Operation Cinderella

by Hope Tarr

  “Once, I think. On second thought, maybe not.” She hesitated and then said, “Do you seriously expect me to sit here and bolt down a big breakfast after the monumental ass I’ve just made of myself?”

  He grinned at her and reached for another egg to break. “Darlin’, some people would say I make an ass of myself every time I go on air.”

  …

  Macie didn’t have a comeback for that, so she kept quiet and watched him neatly crack three more eggs in quick succession. “Have you never heard of cholesterol?” she asked, watching him pour a generous measure of half-and-half into the mix.

  “I focus on the calcium.” He picked up the whisk and resumed beating the mixture into froth. “Besides, the meals you’ve been serving haven’t exactly been low-fat.”

  He had her there. “I thought that was the kind of food you liked, coming from Texas.”

  “I do, only I’m closer to thirty-five than thirty, and since moving here I don’t get nearly the exercise I used to.”

  Macie’s gaze dropped to his midriff, which she strongly suspected was a perfect six pack or close to it, and suddenly she felt as if she stood inside a steaming shower, her body moist and tingling.

  He rinsed off the whisk and set it on the sink drainer. “We don’t have any avocados, so I can’t make it with guacamole, but I found a jar of chili peppers in the cupboard and we have sour cream and cheese. The grater’s over there.” He gestured to the cutting board where a hunk of Monterey Jack set out.

  Amazingly, she was hungry. She sliced off a piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth before turning to grate the rest into a small bowl.

  He grabbed a fistful of cutlery and carried it and their plates out to the table along with a bottle of Tabasco. In addition to the hot milk, he’d made a pot of coffee. Macie mused it must be a Texas thing, the way he could suck down gallons of the stuff at all hours. Ordinarily her morning tall skinny soy latte was all she needed to carry her through the day. Then again it was, technically, morning.

  “Sure.” She held out her empty mug, and he refilled it.

  Sour cream, half-and-half, and real butter! She forked up a big bite and closed her eyes, taking the time to savor. “This is so…good it’s got to be bad.” Guard down, she’d almost said fucking good but stopped herself in time.

  Ross chuckled. “Everything in moderation, right?” Moderation wasn’t a subject on which Macie had ever excelled, but she nodded anyway and took another mouthful. “Besides,” he added, watching her eat, “it’s not like you have to count calories.”

  His gaze stroking over her was as powerful as a tactile touch. Fortified by food and caffeine, sex once more pushed to the forefront of her mind.

  Feeling the telltale tremulousness return along with a rather deliciously warm tingling, she put down her fork. “I’d rather burn them than count them. Are you sure you won’t reconsider your stance on flings?”

  The look he slanted her told her to give it up. “If you’re trying to shock me, you’re wasting your time. I was a daddy when you were still in training bras.”

  “I never wore training bras.”

  She stared at him. He stared back. And then the weirdest thing happened. The corners of her mouth started to twitch, the back of her throat to tickle. Something, some tight ball of tension, bubbled and then burst inside her. Macie threw back her head and laughed. Her eyes watered, her throat burned, and still she laughed. And the best part was Ross joined her.

  “Okay…okay,” she said once she’d mustered sufficient breath. Swiping at her watering eyes, she willed the fit to subside. “Maybe I did, but just for that one year in middle school.”

  He winked, and then rose to refill his mug. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  His mention of secrets had her remembering hers. Operation Cinderella was stymied, but she couldn’t think about that now.

  He’d rejected her for the second time in an hour. She had every right to feel pissed as hell, not to mention hurt. But along with a vague disappointment, what she felt was relaxed—and suddenly sleepy.

  She covered a yawn behind her hand. “Mind if I leave the dishes for the morning, the real morning, and go back to bed?”

  “Go ahead. It’s my mess. I’ll clean it.”

  She pushed her chair back from the table and got up. “Good night then.”

  She was almost to the living room when he called her back. “MJ?”

  Even half asleep, her heart skipped when he called her nickname. She turned around. “Yes.”

