I'm No Frigging Cinderella

Cinderella Never Had To Deal With Sexu.al Tension

The Thornfield Estate looks like someone took a Gothic romance novel and threw unlimited money at it until it became real. All towering spires and ivy-covered walls, with warm light spilling from massive windows.

My driver, a chatty guy named Dave, who spent the entire ride telling me about his daughter’s soccer tournament, whistles low as we pull up the circular drive.

“Fancy,” he says, which is the understatement of the century. “You sure you got the right address? This looks like where rich people go to sacrifice virgins to their portfolio gods.”

Did he just say virgins…great, maybe I should run for the hills.

“Pretty sure,” I say, though I’m having serious second thoughts. The other guests stepping out of their cars look like they stepped off the pages of Vogue. All sleek hair and confident postures and jewelry that probably has its own insurance policies. And masks. Beautiful, elaborate masks that turn everyone into mysterious figures from a fairy tale.

I fumble with my own mask, an elegant creation of midnight blue silk and silver beading that matches my gown. At least if I make a fool of myself, no one will know who I am unless I tell them… No, I have to be Scarlett.

“You want me to wait?” Dave asks, catching my deer-in-headlights expression in the rearview mirror. “In case you need a quick getaway?”

It’s tempting. So, so tempting. But I can picture Scarlett’s face if I chicken out, and somehow that’s scarier than whatever social humiliation awaits me inside.

“No, I’m good. Thanks, Dave.”

“Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart. You look like a million bucks.”

If only I felt like it… Because this was only skin deep.

I take a deep breath, gather up the skirts of my gown—because apparently that’s a thing I do now—and step out onto the cobblestone drive. Immediately, my too-big heel catches between two stones, and I stumble forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Shit, s**t, s**t—

“Careful there.”

A strong hand catches my elbow, steadying me before I can face-plant into the fountain. I look up to thank my savior and nearly forget how to breathe.

He’s tall. Really tall, with dark hair that’s perfectly styled but has that slightly mussed look. Sharp jawline, strong shoulders filling out a tuxedo that was definitely custom made, and eyes the color of storm clouds over the ocean. He’s wearing a simple black mask that somehow makes him look even more devastatingly handsome, like some kind of mysterious hero from a romance novel.

He’s also absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous in a way that makes my ovaries sit up and take notice.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice only slightly breathless. “I was just... communing with the cobblestones. Very spiritual process.”

He laughs, and the sound does something fluttery to my stomach. “I can see that. Are you always this philosophical about near-death experiences?”

“Only the embarrassing ones. Which, in my case, is most of them.”

Why did I just say that? Why do I have the social skills of a concussed hamster?

And why am I being honest when I’m supposed to be channeling Scarlett’s polished perfection?

But instead of looking horrified by my complete lack of filter, he smiles. “I’m Alex.”

Holy s**t. Alex Stone. THE Alex Stone. My boss. The man whose company employs me. The man I’ve been fantasizing about since my breakup with Marcus, while simultaneously being terrified of him.

“I’m...” I catch myself before I can say Harper. s**t. I’m supposed to be Scarlett, but something about his smile, about the way he’s looking at me like I’m actually interesting, makes me want to be anyone but…her. Plus, what if he recognizes Scarlett’s name from the company? “Sarah,” I say instead, picking a name that’s close enough that I might actually respond to it. “I’m Sarah.”

He nods, and doesn’t show any sign of recognition. Why would he? I’m wearing a mask, and even without it, I’m invisible to him during regular business hours. He probably couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of one. Plus, I have on enough eye makeup to sink a ship.

“Shall we head inside before you assault any more landscaping?” he asks, offering me his arm.

“Probably wise. I haven’t tested my combat skills against topiary yet, but I’m pretty sure the hedge animals would win.”

He guides me toward the entrance, and I try not to think about how solid his arm feels under my hand, or how he smells like expensive cologne and something indefinably masculine that makes me want to lean closer and just... breathe.

Mayday! Ovaries have hijacked the ship! Repeat: ovaries have assumed control!

The ballroom is exactly what you’d expect from a mansion that probably has its own Wikipedia page. Soaring ceilings with crystal chandeliers that throw rainbows across walls lined with oil paintings of dead rich people. A live orchestra is set up in one corner, playing something classical and elegant that makes me feel like I should know what it is. And everywhere, people in magnificent masks…feathered creations, jeweled masterpieces, simple elegant designs that somehow make everyone look mysterious and alluring.

