His Sexy Cinderella

by Pamela DuMond

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked, and helped Vivian into the back of a chauffeur-driven town car in front of the Drake. “It looks like you had a tough first day on the job. I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

  “It wasn’t the easiest,” she said. “How did you know?”

  The driver pulled out into traffic.

  “Can’t be easy training to be a princess impersonator.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t say anything until after you were hired. Or if you were hired.”

  “Got it. I’m not sure I can go anywhere fancy dressed like this.” She held one sneaker-clad foot up in the air.

  I squinted. “Still looks like a glass slipper to me.”

  “Ha! I want to go someplace comfortable. A place that feels like home.”

  Seriously—it was going to be this easy? I was going to be able to take her home, walk the few stairs to her tiny apartment, pull her into my arms, run my fingers through her hair and kiss her gorgeous full lips. I’d tug that peasant blouse off her shoulder with one hand while moving my other up her toned, delicious leg to her warm, creamy center. She’d sigh and part her legs a little more.

  ‘Yes, Max,’ she’d say, unbuckling my pants, reaching for my cock, and inviting me inside, sweet girl that she was.

  I smiled. Hiring Vivian was my best idea ever. “Why don’t you give the driver the address you had in mind, love?”

  “333 W. 35th Street, please,” she said. “You look like the cat who ate the canary, Max.”

  “Not yet, love.”

  “I’m hungry too. Starving. Who knew walking, waving, and memorizing could be so arduous?”

  “Me.”

  She stared at me and cocked her head. “You tried out for a job like this too, didn’t you?”

  “Something like that.”

  She grabbed my hand and interlaced her fingers in mine. “I am forever grateful to you, Max. I’m going to show you just how thankful, how deeply in your debt I am. This one’s on me.”

  My dick throbbed in my pants. The beast had woken. “Wow. You don’t have to.”

  Yes, please.

  “I insist.”

  “Who are they playing tonight?” the chauffer asked.

  “Detroit,” Vivian said. “They suck balls.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” the chauffer said.

  “Who sucks balls?” I asked.

  333 W. 35th Street was not Vivian’s address but the location of the ballpark that was home to the Chicago White Sox. One of her regulars at the pub had given her a gift certificate that covered a few home games. Sadly, the sucking balls comment was not in reference to me.

  We sat on the third base line in the bleachers and watched the White Sox battle the Detroit Tigers.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen a baseball game,” she said, munching from a bag of potato chips and chasing the salt down with sips of beer. “What exactly do you do back in Bellèno?”

  “I’ve seen a baseball game. Just never been to one. I work in finance and corporate problem solving as well as… why is everyone standing and stretching?”

  “Get out. You don’t know about the 7th inning stretch? Have you been living under a rock?” She stood up, pushed her hips from side to side, and stretched her arms over head.

  “Some people call it that.” Her hips were curvy, her ass round, and spank-able.

  I wanted.

  “Stand up,” she said.

  “What if I don’t feel like standing up?”

  Her tits weren’t small nor were they huge. They were more than a mouthful and I wondered what they’d taste like. I’d scrape my stubbled chin over her soft skin and watch with delight as her nipples hardened.

  I needed.

  “You’re going to look like an asshole unless you stand up and sing,” she said.

  “I’m not known for my voice.”

  Her cotton top was nearly see-through in this light and I could see the swell of her breasts, her waist.

  I would have her.

  “I bet you have a great voice.” She beckoned. “It’s probably dreamy and sexy like Sting. Maybe whimsical like Ed Sheeran.”

  “You’ve never heard one note fall from my lips but you think my voice might be dreamy and sexy?”

  “Your eyes telegraph that.”

  “I pay them big bucks to do that when I want to impress a beautiful, young lady.” I stood up next to her. There was a flush on her skin on this moist, hot, summer night. Beads of sweat from the sultry air dripped down her cleavage. A muscle in my jaw twitched as I imagined licking that sweat away, burying my face in her cleavage. My dick pulsed.

