Cinderella Wore Tennis Shoes: A Novella (6 page)

Well, Charlie was scared too, but she wasn’t just going to walk away from this man who made her feel . . . who simply made her feel.

Charlotte Damaris Eaton, the little girl who tried to live up to everyone’s expectations, was dead, and Charlie Eaton planned to dance at her wake starting today.

Suddenly invigorated despite her lack of sleep, Charlie jumped out of Doug’s borrowed bed and into the shower. It was going to be a glorious day.

It was going to be a day from hell, Dan thought miserably.

“No, Molly. Nothing’s wrong. Just put Con on.”

Rather than using hold, Molly slammed the receiver onto her desk. Judging from the volume of the bang, it was going to be at least a month before she brought him coffee.

Dan sighed.

“Dan?” Con said over the line.

Molly’s receiver slammed down on its holder.

Con repeated, “Dan? You there?”

“Here.”

“But not at the office.”

“Yeah. I’ve got some personal business. Can you hold down the fort?”

“The same business that kept you out on that Columbus run?”

“Yeah.”

“And from your monosyllabic response, I don’t suppose I’m going to get any more information than that, am I?”

“I’ll be in tomorrow . . . I think.” He hoped.

If he’d realized just how much trouble rescuing damsels in distress could be, he might have driven right by Charlie.

“Take as long as you need. But I will get this story out of you when you come in.” Con hung up.

Dan was left listening to a dial tone.

Yeah, it was going to be a long day. He blamed Charlie. The tortures he’d have to endure were her fault. She’d swept into his life and turned everything upside down. It would have served her right if he had left her standing at the side of the road in her wedding finery.

As tempting as the idea sounded, Dan knew he could never have done it. Just like he couldn’t cut her loose, no matter how much he’d like to. She needed him, at least until she got her life back together.

Thinking of her sleeping in his arms, and how she’d felt in his arms when he’d kissed her . . . no, he wouldn’t have missed any of it. But things between them couldn’t go any further than that one kiss.

Dan liked his life exactly the way it was. He didn’t have time for this complication. He wasn’t going to be able to play Prince Charming to her sneaker-clad Cinderella.

And Charlie had just left a groom at the altar, she was on the rebound. When she stopped rebounding, she was going to need someone who had more to offer than he did. So, no, there would be no more kissing.

There was a knock on the kitchen door. “Dan?”

He took a fortifying gulp of the black sludge that was the closest he could get to producing coffee and spared another thought to the fact Molly’s coffee was a thing of the past, at least until he could sweeten her up again. “Come in.”

Charlie burst into the room. “You’re still here. I was afraid you’d left because you were annoyed with me. But I do need that ride into town.”

“Coffee?” he asked, hoping to slow the running stream of consciousness that Charlie called a conversation.

“Oh, thanks.” He handed her a mug and she helped herself from the pot. “I’ve got to have a car. I shouldn’t have sold mine. It was reliable, if not very new. But Winslow said we’d pick out a new car after the honeymoon. My bank account’s not exactly overflowing, but I should be able to afford something drivable. And I’ve got to find a place to live—”

“Charlie.”

“Then there are clothes.”

“You could get your clothes from Winslow.”

“Yeah, and I could schedule a root canal for fun too, but I think I’ll pass.” She paused long enough to take a sip of her coffee. “Yuck.”

She slammed the mug down and Dan watched in amazement as she blushed. “I mean, I’m not much of a coffee drinker. Tea. Yes, I like tea better.”

“It’s okay, Charlie. I know how bad my coffee is. No matter what I do, what brand I buy, I just can’t make a decent cup.”

“Do you mind if I give it a try?”

Dan just shrugged and took another sip. It really was terrible.

She must have taken that for his consent, because she dumped out the pot of coffee he’d made and rinsed it before refilling it with fresh water.

“About Winslow. You’ll have to face him sometime.”

“Not if I can help it. He’ll just start telling me what an embarrassment I am and how I owe him gratitude for all he’s done for me.”

She paused mid–coffee scoop. “You know, the more I think about it, that was always Winslow’s attitude. I owed him for wanting to marry me.” She slid the coffee basket in place and started the machine. “Maybe too many women wanted him for his money, and he just assumed I did too. He never knew me well enough to realize that wealth and social position don’t mean anything to me. Maybe they did to my mother, but not me. I just want to be loved. Yeah, I know that sounds as little girlish as you accused me of being. But I think everyone wants to find someone who will love them—someone they can love in return. And for a while, I thought Winslow did love me, and I did love him, but—”

“About today,” Dan said in a blatant bid to change the direction of the conversation.

“If you’ll just give me a ride into town, maybe up by the mall, I can do some car shopping on Peach Street, then go get some clothes.”

“I took the day off,” he said.

“That’s not necessary.”

He didn’t want to say the wrong thing again, so he simply shrugged. “It’s done.”

“You know, Dan, despite the tough, silent-guy routine, I’m beginning to suspect you’re just a softy at heart.”

“Don’t believe it. There’s nothing in my heart. The sooner I get you situated, the sooner my life will get back on track.”

And on track—that singular, independent track he’d been on since his mother had died, leaving her sons in the care of various and ever-changing extended family—was right where he wanted to be.

He liked his life just the way it was. There was no room in it for Charlie Eaton—no room for anyone. Besides that, she deserved someone better than he was. She deserved a man who could laugh, who would treasure her. She deserved someone better than Daniel Ferguson Martin would ever be.

