Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance (9 page)

“Come with me to Breck’s gala next month,” he said to me, watching me over the rim of his glass, his eyes dancing with intoxicating happiness. “As my girlfriend.” I smiled at him, heart leaping, and he added, “My family will be there.”

I knew what he meant by that—
let’s show them, together, that we can’t be torn apart. That we’re in love
.

“You can have any dress you want,” he added, as if he thought I needed the added incentive. But I didn’t. Right now, after everything, there was nothing I wanted to do more than obnoxiously parade my love for this man in front of his parents. Selfish, yes, and maybe a little immature, but I figured I’d earned it.

“Any dress?” I asked, and he nodded, fondness spreading over his face as he reached across and took my hand—for no particular reason, it seemed, only that he wanted to touch me. I nodded at the rack of dresses behind him. “It’s not one of these.”

I had a dress in mind, silvery gray and shimmering in a familiar boutique window, and it was like coming full circle—with this all starting in the same place. Plus, those gorgeous shoes would go with that dress so perfectly, and now they were safely returned to me.

Except this wasn’t the end. It felt like the beginning, and I could barely contain the emotion pouring through me, lighting me up on the inside and making me want to take this man home, undress him, learn every inch of the body belonging to the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

So that was exactly what I did.

M
eet Reade Lennox’s Cinderella
, the caterer plucked from a life of poverty and crime and brought into high society…

I sighed. “I’m a
chef
now, not a caterer,” I moaned, making April snort.

“All the crap in that article, and that’s the part that bothers you.”

“Well,” I said, closing the newspaper app on my phone and reaching for my glass of champagne, “it was only a matter of time before someone in the press would be able to sneak an article through. At least it’s a vaguely positive write-up.” I downed the champagne, noticing that April hadn’t even touched hers. “Something wrong?” I asked, brushing a thumb over my lips to wipe away the moisture.

“What?” April startled, looked away. “No…” But there was something very suspicious in her tone, and I knew my best friend well enough.

“Hey,” I said, scooting my chair closer. “Spill it.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” April said after a moment of hesitation, hands fidgeting in her lap, a flush crawling up her cheek. At my flat stare, she sighed and said, “Oh, all right. But you have to promise to tell
no one
.”

I made a gesture of zipping my lips, watched April glance around for eavesdroppers, and then had my heart squeezed by pure elation with April’s next words.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my God—”

“Shh!” April flapped her hands at me, looking over her shoulder in alarm. “Reade’s coming,” she hissed, and the look she shot me was pure warning.

“Do you mind if I borrow my Cinderella for a dance?” came Reade’s smooth drawl.

I had to make a massive, face-straining effort to wipe off my grin and school my expression into something that didn’t tell the whole world I’d just heard the best news
ever
, and then I turned and got to my feet, April waving me away before heading off to find her husband.
The father of her child, oh my God.

Reade’s description of me registered in my brain as he led me onto the dance floor, and I gave him a look of amusement. “Cinderella?” I asked, letting him pull me into a loose hold, pretending I couldn’t feel the eyes of his mother burning through my back from across the room. “I take it you’ve seen the article too?”

He made a
Hmm
sound and pulled me closer into his body. I caught sight of his father as we turned, looking stiff and miserable in the corner—and then, a few feet away, April and Breck, speaking quietly, both of them radiant with happiness. Breck’s gala was a raging success, packed to the rafters with the city’s greatest, many of whom were Reade’s team’s donors, and to top it off, he was about to be a father. I didn’t know if April had already told him yet—he looked so happy all the time around his wife anyway, that it was impossible to know.

“You don’t mind it?” Reade asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.

“No,” I said, because I didn’t. It came with the territory—I accepted it now, almost welcomed it. I was Reade Lennox’s girlfriend, and I wore that distinction with pride. They could write whatever they wanted about me—none of it would change how I felt, how happy this man made me. Even the thought of him warmed me right down to the bone, set my veins alight—made me want to hold him close and never let him go, for the rest of my life. “So does that make you my Prince Charming, then?”

He hummed again, a note of consideration, and said, “If I am, then you’re my princess.”

“Only when we’re married,” I said, smiling, before catching a glimpse of Jazz working the bar. I felt a little guilty that Jazz was working while I was dancing the night away as a guest, but Jazz had just scoffed at me, told me I was the one she felt sorry for. Some people just didn’t care for this life of champagne and galas and cocktail dresses, and I had no idea if I really did either, but I was willing to find out, to try my best.

“It’s a good thing I’m planning to propose then, isn’t it?” Reade said, tone deceptively calm, and my heart leapt right up into my throat.