  Good God, get a fucking grip, Max. Find a distraction.

  “Do my eyes telegraph that my voice sounds like a morose moose rutting about at sunrise?”

  “That’s so fucking hot, Max. You really know how to turn a girl on.” She launched into the song with the rest of the fans. “Take me out to the ballgame. Take me out to the crowd…”

  I stumbled through the lyrics with her. Not knowing them. Singing a little behind everyone else. Off tune.

  She laughed and I couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

  “Oh, my God!” she grabbed my arm and tugged on it. “Look!” she pointed.

  My gaze was directed to a screen in the park. We were on it. “KISS-CAM!” with multiple exclamation points scrolled across the bottom.

  “We’re on the KISS-CAM,” she said.

  “What’s a Kiss-cam?”

  “What do you think a KISS-CAM is dork? We’re supposed to kiss. But you don’t have to.”

  The crowd cheered, egging us on. Just as I expected, I had escaped notice in the Windy City. Everyone was obsessed with British royalty but few Americans could identify royals from the ‘smaller’ countries. We didn’t travel with bodyguards unless it was for an event. Still, the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself or The Crown Affair’s clandestine nature. “I shouldn’t. It’s complicated.”

  “No worries, Max. Don’t strain your brain.”

  I stared at her lips. They were full. Bitable. I leaned in closer. I didn’t mean to start trouble but I also wasn’t sure how to send it away when it was this close and this delectable.

  “I’d never want you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

  “Oh, love, you have no idea.” I slipped one hand behind her head, pulled her the rest of the way toward me and crashed my mouth onto her lips. Soft as I imagined, and I lingered on her lower lip, nibbling it. She tasted of salt and ale, hard work and dreams.

  The crowd roared, breaking our spell.

  I reluctantly pulled away and stared into her eyes. “Vivian.”

  “Max.”

  “It’s time I take you home.”

  My driver parked discretely a half block away from her walk-up and waited in the car.

  “Thanks for the ball game,” I said, checking out her ass as she climbed the few concrete steps to the landing next to her front door.

  “And?”

  “And… thanks for asking me inside.” I gave her my most winning smile. “I’m going to say, Yes.”

  “Presumptive of you. I was talking about dinner.”

  “What dinner?”

  “I bought you chips and two Chicago all beef hot dogs.”

  “Thank you for dinner. Don’t forget I picked up the drinks.”

  “The beer was perfect, Max.” She dragged her keys from her purse. They jangled, breaking my reverie. “Thank you.”

  “Does this mean I can come in?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “A pity,” I said, my feelings dashed. “Do you hate me for getting you into this impersonator thing?”

  “God no, I’m grateful.”

  “Let’s see how grateful you are after tomorrow.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Best I not tell you, love.”

  “I still think I’m going to be grateful, M
ax.” She opened the door, entered her place, but paused and looked over her shoulder at me.

  Her cheekbones. Her eyes. That tousle of hair sweeping over her forehead. A slow burn descended from my face, traveled down my spine, the heat finding its way into my dick.

  “Check in with me tomorrow and confirm that,” I said.

  “Will do, boss.” She closed the door behind me.

  I was left alone in the muggy night air, my heart soaring, and the throb-throb-throb of my tempted cock.

  Chapter 7

  VIVIAN

  Did I want to turn Max down?

  Oh, please.

  Did I have to turn Max down?

  Hell, yes.

  He had hooked me up with this job, this opportunity, this manna that fell from the heavens. When I signed their contract, I’d deposited enough money into my bank account to pay Uncle Florio’s rent for the rest of this month.

  I wasn’t about to screw things up and sleep with the guy who steered this job in my direction. I might have the hots for him, but I wasn’t a foolish girl.

