His Cinderella Next Door

by Cara Colter

  At the time, it had seemed like a small—but still sweet—revenge that Mrs. Clark was going to have to tolerate the cat, not quite managing to get rid of everything about Molly.

  “I had to track him down to a shelter.”

  There was something in his tone that suggested he had had words with his mother.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, “Especially since I don’t remember you caring much for him, either.”

  Oscar. Even though he had never cared for this cat, he was that guy. The one you could count on to be decent, no matter what.

  “That’s not entirely accurate. He hated me. In fact, he hated anyone who wasn’t you. Or Ralphie.”

  Still, Molly had to fight back tears. “But you love him now?” she asked.

  Oscar laughed. “That’s a little too strong. We tolerate each other.”

  “And he’s with you for good?”

  “Of course. He’s part of Ralphie. And you.”

  He acted as if he’d admitted something he hadn’t meant to, and went on quickly, “Besides, I’d miss the old guy glaring balefully at me if I don’t buy the right brand of cat food. Stalking after me, demanding kitty treats.”

  With the cat still in her arms, she got to her feet. She felt vulnerable in a way she had not felt since her father died.

  Cared about in a way, she realized sadly, she had not felt in about the same length of time. Her hard-earned independence suddenly felt exhausting.

  “Is that a pool out there?” she asked as a diversion from the uncomfortable feelings clawing at her throat. It was a pretty good diversion: beautiful, the infinity edge made it look like water was cascading off the side of the building.

  “Yeah, and a hot tub.”

  “Like a common pool and hot tub for the whole building?”

  “No,” he said. “It belongs to this unit.”

  His level of arrival took away the sense of coming home that the cat had given her. Georgie still in her arms, purring deeply, she went over and looked at the pool, its turquoise waters twinkling under soft patio lights. The hot tub was separated from the pool by a stone ledge, a waterfall cascading between the two.

  “I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” she said regretfully.

  “None required.”

  She whirled and looked at him, wide-eyed. He gave her a teasing grin. She focused on the living room, feeling a hint of that delicious danger in the air between them.

  “Most people who come aren’t expecting the pool. I keep a selection of suits in the cabana.”

  “Oh,” she said, pretending grave interest in the room to keep him from seeing her blush. Why was he making her blush so much? They had known each other forever!

  Deep distressed leather couches faced each other across a rug that she knew from her travels was Turkish and probably very expensive. At the other end of the room was a sleek kitchen, all stainless steel and granite. An island the approximate size of a billiards table faced the living room.

  “This looks like something out of a movie set,” she said. Again, it was the not-lived-in look and she found it faintly distressing.

  “Which movie?”

  “Obviously not Little House on the Prairie.”

  “That wasn’t a movie, Mary Ellen.”

  “You’re mixing it up with The Waltons. And not like that, either. More like something out of James Bond.”

  Oscar laughed. “Double-O-Seven at your service.”

  That was almost worse than picturing him as Galahad!

  Still, his laugh reminded her what he was to her, that she didn’t need to feel uncomfortable or intimidated by him. She turned back to the room and caught a glimpse of large framed photos on the walls going up a wide hallway. She went and looked at them.

  They were hung, and lit, as beautifully as if they were in a gallery.

  “They’re all mine,” she whispered.

  He came and stood beside her. “This one’s my favorite,” he said. Though who the figure in the photo was would not be distinguishable to most people looking at it, they both knew it was a self-portrait of her taken on a timer. She was sitting on a rock ledge, her feet dangling into space, gazing off to the distant peaks.

  “Why would this be your favorite?” she asked. “Truck, you’re terrified of heights.”

  “You look so relaxed, despite the fact a sneeze could send you to certain death. I see such strength in it. Independence. Gratitude. Almost every time I look at it, I see something else. It’s a great photo, Molly.”

  She felt the smart of tears, again. Oscar had always had this gift. He saw in her things that others missed, or perhaps things she kept deliberately hidden.

  “But every time I look at it, I do think, how is it she’s not scared?”

  She looked at the picture. “You know how some parents come down hard on lying or beating up your brother or stealing cookies before supper? My dad detested fear. It just wasn’t tolerated in his world. Some people say, go big or go home, but he said, go bold or go home. He approved of taking chances, being a daredevil, being courageous. The words I never heard from him were, be careful. I think I’m a better person for it.”

  “You are the bravest person I know.”

  Well, she thought, except in matters of the heart, where maybe real bravery was required. She walked down the wall of photos and stopped at one. This time the tears did come. “This one is my favorite of all time,” she whispered, not trusting her voice.

  It was true. She had traveled the world, won awards, her photographs were in countless distinguished personal and gallery collections, but this photo, which she had never published, that no one had a print of other than Truck, and her, was her favorite.

  Ironically, it was a portrait. She had started seriously taking photos when she was sixteen. She had been accompanying her father on a trip to Africa, where he had been working on a movie. It had been one of his longest jobs he’d ever had and they’d been in Africa for over a year.