  Crossing the carpet toward her, he said, “About my apology earlier—don’t go getting the wrong impression.”

  Her heart seemed to stall. “What wrong impression might that be?”

  He stopped in front of her. “That I didn’t like kissing you. Fact of the matter is I liked it a lot.” He took a final step toward her, one big warm hand closing gently over her shoulder. “And just because you’re going back to your bed and I’m going back to mine doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to try it again—now.”

  She tilted her face up to his. Reaching out, he traced the outline of her bottom lip with the callus-thickened pad of his thumb. Hot chills skipped along her spine. Her heart pounded and her breath caught. She felt famished, only not for food but for Ross.

  Their mouths met as if drawn by magnets. His kiss was tangy with Tabasco and passionate with promise. His tongue slipped inside to touch hers, a gentle tease. But suddenly gentle wasn’t enough anymore. Ravenous, she wanted more.

  She wanted it all.

  As if reading her mind, he moved his hand to her nape, gently but firmly holding her in place while he plundered. Her nipples tightened, making her keenly aware that she hadn’t bothered with a bra. As if reading her mind, he slid his other hand beneath the waistband of her sweatshirt, skimming the well of her belly and playing along her ribs before sliding slowly upward. The brush of his thumb over her breast shot an arrow of sensation straight to her toes.

  Touching her beneath her clothes, he drew back to nip at her neck. “No, ma’am, definitely don’t need any training bra now.”

  He grazed her nipple, the slight roughness of his fingers making her moan. She threw back her head and pushed against his palm. “That feels…entirely…too…good to even think of stopping.”

  His soft laugh resonated with male pride but the erection brushing against her lower belly confirmed he was as turned on as she. “In that case, we should probably say good night.”

  “Good night?” Macie clutched at his hand, hoping to stay him. Was Ross Mannon a clit tease or was he simply trying to kill her?

  He pulled her sweatshirt back down and stepped back with an expression of regret. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

  Sweet dreams—suddenly that seemed like a distinct possibility.

  “This is so unfair,” she said, but the smile in her voice wasn’t lost on either of them. Senses singing, she turned to go, intimately aware of his gaze following her out.

  Stepping inside her room, she felt herself smiling. Warm milk, spicy eggs, and now a first rate make out session—if that wasn’t the “complete package” Macie couldn’t say what was.

  .

  “You’re unusually cheerful,” Stef remarked during her drop-off later that day.

  Macie halted her humming. “Am I?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The food looks amazing,” Macie said, deliberately turning the topic, although it was nothing less than the truth. The dinner menu du jour, boneless braised beef ribs, sautéed white asparagus, and rice pilaf, looked and smelled mouth-watering.

  “About ten minutes before you serve, heat up the meat in the oven, not the microwave. That way it’s less likely to dry out,” Stefanie advised.

  Macie nodded. “Okay, I will. Thanks.”

  Her insulated case emptied, Stef turned to go. “Bon appétit.”

  Screwing up her nerve, Macie called her back. “Are you in a big hurry?”

  Stefanie stopped and turned back. “I have t
o deliver some party platters later, but I have some time. What’s up?”

  Macie reached for her nerve. “I was wondering if you might walk me through making huevos rancheros.”

  Stef’s dark eyes widened. “You want me to show you how to cook something?” She came up, stuck out a hand, and made as if to check Macie’s forehead for fever.

  Batting her away, Macie backed up. “What if I do? Lately I’ve developed…a craving.” That was oh so true.

  Shrugging off her windbreaker and dropping it atop one of the stools, Stef ticked off the list of ingredients. “Eggs, salsa, sour cream, grated cheese, olive oil, and scallions, very finely chopped. Oh, and you’ll need corn tortillas, of course.”

  Macie nodded. “Ross keeps tortillas in the fridge like other people keep sandwich bread. Must be a Texas thing,” she added with a smile.

  “Great, we’ll need one tortilla per serving. Oh, and I like to include guacamole—that’s mashed avocado, by the way.” Stef winked.