  The following morning, Mr. Cartwright hustled me down Oak Street in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. We passed trendy boutiques, pricey restaurants, coiffed-to-the-tens shoppers, as well as sweaty, sunburned tourists. I practiced my royal wave on a few of them until Mr. Cartwright grabbed my hand, curled my fingers into a fist, and shut it down.

  “Let go of me.” Sweat poured off my forehead, bubbled on my chest, and trickled down my cleavage.

  “Only if you promise not to call attention to yourself.”

  “Fine.”

  He dropped my hand.

  “Why couldn’t we take the limo to Misha’s like Cici and Zara did?”

  “It’s essential that the public not see you and Lady Catherine together. We do not need a photo posted to Instagram to blow The Crown Affair. Besides, Cici is paying you a tidy sum of money for serious reasons, including her privacy.” He paused in front of the white-bricked facade of a tiny storefront. ‘Misha’ was lettered in cursive on the bricks. “We’re here.”

  “Clue me in on who Misha is and what are we here to accomplish.”

  “Please,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Please what?”

  “Always say ‘Please’ when you ask someone for assistance.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. “Or if you have a preference. For example, ‘Please don’t smoke next to me.’”

  “Please, Mr. Cartwright, could you please take off your sweater when it’s ninety-nine degrees outside?”

  “More like, ‘Please Vivian, could you please attempt to refrain from intrusive non-lady-like questions?’ It’s only a part-time job—remember? It won’t last forever.”

  “Fine.”

  “Oh, and by the way, Misha is a bit of a…” He looked up toward the sky and frowned.

  “Sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “Perfectionist?”

  “Not what I had in mind.”

  “Asshole?”

  “Yes.” He cradled my elbow with one hand and opened the door to the shop with his other. “Ladies first.”

  I walked through the doorway and before I could help myself, curtseyed to an older woman whose head was dotted with pink rollers under a hair-dryer.

  She squinted at me. “Did you just curtsey?”

  “No. She has a trick knee.” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “An old powder puff football injury,” I said.

  “Do you not recall the privacy confidentiality agreement you signed yesterday?”

  “Was that on page forty-eight or eighty-four of the contract? I have to practice this stuff if I’m going to pull off this gig. When am I going to get a chance to practice?”

  “Soon. But not in public—yet. By the way, if Misha calls you a ‘bitch’—he means that as a compliment.” He smoothed a hand over his silver hair.

  “If Misha calls me a bitch I’ll deck him.”

  “It’s similar to how certain persons call their friends ‘phat.’ Another compliment.”

  “Where I come from calling someone fat is definitely not a compliment.”

  “You stated in your resume you could roll with the punches. Improvise.”

  “There was nothing in your job description or on page forty-eight or eighty-four that stated people would call me a fat bitch.”

  We stood in front of a small, granite-topped reception desk. Large framed photos of gorgeous models with immaculate hair hung on the walls. The receptionist sat behind the counter, glanced at us for a heartbeat, and then gazed back at her phone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re booked for a month.”

  I craned my neck. She was playing a game on her phone.

  “You’re in luck. There’s an Amazing Cuts down the street.”

  Mr. Cartwright leaned one forearm on the marble countertop, winced, and propped up his lower back with his other hand. “Darling girl, check your book. Groucho has arrived.”

  Her eyes snapped up and she double clicked her phone. “Groucho? Absolutely. We’ve been expecting you!” She catapulted off her ergonomic chair. “Follow me.”

  She led us through the salon that was more precious than the decorations at a baby shower. Moments later I was seated in front of Misha’s station facing too many mirrors while he snapped a vinyl cape around my neck.

  Hairbrushes and shiny tubes with his name emblazoned on them tilted in tall glass vases on surrounding counters. Zara was already seated on a folding chair. Now she and Mr. Cartwright sipped drinks in sweaty, crystal tumblers.

  “Where’s Cici—”

  “She returned to the Drake. An urgent matter. She’ll see you back at the penthouse,” Zara said.