  He had loved her action shots, and her wildlife shots, but had always been more lukewarm about landscapes and portraits. She wasn’t sure whether it was just that she had a natural talent for those things or whether it was because she had adored her father’s approval, but she focused her career almost entirely on wildlife now.

  But this photo was a black-and-white, a headshot, of Ralphie. He had had Down syndrome and it had been taken right after he was awarded his participant medal in the Special World Games.

  Across the bottom of it, scrawled in his childish printing, was Ralphie’s motto for life: Go for it.

  “I love it, too,” Oscar said quietly, and his hand came to rest on her shaking shoulders. “It reminds me of such a great time—our senior year, after you got back from Africa, when you and I were assistant coaches on his team.”

  “I remember it being difficult at times but so worth it,” she said with affection through the tears.

  “I think it may have been the happiest time of my whole life,” Oscar said quietly.

  She absorbed that. Here was a man who had achieved phenomenal success and yet that time with his brother remained his happiest.

  And hers, now that she thought about it. The cat’s purr deepened as if it were satisfied that she had recognized a basic truth.

  “And you captured it,” Oscar said. “You captured our moment in time. Because the look on his face says it all. What I love best about the photo is it doesn’t even show the medal, and yet the triumph is so evident. That’s how I felt about his life. The joy of him overshadowed everything else. He triumphed over incredible challenges. I miss him so much.”

  He handed her a hankie. So Oscar! Who else would have a beautiful linen hankie available for moments like this?

  Molly dabbed at her eyes. She hated crying. It was weak. “I would have come if there had been a service.”

 
“I know. It wasn’t my choice to make.”

  Molly heard a trace of anger in his voice that reflected her own. His mother had made the choices, of course, as was a parent’s right. But it had only underscored Molly’s uncomfortable feeling that Ralphie had disrupted the perfect picture Mrs. Clark wanted of her family to show the world.

  Instead of the service, Mrs. Clark’s choice had been to put Ralphie’s name on a swim pavilion being constructed in his honor. It was a huge gesture but, to Molly, as a way to commemorate Ralphie’s life, it lacked heart.

  “Ever since you mentioned it, I’ve been mulling over an idea to honor him,” Molly said.

  “Have you come up with something?”

  “I think so. But that’s my secret. Will you trust me with it?”

  The relief on his face reminded her of why she had come. For once, Oscar needed her, and it felt of grave importance to be able to do this for him.

  “Of course,” he said quietly. “He loved you so much, Molly. He treasured every postcard and every photo you ever sent him. After you would video chat with him, he would call me and give me the highlights. And all I would hear is how Molly had seen an elephant. A real elephant. A real elephant with a baby. A real elephant with a baby in Africa.”

  The tears came again, and Oscar’s arms folded around her, squishing Georgie deeper into her breast. Oscar smelled so good. He felt so strong. She wanted to melt into that embrace and let him hold her forever.

  But forever was not in her vocabulary and never had been. And she certainly wasn’t going to risk one of the most important things in her world—her friendship with this man—by changing anything about their relationship now.

  Even though it felt so tempting here in the circle of his arms, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the softness of her cheek, inhaling the intoxicating clean man scent of him. She could not make herself push away.

  It was Georgie’s howl of protest that made them let go of each other. She gave Oscar a watery smile.

  “You know it isn’t like me to be teary. I think I might be more jet-lagged than I thought. Can you show me where to freshen up?”

  “Sure, I’ll show you your room.”

  “How should I dress for the surprise?”

  He laughed, and again his laughter deepened her sense of being comfortable—even giving in to tears—in this space that was so posh.

  “The surprise is here, so anything you want from pajamas to an evening gown.”

  “Yeah,” she said wryly. “I packed that. An evening gown. I think my Versace. And my pearls.”

  The strangest thing was, ever so briefly, she wished she did have a Versace and pearls, just to try it, just to see...

  “Pajamas it is.”

  “How do you know I don’t have pajamas that would make you completely uncomfortable if I trotted out in them?” she demanded.

  He looked at her. He smiled. “Because you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Hey! Do I have to remind you I’ve become a high commodity item in the photography world?”

  “That doesn’t mean you’ve changed,” he said, with soft certainty. “That means others have been allowed to see what I always saw.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHEESH! MOLLY FELT as if Oscar was going to make her cry again if he kept it up. But he deliberately changed to a lighter tone of voice.

  “I bet Molly Bentwell, world’s most-sought-after photographer, still wears boy bottoms in some shade of plaid and a T-shirt for pajamas.”

  It was true. She wore the same kind of pajamas she had always worn. Why had she become predictable, when he had not? Why did she suddenly long for something a little more delicate, more feminine? She’d like to see a look of shock—and maybe appreciation—on his face.