  “Very funny, yes, I know.” Macie had stopped off at the grocery store after dropping Sam at school, gathering the ingredients she’d committed to memory. She opened the fridge and began setting them out.

  She lined up the items on the counter and turned back to see her friend had taken the large frying pan down from its wall hook. Pouring olive oil in the pan, she turned the stove burner to low.

  “It’s a cinch so long as you follow the recipe,” Stef assured her, rotating the pan so the bottom was evenly coated.

  Macie came up beside her. “It’s me you’re talking to, remember? A card carrying member of the culinary-impaired.”

  “You’ll do great. Most of the work is in the prep. I usually make my salsa from scratch but with a little doctoring, readymade salsa can work, too.”

  Macie thought back to that morning. While certain…details were tattooed onto her brain, she was fuzzy on the cooking part. “I’m pretty sure Ross used salsa from a jar.”

  Stef’s gaze flew up from the sizzling pan. “Mannon made you breakfast?”

  Recalling Ross’s tangy kiss and knowing touch, Macie felt her face flame. Hoping Stef would attribute any flushing to the rising steam, she answered, “It was a case of mutual insomnia leading to the munchies.”

  “Interesting,” Stef said, handing Macie the spatula. Macie stared at it. “You asked me to walk you through, right? What are you waiting for, rookie? Let’s get started.”

  Nervous, nonetheless Macie did her best to follow Stef’s directions to the letter, occasionally pausing to ask a clarifying question such as the difference between chipotle and chili powder and how long to cook the tortillas on each side.

  Cooking the eggs proved to be the easy part. Apparently there were two versions of the dish, one with scrambled eggs, as Mannon had made, and the other with fried. Feeling brave, Macie decided to try fried. In the same skillet she’d used to heat the tortilla, she followed Stef’s directions and added a dollop of butter. She waited a moment for it to melt, and then cracked in two eggs.

  “Cook them for three to four minutes if you want the yolks runny, longer if you like them firmer,” Stef advised.

  “Definitely firmer,” Macie said, picking out a piece of shell.

  At the end of twenty minutes give or take, Macie had a nearly perfect plate of huevos rancheros.

  Beaming, Stef handed her a fork. “You did it, Mace!”

  “I did it, didn’t I?” Absurdly excited, Macie picked up a fork and dug in. Popping the morsel into her mouth, she chewed, savored, and finally swallowed. Setting down the fork, she felt a big grin breaking forth. “I made this and it doesn’t suck. It’s actually pretty good.”

  “Of course it is.” Stef patted her on the shoulder. “The act of cooking can be a very powerful thing. It’s no coincidence that ‘holy days’ became our modern holidays and that the celebrations always involved sharing beautifully prepared food.” She hesitated, and then asked, “This sudden…craving for Tex Mex wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain hot Texas transplant, would it?”

  Caught out, Macie admitted, “He’s not anything like what I came here expecting. He’s warm and funny and kind and caring. He even helps out around the house.”

  Equally amazing was her discovery that there were some aspects of domestic life she actually enjoyed, such as family movie night with Ross and Sam passing around a big bowl of popcorn and arguing over how much salt to add. Ross’s daughter might have some issues, but now that she’d started letting down her guard on occasion, she was a pretty cool kid. Helping her with her homework and chauffeuring her around the city could even be fun.

  “Sounds like a keeper. And he’s single, right?

  Macie nodded. “Divorced, but it happened years ago. He must have married pretty young.” She declined to point out that Ross’s ex was a famous fashion photographer whom she’d first met at the magazine. Stef didn’t keep up with the fashion world, so the name Francesca St. James likely would mean nothing to her.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Well, for starters, he’s a Republican.”

  Her friend shrugged. “You say that like some people say ‘axe murderer.’”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Come on, Macie, lighten up. It is a two-party system.” She popped a sliver of avocado into her mouth.

  “Not if Ross and his followers have their way.”

  Stef lifted a dark slash of brow. “He has followers?”

  “I’d say cronies but ‘followers’ has a nicer sound.”