  Misha was a skinny, forty–something hipster. He wore thick, black glasses and sported a goatee. He ran his hands through my long hair and breathed through his mouth. He seemed to be enjoying this moment a little too much.

  “I was thinking, Misha,” Zara said, “that you could weave in natural looking highlights. She needs to be blonder.”

  “That sounds just like Cici’s hair,” Misha said.

  “Yes. Then cut and style Vivian’s hair in soft waves that fall at her shoulders. Long enough for a casual, short ponytail for that fun look, as well as the perfect length to easily style into a chignon for more formal events. It has to be bouncy and frame her face when she wears it down for daily events.”

  “No!” I reached behind my head and clutched my waist-length locks. “I’ve been growing my hair since high school.”

  “Vivian,” Mr. Cartwright said, “You agreed to participate in a make-over.”

  “I thought that meant a mani-pedi and perhaps an eyebrow wax because Zara made such a fuss over that. Long hair is my signature look.”

  Zara took my hand and squeezed it. “Vivian, have you heard of Locks of Love?”

  I shook my head.

  “People with long, beautiful hair cut it off and donate it to a charity that benefits cancer patients. I was thinking Misha could cut your gorgeous hair and you could help someone who was going through a rough patch. Besides,” she leaned forward and whispered, “You need to look like Cici.”

  “Maybe Cici grew her hair out during the last fifteen months.”

  Zara shook her head. “Trust me on this one.”

  Misha fondled my hair. “You pretty phat bitch.”

  “Cancer patients?” I asked.

  Zara and Mr. Cartwright nodded.

  “Make him stop calling me that.” I shuddered. “And then do it before I change my mind.”

  An hour later I peered into the mirror. Misha rubbed mousse between his hands and dragged them through my hair. I had soft flowing layers, multi-colored highlights, and hair that bounced.

  “Wow!” Zara beamed like a kid on Christmas morning. “Now that is fabulous hair.”

  “It’s so short. I’m not sure I recognize myself.” Tears welled in my eyes. But in all honesty, I don’t think my tresses ever looked this
good.

  “Amazing.” Mr. Cartwright lay on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Misha. Perhaps you are a gentleman after all. Thank you for the Percocet.”

  “Détente with you, Cartwright, means the world to me.” Misha snapped his fingers high in the air. A female assistant raced up to his station. “Escort Vivian to the back room for her next appointment.”

  “Yes, sir.” She beckoned to me.

  “What’s the next appointment?” I trailed behind her and peered over my shoulder at Zara and Mr. Cartwright.

  “It’ll be over in no time,” Zara said.

  “What does that mean?”

  The assistant opened a door to a small room. A middle-aged brick of a woman with skin as shiny as Vaseline and perfectly groomed brows smiled at me. “My name is Griselda. Lay here.” She pointed to a table draped with a sheet.

  “Okay. I mean, yes.”

  “This won’t hurt a bit.” Griselda applied hot wax under my left eyebrow, tamped gauze onto it and ripped it off.

  I flinched.

  “Not bad, right?”

  “Nope.”

  She repeated the procedure on my right eyebrow, then held a hand mirror in front of my face.

  “Wow! Brows that even Oprah would approve of. Thank you.” I popped up off the table. “I’ll make sure Zara leaves a tip.” I reached for the doorknob but her meaty hand seized my wrist.

  “Back on the table and drop pants.”

  “Right,” I said. “Yes, I’m probably overdue down there.”

  “You’ve had a Brazilian before?”

  “Of course.” I laid back on the table and wriggled my pants down.

  “This, is a little different, liebchin. This is the Columbian.” I bit back a scream and realized why this room was located in the very back of the parlor.

  “The exfoliating facial will be cake compared to zees,” Griselda said.

  I lay on a table and blinked as a woman in a white lab coat peered at me through a round, lit magnifying glass. “Decent complexion for a thirty-year-old.”