Page 11 of Falling for Them (Cinderella’s Daddies #1)

Ten

Ella

Tonight is my one night off. I’d hoped, maybe, that Joel and I could do something, and when I texted to suggest a walk in the park in downtown San Esteban, because it’s free entertainment, he wrote back that he’s working.

I could be there, now, if I had a shift tonight.

I could go into Joel’s office. He’d close the blinds, then unfasten the buttons at his sleeves and roll the fabric up.

His forearms would be thick and powerful, and he’d push me against the desk, spinning me around so I’d have to slam my hands down to catch myself.

He’d hold me down, his hand firm on the back of my neck. While I pant for him, squirming, begging for his touch where I need it most, he would lift up my dress and see my lacy panties.

His deep, rumbling voice would be amused as he says, “Naughty Ella. These panties are so sexy. And soaking wet. What a sweet little slut you are. Tell me, are you trying to tempt other men to want you?”

“No,” I would say. “They’re just for you, Mr. Tyler.”

Abruptly, I leave my fantasy. That wasn’t Joel’s voice in my thoughts. And I would never dream of calling Joel Mr. Tyler . He’d probably shit himself laughing.

No, that was Kingston Tyler in my fantasy.

I really shouldn’t be fantasizing about Joel’s dad. Like, not at all. This has to stop.

But I’m so freaking horny, I can’t stand this.

The gala is in four days. Maybe Joel won’t be irritated with me, like he was last night? I’ve seen him hold a grudge, usually against clients he thinks have wronged him. But I haven’t wronged him—I just can’t get a suitable dress.

And if he is irritated with me, maybe we can have hate sex. For fuck’s sake, I would love it if he’d be a little rougher, a little more creative.

Here goes nothing. Picking up my phone, I call Joel.

He answers. I expected quiet, a hush that comes from working late at night in the Tyler Analytics building.

Instead I get deep, rhythmic bass and the chaotic noise of people laughing and talking.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello?” Joel echoes. “Hey, hi. Ella?”

“Yes, it’s Ella,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing much.”

“You’re obviously not at work,” I say. “Which is what you’d told me you were doing.”

“Okay, fine, I left work. So the fuck what? Now I’m at Vice.”

“Vice? What’s that?”

“A club in Dorado Heights. You haven’t been here before?”

“No,” I snap. “Nobody’s ever invited me.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I end the call. The differences between Joel and me are insurmountable, aren’t they? A person like me could never be in a long-term relationship with a person like him.

Ella

I don’t see Joel in the Tyler building the following night. I feel like he’s avoiding me. A part of me is relieved, because I’m not sure I want to see him, either.

But he must have been here at some point, because there’s an envelope on my cleaning cart, with my name written on the front. Maybe it’s an apology. He was a douche last night.

Hands shaking, I pull the card from the envelope and gasp. The paper inside is a rich, deep brown, and embossed with gold lettering. It matches the Tyler Analytics logo. I read the scripted font in disbelief.

The Tyler Analytics Charity Gala

Date: Saturday, January 18th

Location: The Tyler Building in San Esteban, California

Time: 9 pm - 1 am

Admit One

My heart has stopped beating and I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I’m holding a ticket to the gala.

The gala which takes place in two days .

A part of me wants to crumple it up. Did Joel think I was kidding around when I said I couldn’t get a dress? Did he think it was a joke?

It’s not a fucking joke.

I could sell this ticket. I’m sure someone would pay good money for it.

But that’s wrong. This is for charity, not for my benefit.

I go through the motions of my job for the next couple of hours. At the end of my shift, I leave the building, wondering why Joel would give me the gala ticket. Maybe he forgot that I can’t go? That must be it.

What an asshole. I need to break up with him, as soon as possible. I should’ve broken up with him weeks ago.

I’m still thinking about how I’ll break up with Joel when I reach my apartment. The stupid door to the building is unlocked again, and I breathe curses while I go inside and slam it closed behind me.

As I head up the stairs, a familiar voice reaches my ears—Tommy’s here.

Can this night get any worse? I pause and listen.

He’s not talking to me; it sounds like he’s on the phone.

And even though it’s just after midnight, he’s not troubling himself to be quiet.

He doesn’t care about whether my neighbors are sleeping or not.

I know my brother is an inconsiderate asshole sometimes, but I’d thought that was mostly limited to how he treats me.

I don’t want to see him. It’s been a shitty week, and the gala is in two days, and I just want to sit and mope. I have my own shit to deal with. I don’t need Tommy’s, too.

Sighing, I trudge up the first flight of stairs. Movement down the second-floor hall catches my eye. It’s Mrs. Dali, wearing her dressing gown and standing in her doorway, and waving at me.

Worried there’s some kind of emergency, I pick up my pace and go to her. “Is everything okay?”

Her brown eyes are irritated behind her large glasses. “Yes, but that young man upstairs is making a racket. Do you know him?”

“He’s my brother,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go up there and tell him to shut up.”

“He comes around often, doesn’t he?” she says.

“I’m really sorry if he disturbs you,” I say, then I give a wry chuckle. “He disturbs me, too, if that’s any consolation.”

