckles brushing over my naked thigh right by the hem of my dress. My skin prickled hot under his touch and my breath stuttered in my throat, but-