Page 28 of Cinderella Is Faking It

Shower first. Package later.

THIRTEEN

Steve,my doorman, was an army vet who had been to actual war, and yet his voice quivered when he tried to announce my visitor. Del barely let him get a word out, a heated tirade in the background, clearly meant to be heard by me.

“And if he doesn’t want me in his house, he can come down here, but that will turn you into a murder witness, Steve. Do you want to witness a murder, Steve?”

Steve’s high-pitched “Mr. Beckett?” crackled through the intercom.

“Send her up and put her on the visitors list.”

“I don’t need to be on any-” Del’s voice cut off as the intercom died. I unlocked the front door to my apartment, leaving it open for her before going back to the kitchen. I was in the middle of cooking dinner, and she’d find her way by herself. The layout of my place was big but not that complicated. Entryway, followed by the open concept kitchen, dining, and living space. There was a guest bathroom, office, and master bedroom. I’d looked at plenty of places before choosing this one. I didn’t need a private gym or a guest bedroom or any of that shit. I had a sundeck, but I barely used it. This place had been modernized to the highest standard and was practical, and that’s what had sold me on it.

The door slammed shut and Blondie marched in, shiny hair whipping through the air as she spun around until her eyes landed on me. Her brows were drawn so deep, the blues of her eyes almost looked grey. “You,” she hissed, pointing a finger at me, a blue box in her hand. I’d wondered how she’d react to that.

“Hi,” I said, taking a second plate from the cupboard. “I see you got my gift.”

She slammed the blue box down on the breakfast counter between us hard enough for the pages of my cookbook to flutter. “This is not a gift. It’s a joke and you know it is.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who would think that’s funny.” I glanced at the box, noting how the safety sticker was still on its side, perfectly intact.

“Exactly. You’re taunting me.” She walked over to the sofa and flung her bag onto it, followed by the denim jacket that covered a perfectly proper shift dress made for offices and business lunches. Whatever preppy thing she’d been to before this, she’d been carrying a vibrator around with her. The box design was subtle, but the text on it still clearly stated what was inside. The thought kicked up the corners of my mouth.

“I’m not taunting you,” I said, and clicked the button on the rice cooker two seconds before the timer was up, before it could derail this conversation with its beeping. “I happen to be very sex positive. You’ve never had an orgasm. I know women with similar issues and air pulse vibrators have helped them. Rather than just buzzing away at your clit, these create a vacuum that-”

“I know what it does,” she barked.

“Doesn’t work for you?” I asked.

She hesitated a moment and I could feel her eyes traveling over me as I portioned the rice onto two plates. “No,” she sighed, energy deflating. “Don’t you think I’ve had plenty of time to explore my options?”

“Yoni eggs?”

“Yes.”

“G-spot vibrators?”

“Yes. Not that I should even be talking to you about this.” She hoisted herself onto a barstool and folded over, arms braced on the counter, head down. She mumbled something including the wordhorriblebut most of it was muffled by her arms.

“And you’re medically okay?” I asked while pouring the curry into the bowls. If her lack of sexual fulfillment was my way into the Montgomery chain, I was game.

She dragged her head up and sniffed the air instead of answering. “What are you cooking?”

I just pointed at the cookbook next to her. No change of topic on my watch. “There’s no underlying medical cause for your anorgasmia?”

Her eyes snapped up from the recipe. “You know what it’s called?”

“Eat.” I placed a plate and spoon in front of her. “And yes, I know what it’s called. Believe it or not, there’s people that engage in sex beyond a quick in and out before bed.”

“Like call girls,” she snorted and heaped a spoonful of curry to her mouth. I watched her reaction, as the taste sank in. She let out a small sigh. Not quite a foodgasm, but I’d take it.

“You don’t have to be a sex worker to understand that sex is complicated.”

“You made this recipe, right? Coconut curry?” She pointed at the cookbook on the table, changing the topic again.

Fine. The fact that she hadn’t gotten spooked off yet was good enough for me. I’d pick this topic back up some other time. “Yes, but I’m not particularly good at sticking to recipes,” I admitted, picking up my own spoon, “I learned to cook from my grandmother and she would just switch out ingredients depending on her mood.”

“I’m guessing you added peanuts, right?”

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