“What?” I said, bringing our dance to a screeching halt in the middle of the floor. “Proposing? When?” I blinked at him, head starting to spin. “What?”

The look on his face was pure amusement mixed with such undeniable affection that I felt a sudden rush of joy, increased twofold when I realized what was happening here.

A
proposal
. God.

“In about half an hour,” he said, “after the speeches.” Then he smoothly swept me back into the dance, as if he hadn’t just tipped my world upside down.

“Oh,” I said stupidly, and sort of went with it, even as my stomach started doing crazy somersaults. “For the record,” I added, hooking my chin over his shoulder so I could snuggle closer into his body, “I’m gonna say yes.”

I could feel his heart against my chest, beating hard and wild for me.

I smiled into his neck and breathed him in, remembered his words to me, back in the restaurant all those weeks ago.

I look at you now and I see my wife, the woman I want to get pregnant with my baby, and the one I will love until the day I die.

He kissed my temple, almost fierce with it, as if knowing the thought going through my mind. And I pulled back and kissed his lips, in front of his family, for all the world to see.

Kissed the man I would soon call my husband.

* * *

* * *

W
ould
you like to receive a full length bad boy novella for FREE? The is the prequel to my book Bad Boy’s Cinderella, which is the story where April and Breck meet and fall in love.
Just go to this link
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Hard Crush
:

* * *

T
he office bathroom
was a shitty place to be caught crying.

You know what’s shittier? Finding out that the guy I invested more than three years of my life in had just gotten engaged, less than six months after breaking up with me.

The same guy I thought I loved. The one who dumped me, unable to commit to the ‘us’ of a relationship because
“I’m sorry, April, I’m just not ready to settle down. I really don’t see that in my future right now.”

Whoa, right there. I hadn’t been talking about settling down. We were comfortable together, but I hadn’t been pushing for anything more permanent than what we had. I tried to reason, made an attempt to stop this whirl of emotions that were suddenly pouring out of him. He was prepared for this conversation and I’d been pole-axed. I scrambled to gather my thoughts, asked for reasons, before I saw it in his face. This wasn’t something he wanted to fix. That’s not why we were having this talk. In his mind, our relationship was already done.

“I feel trapped. We’re young. I need to…”

The only bit of dignity I pulled from that horror scene was managing to walk out of the apartment and slam the door before the man I thought was one half of my future could finish that sentence. I had a good idea about what was coming, but I didn’t have to stick around and hear it. Jeff would tell me that he needed to play the field. Sow his oats. Add some names to his fucked-it list.

To be honest, I’d been suspicious for a while. I had these nagging thoughts when he worked late, or stayed longer than he used to on his Wednesday meet-ups with
the guys.

Well, fuck that.

Now, it seemed, Jeff had grown himself some balls. Except, I wasn’t sure where they hung because for some reason he thought it would make my day if he called me to share his fantastic news about his wedding. That’s what he said: “April, I have fantastic news.”

I would have blocked the call but I’d deleted Jeff’s details from my phone pretty soon after I walked out on him back in January, before the breakup speech became too humiliating.

That breakup speech didn’t come close to the thick frosting of humiliation that arrives with the “Guess what, we’re engaged!” speech.

For some reason Jeff thought we were still in the friendzone, and by some mysterious insight which was totally off the mark, he
knew
I’d want to hear the news of his engagement, right from the horse’s mouth.

More like the ass’s mouth.

The other thing he
knew,
was that I’d be happy for him. The man was deluded. Why he imagined I would want to know anything about his upcoming nuptials was beyond me.

The end of my nose goes red when I blow it too hard. In sympathy, my eyes develop a matching geriatric scarlet rim when I cry. I’m allergic to sad stuff and it shows all over my face.

Soft facial tissues were not provided in the bathroom I got to use at Bridge Literacy, the non-profit where I worked. This wasn’t the executive suite. The scratchy paper hand towels I used to try and clean myself up were like 40-grit sandpaper. So when Monique, the executive director’s PA, burst through the door, I was looking a total mess.

“What the hell, April, have you seen what time it is? Your meeting with Driscoll was scheduled to take place ten minutes ago. He’s fuming. Are you…oh, shit, April, what’s wrong. Has something happened? Your mom? Your cat?”

“I don’t have a cat,” I told her. “I have allergies.” Sort of true; I seemed to be allergic to phone calls from my ex. Or maybe it was an allergy to being reminded about something that hurt deep inside. I hadn’t picked at the band aid I plastered over my damaged feelings for Jeff, but hearing from him had ripped that thing right off. Sharp sting, flash burn, then the hurt fades, doesn’t it?