Page 58 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“No, not at all.” Her voice was blocked, and she cleared her throat before continuing: “You actually listened to all that?”

“Of course, it’s a good story. Interesting world, engaging main characters, a moral conflict, action, romance, and just a hint of tragedy. You should write it down. It sounds exactly like the books Brody, my 15-year-old-niece, can’t get enough of.”

“You’re not being sarcastic, are you? In asilly books for silly girlskind of way.”

“No. Brody is actually very smart. Mostly because she reads smart books for smart girls written by smart women.”

“Maybe. Someday.”

“Why not today?”

“It takes a lot of time, and it would be a passion project, not a stable career path. And then what if I suck? What if people don’t like it? What if I spend all this time and energy on a book only for people to tear it apart because at its core it’s very cutesy and predictable. Because I’m not the kind of person who enjoys books that reinvent the wheel, you know? I like cutesy and predictable because the world is unpredictable enough. I mean, there’s war out there. And nuclear weapons. And sharks.”

“Hey, breathe. Del. Breathe. Think.” I hooked my finger into the waistline of her skirt and pulled her against me, her chest colliding with mine, air whooshing into her lungs as it did. She’d clearly thought about this herself - and had tricked herself into believing all these doubts filling her brain. “If you pick up a new skill, how do you get better at it?”

“Practice.”

“Okay. That means, the only way to make sure you don’t suck, is to practice. Which means you need to start writing. Next,” I slipped my hand out of her skirt and to her back, resting it there with my fingertips grazing the sliver of naked skin, “are the books you enjoy reading cutesy and predictable?”

“Yes.”

“And are you the only person in the world who reads them? Or is there an audience for these books?”

“No, there’s others who read them.”

I brushed the hair from her face but allowed my touch to linger, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “What was the other thing? It takes time. It’s a passion project. Sweetheart, time passes anyway, you might as well spend it on something you’re passionate about.”

She scrunched her nose at me, but that little feistiness didn’t match the way she tilted her face to lean into my hand. “You and your rational brain,” she mumbled.

“Where did you keep all that creative energy hidden the last few weeks?”

“I don’t hide it.” Her chin dipped down. “It just takes a while to come out around new people. Mermaids and water nymphs going to a ball in Atlantis? That’s not really small talk.”

This wasn’t the same as talking to me about sex. Sex was a taboo topic in a polite society, but almost everyone talked about it and did it behind closed doors. This was more personal. Something intrinsically hers.

“I hated reading as a kid. I wasn’t good at it either. I took forever to get through a single page. Loved sports though. But in the Beckett family, sport was an acceptable past time, not something to waste your life on,” I admitted, to offer truth for truth, create some sort of bonding experience, but the words came easier than I expected. “My brother was good at numbers and tech, so I had to cover the other side of the business. People, culture, politics. I quickly figured out that I could take the dust jackets off the books I was supposed to read and slide them over the books I liked more though. And then I grew to love those books because they were my own thing.”

She smiled and blinked up at me, lids fluttering against the bright sun. “What kind of books were you hiding?”

“Whatever I could get my hands on. Narnia from the school library. A spy thriller borrowed from our doorman. Some raunchy historical romance I stole from our maid’s bedroom.”

“Can I hug you?”

“You want to hug me?”

“I do.” Her voice wavered and she pulled her shoulders up, self-consciousness sneaking in.

“Alright.”

Del bit her lip and raised her hands and for a moment it looked like she wasn’t quite sure where to put them, but then she slid them around my waist. With her arms slung around my middle, she sank into me. Her soft body molded with mine and I let my own arms fold around her.

She closed her eyes, ear against my chest, and I wondered if she could hear how my heart slowed as I held her. There was no urgency and no demand in her embrace. I’d never felt touch-starved before, but I didn’t remember the last time I’d really been hugged. Not just as a quick greeting, or in a way that involved more tongue and less clothes, but just hugged for the sake of hugging. The warmth and calm in that one touch radiated through me. Maybe I hadn’t been starving, but I sure felt like I’d been malnutritional.

“You smell so nice,” she mumbled against my shirt.

I tried to push down the laugh rumbling through me, but my chest still shook, making her prop her chin against my sternum to shoot me a quizzical glance. I could hardly tell her that my teenage niece’s dating advice was far more accurate than I would have expected. “Sorry,” I whispered, “have I already told you that you look breathtaking today?”

She swallowed, inhaled, and opened her mouth to respond but our moment was cut short, when Isaac cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but uhm, Defne got caught with her bag. She’s not on the guest list, so they are about to call the police if you…”

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