Page 5 of Falling for Them (Cinderella’s Daddies #1)

Five

Kingston

They’re in the supply closet again. I wish I didn’t know, but I do, because I’m walking down the hall to see if Grant is still here; I need to ask him a question about fuck-if-I-can-remember-what.

A breathy, whimpering sound comes from the cleaning closet.

It’s her, I just know it. She’s in there again with my son.

I want to open the door and yell at Joel, because he shouldn’t be doing this at work. But I don’t want to embarrass the maid.

She makes another sound, this one of whining need. I can’t move my fucking feet. I should move—I have no business listening to this. And my being here has nothing to do with Joel, everything to do with Ella.

Professional interest, right? Because a maid working in our building should not be exchanging sexual favors with another employee in the closet.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice needy. “Right there, right—”

Joel grunts. Ella goes silent.

She didn’t come.

I press my ear to the door like a fucking creeper, because surely he’s going to help her finish, surely he’s going to do the right thing—

The doorknob turns.

I leap back, fast, and turn halfway to point myself toward my office. In the reflection of the interior windows, I watch Joel step out of the closet, adjusting himself through his pants.

He didn’t help Ella finish. White-hot anger flares through me.

“Hey, Dad,” Joel says loudly.

He’s trying to give the maid the hint not to leave the closet right away. He was always a terrible sneak, even as a young boy.

“Hey,” I say. “Could I speak to you in my office for a minute?”

His eyebrows rise on his forehead. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Just need a word.”

He knows everything is not okay, but he’s happy enough to pretend for the next minute while we walk side by side to my office. I open the door and let him in first.

As he steps through, I catch a whiff of strawberries.

Her scent clings to him.

Does he know how lucky he is? My fists are clenched and I have to consciously release them. I have to let the tension in my shoulders go, as well.

This is about proper workplace behavior, I tell myself. It isn’t about a cute little maid. It isn’t about the fact that I couldn’t sleep last night because I was thinking about her and it made me so hard, it was painful.

“So, what’s up?” Joel asks.

“I wanted to talk to you about how things are going here,” I say. “You’ve been working late. If I’ve learned nothing from running this business, it’s that we need work-life balance or we burn out.”

“You’ve been working late, too,” he says, grinning.

“Guilty as charged.” I go to the minibar and pour myself a whiskey. “You want?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I pass him the glass and pour another one for me. We each take a sip and I allow the silence to settle between us. Let him wonder if this is just a fatherly chat about work-life balance, or if there’s an ulterior motive.

I didn’t raise a total idiot, because he takes another sip of whiskey and says, “I’m not letting pleasure interfere with my work. The Ruberetta accounts are looking fucking fantastic, I swear.”

“I know, I’ve been checking up on them periodically,” I say.

Joel cocks his head and looks irritated. “You’re watching my work?”

“No more and no less than I check up on everyone else’s.” I take another sip of whiskey and enjoy the smoky taste as it burns down my throat. “You’re doing fine work.”

It could be better, but I’m still trying to keep him at ease. It won’t do me any good if he goes storming off before I get a chance to say my piece.

“Well, good, I guess,” he says.

Another sip of my drink, then I sigh. “So, about this pleasure you’re not letting interfere with your work.”

“She’s not going to make trouble for us. Technically, she doesn’t even work for us.”

“She works for a company we hired, I know,” I say.

“Watching that, too?” he asks, a sardonic lift to his brow. “That’s fucked up, Dad.”

I catch myself before I rush to reassure him that no, I’m not watching that. Let him think I’m watching. Let him think I’m checking up on every damn thing he does.

“Is it serious between you two?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. She’s convenient.”

“I thought as much,” I say. “I saw you at Vice the other night, with someone else.”

“She was convenient, too.”

Another flare of anger moves through me. “Do they know they’re ‘convenient’?”

“I don’t know.” He finishes his whiskey. “Thanks for the drink, Pops.”

Cute. Real cute.

“You need to respect women,” I say.

“You’re old-fashioned,” he says with a laugh.

“It’s not old-fashioned to treat people well,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. Why can’t he see that his life will be so much fuller, so much happier, if he’s kind to others? It pisses me off.

The fact that he can lead on a beautiful woman like Ella, and not appreciate her, pisses me off.

But I’m old enough to know better than to lie to myself like this.

Because I’m not only angry about how he’s treating Ella.

I’m fucking jealous that he has her and I don’t, that’s what this is.

Ella

Thirteen days until the gala. I need a dress, shoes.

I have fifty dollars in emergency cash, and yeah, I’m going to do the stupid thing and spend it.

It’ll be worth it, to see Joel’s face when he picks me up and I walk out looking glamorous.

How weird is it that my boyfriend has never seen me dressed in anything other than my work uniform?

Very weird. It’s why I wear lacy bras and panties to work every day, since I started dating him.

If he’s going to lift up my dress, I want him to see something nice.

Sure, the underwear is cheap and itchy, but I endure it because knowing that I’m sexy beneath my uniform is pretty much the only advantage I have.

Thirteen days until the gala, and two hours before my shift at the pub. I throw on a sweatshirt to help combat the chilly San Esteban January, then head downstairs. Time to go shopping.