Everyone looks like they belong here. The women glide across the marble floor in gowns, jewelry sparkling under the chandelier light. The men look distinguished and important in perfectly fitted tuxedos, discussing what are probably very serious rich-people topics like stock portfolios and yacht maintenance. Boring.

And I’m here. With Alex Stone. Who thinks my name is Sarah and has no idea I spend my days in a cubicle three floors below his office?

“First time at one of these?” Alex asks, and I realize I’ve been gaping like a tourist.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You look like you’re trying to memorize everything. It’s charming.”

Charming. He thinks I’m charming. When was the last time someone called me charming? Never. That’s when. Certainly not when I was Harper the walking disaster.

“It’s just... overwhelming,” I admit. “I feel like I should be taking notes for the museum tour.”

“The secret is to remember that underneath all the fancy clothes and expensive jewelry, these are just people. Very rich, very boring people, mostly.”

Harper didn’t want to think of these people naked.

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were born in a tuxedo.” Because you probably were, considering this is your event and your foundation.

He grins, and it transforms his whole face from intimidatingly handsome to devastatingly approachable. “Trust me, I’ve had my share of embarrassing moments. Ask me sometime about the incident with the chocolate fountain and the French ambassador’s wife.”

“Now I really want to know.”

“Maybe later,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that suggests he actually means it. That there will be a later.

The orchestra shifts into a waltz, and couples begin moving toward the dance floor with the kind of practiced elegance that suggests they were all born knowing how to dance. I watch them totally fascinated.

“Would you like to dance?” Alex asks, following my gaze.

Fuck NO.

My brain immediately starts cataloging all the ways this could go wrong. I could step on his feet. I could trip and take us both down. I could somehow manage to set something on fire through sheer coordination failure. I could fall flat on my face in front of my boss, who doesn’t know I’m his employee.

“I should probably warn you,” I say, “my dancing skills are... theoretical at best. I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher.”

Before I can protest further, he’s leading me onto the dance floor, one hand settling at my waist while the other captures my fingers. The touch sends electricity shooting through my nervous system, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing, how warm his hand is through the fabric of my dress, how this is the closest I’ve ever been to Alexander Stone.

“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs, and we begin to move.

It should be a disaster. By all rights, I should have trampled his feet within the first thirty seconds and probably taken out several other couples in the process. I'm thinking dominos. But somehow, miraculously, I don’t. Alex guides me across the floor with a confidence that somehow transfers to my own movements, and before I know it, we’re actually dancing.

Actually, dancing. With Alex Stone. Who smells incredible and feels even better and is looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.

“See?” he says, spinning me gently. “Natural talent.”

“More like you’re really good at damage control.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re better than you think you are.”

If only you knew who you were really dancing with. I think, but push the thought away. Tonight, I’m not Harper the clumsy girl. Tonight, I’m Sarah, whoever she is, and she can apparently dance without causing casualties.

We dance through two songs, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm, into the warmth of his hands and the way he smiles when I manage a particularly tricky turn without incident. This feels like something out of a movie—the beautiful ballroom, the elegant music, the mystery of masks, the handsome stranger who looks at me like I’m worth looking at.

Except he’s not a stranger. He’s my boss. And I’m lying to him about everything, including my name.

“You’re different,” he says as we sway to a slower melody.

My heart nearly stops. “Different how?”

“Most people at these events... they’re performing. Playing a role. But you seem... real. Honest.”

If only he knew how deeply I’m performing right now. But something about the way he’s looking at me, the warmth in his voice, makes me want to be honest. Makes me want to be real.

“Maybe it’s the mask,” I say. “Easier to be yourself when no one knows who you are.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Being yourself?”

The question hits deeper than it should. Am I being myself? The real me would have tripped by now, spilled something, said something awkward. But maybe this is me too… the me that exists when I’m not constantly worried about living up to Scarlett’s shadow or proving I’m not a complete disaster.

“I’m trying,” I whisper, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.

The music ends, and we’re standing close enough that I can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between us feels charged, heavy and hot.

“Alex!” A woman in a stunning emerald gown and an elaborate feathered mask approaches us, her smile bright and predatory. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Of course she has. Because this is what happens when you’re a billionaire CEO who looks like a romance novel cover model. Beautiful women hunt you down at charity balls.