  Obviously struggling to keep a straight face, Stef managed a nod. “Definitely makes him sound more messiah-like.”

  Macie rounded the counter and slumped down on a stool. “Seriously, Stef, what am I going to do? He thinks I’m someone I’m not, a sweet, old-fashioned girl who believes in the things he does. You and I both know that woman doesn’t exist.”

  “Are you so sure about that?” Following, Stef sat down beside her. “If you mean the woman who just learned to make huevos rancheros even though she claims she hates to cook and who talks my ear off about some teenage kid who’s not hers but who she worries about all the time anyway, then I’d say she exists all right.”

  Macie speared her with a look. “You know why I came here.”

  “Muckraking mission, Operation Cinderella, yep, I copy you. So bag the Black Ops and move on. Mannon sounds like he just may be a pretty great guy. There aren’t all that many of them out there.” She sighed.

  “I’ll lose my job at the magazine.”

  “There are other jobs at other magazines,” Stef countered.

  Macie shook her head. “Starr gave me my first byline. I’d still be covering the weather if it weren’t for her. I owe her.”

  Stef scowled. “You’ve worked your ass off for her and that magazine for five years. Nobody gave you anything. You earned it all, paid your dues, and then some. The only person you owe now is yourself. You don’t have to do this. You have choices, Mace. Make the most of them.”

  Appetite lost, Macie pushed the plate away. “It’s a moot point anyway. Ross really is the Prince of Clean.” The surety of her imminent failure to find anything approaching dirt, or even dust on Ross left her feeling simultaneously anxious and relieved.

  “Then tell your boss the truth, that you’ve come up empty. Let the potato chips fall where they may and get on with your life—with or without On Top in it.”

  Stefanie was right, Macie decided. She might not have dirt but she did have a choice.

  .

  Standing outside the threshold to Sam’s bedroom a week later, Macie hesitated, and then lightly knocked on the edge of the open door. “How’s it going? About ready for a lunch break?”

  “Almost.” Gaze glued to her computer monitor, Sam beckoned her inside. “Check this out. It’s my Social Studies project.”

  Entering, Macie said, “Not going so hot, huh?”

  What was going well, very well, was Sam. Lately she’d begun keeping he
r bedroom door open during the day, a powerful symbol of all the ways she was opening up.

  Dragging her gaze away from the screen, Sam admitted, “I could use some help.”

  Relieved it wasn’t algebra again, Macie picked a path around the poster sized pieces of foam board, photos, scissors, and pushpins strewn across the carpet to Sam’s desk. “What’s the topic?”

  “The American family. We’re supposed to make a poster of our family tree. Mrs. Grant said to try and go back at least three generations for both our parents.”

  “Have you checked out the genealogy websites? You can search the immigration records for Ellis Island online, too.”

  “Thanks but actually I’ve got most of the old stuff already. It’s Dad and Mom who don’t make any sense.”

  Macie hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  Sam poked a finger at the screen. “I was born on April 12, 1997. It says here that Mom and Dad didn’t get married until September 1999.”

  Macie leaned in to look. Sam had landed on one of those amateur detective sites that catered to the paranoid and the nosy. For an annual membership of just $19.99, you could search and access the records of just about anyone for whom you had the most basic information.

  Straightening, she stepped back. “These sites aren’t always that reliable. Sometimes people have similar sounding names—”

  “No, MJ, there’s no mistake.” Sam clicked on another window. “See? Here’s the PDF of their marriage certificate, the one on file at the court house. That’s my mom’s signature. Believe me, she’s written enough school notes for me to recognize it.”

  “Do you need the exact dates for your project?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Want my advice?”

  Sam shrugged. “Sure.”

  “This project isn’t for history, it’s for social studies, so don’t worry about exact dates right now. Finish your chart, turn it in to your teacher, and talk about this with your dad—in private. For now, let’s go have lunch, okay?”

  Looking up, Sam sent her a lopsided smile so like her dad’s that Macie felt her heart fisting. “Let me guess, huevos rancheros?”