Page 95 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“Only a few minutes, Miss Cordelia.”

“What?MissCo- oh.” I shut up before I got sucked into an argument about appropriate employer-employee relationships. Thankfully, the doorbell saved me from the electric stare-off between them. “I got it.”

Beck was a vision of summer chic, in light gray chinos, an Armani belt and a white shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to reveal his wired forearms. It was the most casual outfit I’d ever seen him in. In public, at least. (Not counting his sex club jeans.) And he still looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ, leaning against a sleek, dark blue car like that. So pretty, the discussion I’d just had with Cordelia vanished from my mind.

“Are you driving?” I asked by way of greeting.

“Unless you want to.”

I faltered in my steps and gave the car another once over. “Would you actually let me drive your Porsche?”

“Do you know how to drive a stick without getting in an accident?” He popped the trunk and took the CM-monogrammed leather bag from my hands.

“I do.”

“Go for it, Charlie.” He tossed the key through the air.

I barely caught it. “Charlie?”

“Top Gun reference.”

“I’m too young to get that reference.” I grinned and wiggled my brows at him, but he just rolled his eyes, a small smile on his lips. I got in the driver’s seat, where my feet didn’t even come close to the pedals. It took me a few minutes to adjust everything to my height, but once I had it, the car slid through the streets as smooth as butter in a hot pan. “Holy shit,” I breathed once we got out of the city and onto the MA-3 and the car straight-up purred under my feet.

“I didn’t know I was dating a Formula One driver,” Beck chuckled.

“I wish,” I grinned, curving the car around the slow snails on the road, “my dad used to take me driving.”

“Really?” Beck asked, and the surprise in his voice hit me like a bucket of cold water.

“Uh…” Somehow, I doubted that Montgomery senior had taken Cordelia anywhere at all. Fuck it. Two weeks. It didn’t goddamn matter anymore whether it all added up. “Yeah. He had an old Mustang that he tinkered with whenever he had to get out of his head. Then took me driving whenever I had to get out of mine. I was 13 and giving Lewis Hamilton a run for his money.”

“What happened to the car?”

“It’s collecting dust. I considered taking it, but I’ve not been able to look at it since he got sick.” My dad got sick a few years before Cordelia’s but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of the Cordelias. A dead father was a dead father, right?

“I’m sorry, Blondie.”

“Don’t be. I’ll get it fixed up someday, but I’ll just borrow your car for now whenever I want to go for a ride.” I ran my hands over the smooth leather of the steering wheel.

“I’ll get you your own and we’ll go for a race.”

“You make your little jokes,” I clicked my tongue at him, “but you would have your ass handed to you if you raced me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t joking. I see you shaving minutes off the GPS estimate, sweetheart.”

I laughed, my eyes skipping from the street to the GPS for just a moment. “If you’re getting me a Porsche, it better be Porsche-red.”

“Consider it done.” He pulled his phone out and started typing something.

“Wait what?”

“Eyes on the road,” he said in that tone that made my thighs clench and my tongue run dry.

“Don’t buy me a car,” I protested when I found my voice again.

“Too late.” He chuckled.

“How can it be too late? It’s been 60 seconds.”