“It is most certainly not a consolation. I would prefer if he doesn’t disturb anyone. Maybe he’ll go away if you ignore him. Come in and have some tea.”

I hesitate, worrying that Tommy will bother the hell out of everyone else if I don’t show up.

But he didn’t make plans with me. I’ve told him a hundred times that I prefer a head’s up when he’s coming over, because I get so little sleep as it is, it’s nice to know beforehand.

Maybe if I’m not there, he’ll take the hint and start calling.

I need to accept Mrs. Dali’s invitation—to be kind to myself.

“Yes, thanks,” I say, taking the remaining steps between us and going into her apartment.

I’ve rarely taken the time to look around her place, because usually I’m doing something fast, like dropping off her groceries or changing a lightbulb, or other things the landlord should be doing but never helps with.

It’s cheerful in here, with bright rugs and throw pillows, and loads of photographs hanging on the walls. Many of the photos are black and white, but a few are in color.

“My family and friends,” Mrs. Dali says fondly, when she sees me inspecting them.

“You must have had a big family,” I say.

“Oh, my family by blood was small, but my friend group? We were, and still are, huge and unstoppable.” The corners of her eyes crease as she flashes a huge smile.

“That sounds wonderful.”

A pang of admiration hits me, closing my throat. I want that—I want what she has—a found family that’s unstoppable. Mrs. Dali has visitors all the time, and I often pass her on the stairs when she’s on her way out to an event or gathering.

Mrs. Dali moves to the kitchen, where she makes us some tea.

“I have some food in the fridge, if you’re hungry,” she says.

My stomach growls, and we both laugh.

“I am hungry,” I say, “but I don’t want to eat your food, Mrs. Dali.”

“Oh, please, if you don’t eat it, it’ll all go to waste. I’ll fix you a plate if you pour the tea.”

A few minutes later, we’re sitting in her living room, a feast laid out before us. There’s quiche, a cold soup of some kind, a pasta salad, and little meatballs speared on toothpicks.

“Did you rob a caterer or something?” I ask.

She laughs. “No, I went to my friends’ anniversary party last night, and there were so many leftovers, they sent me home with an ice chest. You’re doing me a favor, Ella, by helping me eat it.”

We tuck in. She asks me all sorts of questions about my jobs, and about my brother. I briefly explain how our dad died, and how Tommy is struggling now.

“It’s one thing to struggle, like you are,” she says, “and another thing to struggle like he is—taking down everything and everyone around him.”

Her words are quiet and delivered with the kind of final-wisdom tone I would expect to hear from someone of her era.

“Do you think there’s any hope for him?” I ask.

She sighs. “A lot of that is up to him, dear.” Her gaze goes past me. “Did you drop something?”

I turn around, but she has already gotten up, and she’s picking up an envelope from the floor.

“Oh, the gala ticket,” I say.

“Gala ticket?” She perks up. “Now that sounds like fun.”

The gala ticket had been tucked in my handbag, where I placed it during my shift. I couldn’t bring myself to chuck it in the trash. It’s probably the most expensive thing I own now—it’s worth more than my keyboard, my one prized possession.

She hands me the envelope.

“Do you want to go?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Didn’t you say your young man invited you? He’d be disappointed to see me show up instead.”

“I doubt that,” I say, “but I can’t go, anyway.”

“Why ever not, dear?”

I don’t mean for it to all come spilling out, but it does—the dress I tried to buy, Tommy taking the last of my money, the futility of my relationship with Joel. By the end of the sorry tale, I’m struggling not to cry. But after all I’ve laid at this woman’s feet, she just smiles at me.

“There, there. You can still go to the gala, my dear.”

“I don’t have a dress, though,” I say. “Unless you count my maid uniform, which, I gotta admit, would be pretty freaking funny…”

“Stop being so silly,” she says. “Wait right here.”

She disappears down the short hallway. I hear her knocking things around in her room and I start to stand up, worrying that she’s fallen. But she emerges a second later with a garment bag draped over her arm.

“Now, it’s a little old-fashioned,” she says. “I wore this dress back in 1973. But I think with some adjustments, we could make it into a gown you’d be proud to wear to the gala. You could either impress your young man, or maybe find someone more deserving of you.”

More deserving of me…that sounds like what Sebastian said the other night: He can’t possibly deserve you .

“Well?” Mrs. Dali touches the ancient zipper on the garment bag, her gnarled fingers affectionate. “Do you want to take a look?”

“Of course,” I say, leaning forward.

This will be a true Cinderella moment, where my perfect gown is revealed, and I go dancing in the moonlight with my charming prince.

She tugs down the zipper as I think about dancing at the Tyler Gala.

And in my fantasy, I’m dancing with Mr. Tyler, and Sebastian.

Joel is off to the side, watching jealously while I have a good time and he lies on his phone to someone else about work.

Only the woman he’s talking to doesn’t believe him for a second.

Maybe I’m punished because of this petty fantasy. Or maybe I’m punished because of the raw and dirty fantasies I was enjoying yesterday, featuring Mr. Tyler brutally fucking me in his office.

But there is no doubt in my mind that this is punishment.

Because the dress revealed by the open zipper is by far the most hideous article of clothing I’ve ever laid eyes on.