Page 65 of Cinderella Is Faking It

TWENTY-SIX

Del snappedher book shut and groaned, pulling me from the report on this year’s summer bookings in Southern Europe. Her frown etched deep wrinkles into her forehead. “I am dealing with a conundrum,” she declared and repositioned herself to face me.

“About,” I tilted my head to read the spine of her current read, “the sexual liberation movement of the sixties?”

“Sort of.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.” I closed my laptop and leaned forward on my elbows.

“I’m all for women doing whatever they want with their bodies,” she tapped her fingers against the book, “but Brody mentioned something to me, when you were off having your little water cooler talk with Isaac, and she’s still very much a girl, not a grown woman. I think I should talk to her mom.”

I already didn’t like where this was going. “Brody’s mom died a long time ago. It’s just Julian taking care of her. If you think you need to talk to a parent, it would be him.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” She pushed herself upright. “What happened?”

“Childbirth. Eclampsia. It’s preventable if you know what to look out for but they were first-time parents without much of a support network. The doctor they’d been seeing was on holiday when she went into labor too early. Everything that could have gone wrong in the delivery room, did go wrong.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” she fell silent and looked at the book again, “you or Julian should talk to her about the risk of sending explicit pictures to her girlfriend. I tried to, but she said the app she uses doesn’t allow screenshots. All you need is an iPad or a second phone to take a picture of your screen though.”

Oh, fucking hell Brody. “Tell me, she didn’t.”

Del pulled her shoulders up, face still scrunched up. “You can’t yell at her or she’ll lock up. Just stay calm. If she listened to your talk about safe sex, she’ll listen to you about this, too.

“Jesus,” I groaned and pulled my phone out to text Julian.

“What are you doing?”

“Having my brother scrub Brody’s cloud.”

“Beck, stop.” She pushed herself off the floor and slapped the book against the desk. “She can handle that herself.”

“Brody might not have realized it yet, sweetheart, but she’s bound to be one of the richest women in the country one day. She’ll inherit Julian’s share of Axent. And her mother’s family runs a huge donut imperium, of which she will own 50% one day. We can’t risk pictures like that falling into the wrong hands.

“Beck.” Del held her hand out expectantly and after a moment I placed my phone in her palm. She clicked the button to lock the screen, then placed it back in front of me. “Explain that to her. She’s old enough to understand that her actions will have consequences. If you go behind her back, she won’t learn.”

The irony of Del lecturing me about going behind Brody’s back hit me in the gut. What if I’d been upfront? What if I’d proposed a marriage of convenience? Would I still have gotten all this time with Del? Would she have agreed to it? Would the Montgomery’s lawyers have shut down the idea even if she had? It didn’t matter now. “Fine,” I breathed. “I’ll talk to Brody.”

“Julian can still scrub her cloud like a week later, just to make sure.”

“Trust is good, but control is better?”

“Something like that.” She nodded and returned to her corner, folding her legs beneath her, and I made a mental note to get her some proper floor cushions. Maybe one of those fluffy yoga pillows. Del flipped through her notebook until she found a blank page and pulled a different book from one of her color-coded stacks.

“How’s the research going?” I pushed out of my chair, not feeling like facing 137 pages of revenue breakdowns anymore.

“Do you want to have a look?” She scooted sideways to let me take the spot next to her. Between the stacks, the shelves and the pillows, I barely had enough room to fold my legs in. I definitely had to get her something more comfortable than that.

Del handed over her notebook and I flipped through dozens of pages of very neat handwriting, lists, dates, chapter summaries. “These are very comprehensive but there’s nothing about you in them.”

“It’s research, not a diary,” she grumbled.

“But the research is meant to fit your needs. Do you have any sexual fantasies that you researched? Did any of these practices intrigue you?”

She shrugged.

“Any sex dreams?” I asked.

“More like stress dreams about sex,” she snorted and held her hand out for the notebook.

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