Mrs. Dali, a woman who lives one floor down from me, is coming up the stairs as I come down, lugging a giant canvas bag of groceries. Her silver hair, streaked with white, is back in its usual bun. Her mouth is pinched in pain, probably from the arthritis in her hands.

“Let me help you with that,” I say, rushing down the steps between us.

“Oh, that would be lovely, dear Ella,” she says, her rich brown eyes peering at me through her massive glasses.

I take her grocery sack and turn around, carrying it up the few stairs to her hallway and down to her apartment door. Mentally, I’m wondering how much this will eat into my dress-shopping time, because Mrs. Dali loves to chat.

“You looked like you were on your way out,” she says as she unlocks her door, “so I won’t keep you, dear.”

“I am on my way out, but I can take these into your kitchen for you, no problem.”

She blinks up at me through her glasses and says, “Bless you, child. You are too kind to an old lady. This cold really makes my hands feel worse.”

I hardly think that common decency is being ‘too kind,’ but I don’t want to get into a debate with her, not right now when I need to hurry up and do my shopping.

“Where are you off to today?” she asks as I set the bag on her counter and pull out the items. The giant cans of vegetable broth will be too heavy for her to wrangle into her cupboards, so I quickly put them away.

“I’m going to a fancy event with my boyfriend,” I tell her proudly. “Today, I’m hoping to find a dress to wear.”

“Oh, you have a young man, that’s so delightful. I remember back when my late husband was courting me.” She sighs and pats my hand before I can reach for another item to put away. “I can take care of the groceries from here. You run along.”

“Are you sure?”

She practically shoves me out the door—she’s quite strong and spry, arthritis notwithstanding.

“Good luck on your adventures today,” she says. “May you find the perfect dress!”

“Thank you,” I say, rushing down the hall, my handbag banging against my leg with every hurried step.

Time is running out, and I’m not expecting this task to be easy.

The thrift store with my best chances is five blocks away, moving toward Dorado Heights. I don’t often come here because it’s an upscale place, with slightly more expensive clothing. But it might carry a gown suitable for the Tyler Gala.

It isn’t too crowded when I step inside, and I immediately start toward the area that I usually avoid—the one with the fancy dresses.

A beautiful rose-colored gown hangs right at the front of a rack. It’s floor-length, with a sweetheart neckline and a shimmering beaded trim. I touch the fine fabric hesitantly. Joel wouldn’t be ashamed of me in this dress.

Breath hitching with excitement, I reach for the tag dangling from the zipper.

It’s seventy dollars. Shit. I don’t have that much. But I can’t resist plucking the dress from its rod and taking it into a fitting room. Maybe it’ll look crappy on me and I can set it aside without regret.

Or, let’s be optimistic. Maybe it’ll fit great, but the zipper will be bent or there’ll be a tiny stain at the bottom, and I can ask for a discount.

I slide off my jeans, shirt, and sweatshirt. Carefully, I work the side zipper down. No flaws there. Then I pull the dress over my head. So far, so good. I pull the zipper into place and stare at myself in the mirror.

It’s the perfect dress. Mrs. Dali’s wish that I find the perfect dress has come true.

I even have a pair of little flats I can wear with it. They won’t match exactly, but they’ll do.

But I don’t have seventy dollars, I only have fifty. And there isn’t a single flaw in sight, so I can’t ask for a discount.

My brother would probably create a flaw and demand a discount, but that’s not my way.

My eyes tear up, but I blink away the emotion and reluctantly peel off the gown, then put on my faded jeans and sweatshirt once more.

This is okay. I can make this work. Bartleby’s won’t pay for two weeks, and we don’t get tips there—it’s a flat wage. However, my check from Maids in Heaven will arrive soon, and I can come back and get this gown.

Crossing my fingers with hope, I take the dress up to the counter.

“Did it work out for you?” the cashier asks.

“Yes, and no,” I say.

He frowns. “Uh oh.”

“Yeah. I love the dress, it’s perfect. The problem is, I don’t have the money to buy it now. But I get paid in five days. Is there any way you could hold it for me?”

He gives me a look of understanding. “Yeah, sure. But to hold it for longer than twenty-four hours, you have to leave a deposit for fifty percent of the price. Do you have that much?”

“Yes,” I say, grinning. Finally, something is going right. I found the dress, and I’m going to get to buy it. I’ll be eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for this month and next, but it’ll be worth it.

“The deposit is nonrefundable, just so you know,” he says.

“That’s not a problem.” My mind is made up. I want this gown.

I fish two twenties from my wallet and hold them out. He gives me five dollars back and takes down my name and phone number, pinning the note to the hanger and hanging the dress on a rack behind the counter.

“Thank you so much,” I tell him, stuffing the receipt in my wallet along with the leftover cash.

“You’re welcome. See you in five days.”

“See you,” I say, waving cheerfully.

I can’t believe my good luck. How freaking incredible, that something is finally, finally going right for me. Too good to be true? Maybe I would’ve thought that a few days ago, but right now, I’m going to let myself feel excited, happy, hopeful .

I’m going to the gala.