And he was going to see to it she got it.

“So let’s go shopping,” he said.

“That’s a phrase every woman dreams about having a man say to her.” Charlie chuckled. “And who am I to spit in every woman’s fantasy? Let’s go shopping.”

Charlie slid the aging Chevy Blazer into the garage. Dan assured her it still had some life left in it, and it was a car her bank account could live with.

Dan had been invaluable. He’d spent the day shopping with her, his quiet presence always at the fringe of her perception. No words of complaint . . . heck, no words at all. But despite his lack of exuberance, Charlie felt comfortable with him. He’d hauled bags, checked over her Blazer with care, and had treated her to lunch again, despite the fact she was almost solvent.

Though after today’s shopping, solvent was a relative term.

Twice Dan had touched her, both times by accident—both times he’d jumped as if he were burned.

Burned.

That’s was the closest analogy Charlie could come up with. Every time her skin came into contact with Dan’s, there was a burst of heat that threatened to consume her. Just being with him warmed her.

And that kiss . . .

Winslow’s kisses hadn’t managed to produce half the heat that Dan’s one gentle kiss had.

She pulled a group of plastic bags from the backseat. It was going to take her more than one trip to get all this stuff upstairs.

Charlie heard the sound of wheels on the long gravel drive. Her white knight was once again riding to her rescue. She was sure he would feel the chivalrous need to help her carry her bags upstairs, and who was she to deny Dan his knightly pleasures?

But it wasn’t Dan’s black Ford coming up the drive. It was a Porsche. A fire engine red Porsche 911.

Winslow.

Darn, darn, darn
, Charlie silently cursed even as she let her shopping bags fall to the ground. The garage door was still open, so she had no hope of hiding.

Hiding? She was at fault because she’d been willing to marry him to keep the peace, but he had a share of the blame also.

He didn’t love her. She’d been convenient. Winslow had thought she was malleable. Heck, Charlie had thought she was.

They were both wrong.

She walked out of the garage as his car pulled to a halt. “Winslow.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Charlie almost didn’t recognize it as belonging to her. “What can I do for you?”

Standing there in his Armani suit, arms folded stiffly behind his back, Winslow gave the impression that he was a nineteenth-century nobleman talking to a recalcitrant peasant. A sudden flash of insight made Charlie realize that was always how he’d treated her, like someone beneath him.

“Do you realize what an embarrassment you caused my family and caused me?” he asked by way of a greeting.

“I can imagine you’re embarrassed and I’m sorry. You know that wasn’t my intent. I tried to tell you over and over again. You wouldn’t listen. And I’m at fault because I didn’t make you listen. And I thought I could go through with a wedding that I knew in my bones wasn’t right. Again, I’m sorry for that. I realized that I wasn’t marrying you because I loved you.”

She didn’t add that she was pretty sure he wasn’t marrying her for love either.

His brace-straightened smile flashed, but there wasn’t a hint of kindness in the expression—it was just a mocking mimicry of a smile. “No. You were marrying me because Mommy wanted you to.”

“You’re right.” Charlie was done hiding from the truth. She’d let herself try to buy her mother’s love and approval. She would never win either and she was done trying. “And that was a huge mistake. But it’s a mistake I’ll have to live with. And taking the easy way out is a mistake I won’t repeat.”

As if he hadn’t heard a word, Winslow continued, “Your mother has a new date set. She tells me she told you all about it.”

Charlie shook her head. “And I told her it was out of the question.”

“Charlotte, you will marry me.” It was a flat statement of what he believed.

“Why? You don’t love me. You as much as admitted it Friday night. Why?”

“Because you committed to me. Because people expect it. You’ve made me a laughingstock by running away and I won’t have it.”

Charlie used to think Winslow’s blue eyes were his most compelling feature, but as they narrowed she realized they were as cold as his smile.

She momentarily pictured Dan’s quiet gray eyes—eyes that spoke of his kindness and said more than Dan ever said verbally. The thought of Dan’s quiet strength bolstered Charlie’s courage and helped her face her own weaknesses and Winslow.

“So it’s not love, but simply ego?” she asked.

Winslow folded his arms across his chest and studied her with the scrutiny of a little boy studying an ant in a jar. “Why all this talk of love? I thought we were both clear about what we wanted. I am offering more money than you ever dreamed of and social position. And you . . .” He paused.

“I what? That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. You don’t love me and I’m certainly not bringing you increased wealth or position, so why me?”

“I’m attracted to you. You’re different from the other women I’ve dated. I thought that difference was an asset, but I’m beginning to wonder . . .”

“So, just walk away.”

“I won’t do that. I’ll be more of a laughingstock than I already am. Besides, you’ll be a good mother, and once this nonsense is over, I still believe you’ll do well in my social circles.”

Again he paused, as if trying to think of something to say that would convince her. “And I do love you, in my own way.”

“But you’re not in love with me and never have been. I was attractive enough, convenient, not embarrassing, and you figured I’d be a good mother. Winslow, that’s not enough.”

“It could be.”

Before she could answer, there was the sound of another car that sent Charlie’s spirit soaring. Dan’s black truck pulled alongside Winslow’s Porsche.

Dan stepped out of the truck and Winslow seemed to shrink in comparison.