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“I love you fairy godmother.” I jump on the bed, throw my arms around her neck, and hug her. “You’re my sister from a different mister.” A pang of sadness pokes me because I wish I felt this way about my own sister.
“Yeah, yeah. Go before I turn you into a pumpkin.”
“That’s not how it works,” I say, catching a glimpse of her texts – actually ‘sexts.’ “Fairy godmother sent the carriage. Technically it was a midnight thing.”
“Go.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve got a date. Someone interesting for a change.”
***
4
Cinderella
CINDERELLA
I do my hair, apply light makeup, and meditate for half an hour to get centered. I slide into the money dress, zip it, and eye myself critically in the mirror. Cinderella indeed. Where are my glass slippers? Being that I was a lapsed Catholic and Dylan has the Christian background, before I step out the door, I bow my head in prayer.
Dear God. Please help me give my all for this job. Please help me do my best. And this I ask for in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Half an hour later I walk through the doors of a gorgeous five star hotel on Wacker Drive. I might look Zen but my nerves are sizzling, barely contained under my skin. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting rich light, flattering just about everyone in its glow. I ignore appreciative glances and questioning eyes from employees and customers, and navigate the marble floors, my high heels barely making a sound. I make my way toward the bar where I’m supposed to meet Dylan. I pause for a moment before entering.
Three, two, one, Evie. You’ve got this.
I smooth the skirt down my legs and remind myself that at the end of the day this is just a job. Dylan McAlister is just another client, just another guy in another elegant hotel with extra money to burn.
I slip the lipstick from the Chanel bag that I borrowed from Amelia, and swipe one last reinforcement coat on my lips. I’ll do my best to be unemotional and remain professional. I’ll give this job my all. I hold my head high, take a deep breath, and move into the bar’s entrance. I’ve stared at Dylan McAlister’s picture I don’t know how many times now and yet I still worry that I won’t find him.
I don’t have to worry.
He finds me.
Immediately.
“Evelyn,” he says, standing up from an intimate round table in the corner.
Wow. He’s tall. Muscular. He’s wearing crisp dress pants with an immaculate white shirt open a few buttons revealing groomed chest hair. Be still my heart. Dylan’s hotter in person than he is in his pictures.
I make my way toward him feeling a little weak in the knees. I take in the smattering of light freckles on his high cheekbones, and the lock of chestnut hair that falls over his forehead. His blue eyes light up appreciatively. My pulse races, my cheeks feel hot.
Breathe, Evie, breathe.
He takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it. “Terrific meeting you. You’re even prettier in person. How is that possible?”
My heart bumps about so hard I’m scared he’ll hear it. “I don’t know. I mean thank you, Mr. McAlister.”
“Mr. McAlister’s my father. Call me Dylan. Sit.” He pulls out a chair.
I do as he asks and cross my legs.
A waiter arrives. “What can I get for you?”
“Mineral water, please,” I say.
“Two Pellegrinos,” he says.
The waiter nods and walks away.
Dylan pulls a small Tiffany blue box from his pocket and places it in front of me. “Considering I’m going to keep you working for the next 24 hours, I got you a little something.”
