Page 45 of Cinderella Is Faking It

Mom folded her hands under her chin, listening.

“First, passion. She has sexual hang-ups, but she’s attracted to me, so even if she doesn’t see a romantic future for us yet, that’s my way in. No pun intended. I’ve made first progress on this, but trust me, I’m not getting her pregnant anytime soon. However, she’s still a romantic at heart, so I doubt she’ll be able to keep sex and love separate for long.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Keep going.” Mom’s words were an order - not an encouragement.

“Secondly, commitment. She clearly has clinical anxiety, so I will be her reliable source of comfort. This is the part that will likely take the most time. She already trusts me to a certain degree, but I need to solidify myself as someone she can depend on. Asthesomeone she canalwaysdepend on. If I’m the only person who can offer her peace of mind, that makes me the perfect person to spend the rest of her life with.”

Mom shook her head, and my stomach sank at the cool disapproval in her eyes. Just like it had always done. “That’s too vague. Define your goals, Augustus.”

“Anticipate her needs, remove stressors, offer emotional and physical comfort during and after stressful situations.”

“What’s your third objective?” she asked, no beat wasted.

“Intimacy.”

“You already mentioned sex,” my brother piped up.

“Hush, Julius.”

“Intimately knowing someone is not the same as having sex with someone, idiot,” I shot him a look over my shoulder, but looked back at Mom to explain, “It’s about knowing their comfort movies and their guilty pleasure foods. Getting them to open up about their family and their childhood trauma and their hopes and dreams and shit.”

She clicked her tongue. “Language.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Julian asked.

“Would it surprise you to find out that many women are capable of having actual conversations?”

He chuckled bitterly. “Fair enough, I suppose if she’s not letting you fuck her, that’s the way to go.”

“She told me about her picket-fence dreams before I finger-fucked her in the living room, if you must know.”

Mom snapped her fingers in both of our faces. “Enough, boys.”

“He wanted to know. You wanted to know.” I was steamrolling through this, no thoughts, just the need to prove that I knew what I was talking about. “Want me to tell you how she sat on my lap and held my cock in her hands? Is that strategy breakdown enough for you?”

“Fine. I get it,” Julian groaned.

“No, please, let me indulge you with details of the sounds she made when I hit her G-spot.”

The slap snapped my head around. The sharp sting of my mother’s hand burned on my cheek as I blinked. A prison guard materialized next to us before I’d even processed that my mother had just slapped me. “I think it’s time to go, Mrs. Beckett,” the guard said, brows raised.

“I agree,” Georgia huffed and pointed her bony index finger at Julian and me, “you two are brothers first. Treat each other with respect.”

“Yes, mother,” both of us replied in unison to the same line we’d heard all our lives.Brothers first.The words hung in the air as Georgia Beckett was led back out of the visitation center.

Even though a wide grin tugged at Julian’s lips, I was the one who had pushed these details. For what? Proving in front of my incarcerated mother that I knew what I was doing even if Julian thought his strategies were better? I fell back in my seat and watched a woman hug her kids at the far end of the room, all of them beaming. The universe was really rubbing it in today, huh?

“Good to go?” Julian asked after a few minutes of sitting in silence.

“Yeah.” I stood and cast one last glance at the family that was playing some board game in the corner, actually enjoying each other’s company. Georgia had come up with many games over the years. But even if you won, afterwards you always felt like you’d lostsomething.

SEVENTEEN

I openedmy door to reveal a tiny woman with a huge blue and pink backpack that jingled and rustled thanks to all the straps and keychains on it. Del was in yoga pants and a crop top, and looked younger without her usual red lipstick. It made sense. With the red, she had the whole blonde bombshell association going for her. Without it, and dressed like this, she looked like a wide-eyed Scandinavian graduate, ready to backpack the world. “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong address. The dorm for Swedish exchange students is two blocks south.”

“Very funny, Mr. Beckett.” She rolled her eyes at me, soft pink lips pulling into a small smile.

I grimaced. “Mmh no, don’t call me that when you look like this.”

---