  He knew what kind of pajamas Molly wore because he used to call at her window, and she would climb out of it, and they would lay on her roof in the dark of night.

  He would name all the constellations. He could tell her how many light years away Mars—that little red speck in the sky—was. He could explain dark holes and the big bang theory with such ease.

  Good grief. A pajama party with her best friend. She didn’t know if she was disappointed in the surprise or thrilled by it. Or faintly frightened. Because it might be true that she had not changed all that much.

  But he had.

  Oscar had no remnants of the boy he had once been remaining in him. He was 100 percent potent and powerful man.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked him. “Your pajamas?”

  He lifted his eyebrow at her in a way that stole her breath—and suggested he didn’t wear pajamas!

  He carried her bag down a wide hallway and set it, with extra care, inside a bedroom door. The fact that he remembered her cameras were in there reminded her of why he was that guy—the one who could be counted on to always do the right thing, in big ways and small.

  She shut the door behind her and put the cat on the bed. Georgie curled up, and made it seem a bit more relaxed, almost homey, thank goodness. Because the room was gorgeous: deep luxurious carpet, the bed covered in layers of soft gray fabrics, the walls papered in a subtly patterned silk, a wall-to-ceiling window looking over the glorious city and ocean view. It had all the personality of a hotel room, which made her wonder about Cynthia.

  Which was none of her business!

  It had its own bathroom, and Molly dragged her bag in and tossed off her travel-rumpled clothes. Gratefully, she got into the shower.

  When she got out, she was sorry she had thrown only her normal travel kit into her bag, not that anything she had left at home was that exciting, either. What was it about Oscar that was making her want to explore a different side of herself?

  She laid out everything she had brought with her: one pair of stretchy black pants that could look formal in a pinch. One tailored white shirt. One tailored striped shirt. One pair of ballet-style shoes. The khakis she had just taken off, which she would rinse out tonight. Three T-shirts. A pair of casual shoes. Enough comfortable underwear for three days before she’d have to start washing it. A sturdy pair of light boots that would go well with the khakis. One pair of pajamas: no surprise, plaid bottoms and any one of the T-shirts she had brought.

  Molly considered the stretchy black pants and the white shirt, but they really weren’t any more alluring than her pajamas.

  Alluring? With Truck? She put on her pajamas, and she put them on hastily.

  She took a deep breath and walked out of her room. The cat woke from his snooze, jumped off the bed and followed her, as always, dog-like in his devotion.

  Oscar was in the kitchen. Now it looked as if someone lived here. He had a variety of ingredients spread out around him. He was in a black chef’s apron and chopping something with a sharp knife with amazing speed and comfort. Molly lived a life of fast food, grabbing bites to eat when she had time.

  Seeing Oscar so at home in his amazing kitchen should have been sweet and made her feel more comfortable. Instead, she found it disconcertingly sexy.

  “You look like a professional chef,” she said.

  “And you put on your pajamas. I’m glad. I want you to be comfortable.”

  He didn’t tease her that he’d been right about her pajama selection, just grinned at her, and it made everything, including her choice of what to wear, seem just right.

  “This is the surprise,” he said, pleased. “I cook. Are you impressed?”

  “I guess that will depend how good you are at it,” she teased him.

  “Oh, I’m good. It goes surprisingly well with a science background. It is science, really. Pellegrino Artusi recognized that in 1891.”

  Who dropped names from 1891? Oscar. Her Truck.

  “Can I do something?” she asked.

  “No, tonight I’m looking after you.”

  I’m l
ooking after you. It felt like a weakness to enjoy those words so much.

  “What are we having?” She went and glanced at what he was preparing. She laughed. “Hamburgers, Chef Oscar?”

  “I’m saving the big culinary reveal for tomorrow. Tonight, I tried to think what you might miss about home. I decided a person could only eat so much bratwurst and spaetzle before they started craving a big one hundred percent Canadian beef burger. I’m going to grill for you.”

  There it was again. For you. His thoughtfulness was in such sharp contrast to every man she had ever tried to have a relationship with that Molly felt faintly squishy inside.

  Weak.

  She tried to kid it away. “I’m a vegetarian,” she announced.

  He glanced at her. And saw right through her. “Nice try. Here. You can do one thing. Grab that platter and bring it outside.”

  “It’s raining out.”

  “It’s always raining here,” Oscar said. “I’ve designed the patio to accommodate it.”

  He filled his own arms with platters and led the way outside. He held open the door for her, and Molly passed through it. Georgie just managed to squeak through, with an indignant meow, before Oscar slid the door shut again.

  From inside, Molly had been able to see the pool and hot tub. Now, she saw the outdoor area extended far beyond what was visible from the living room window. Oscar flicked a light and the area was softly illuminated from several sources, including strings of small round bulbs, and a chandelier at the center of the pavilion. Unlike the inside space, there was something about this one that felt warm and cozy and welcoming.

  She stood for a moment with her mouth open.

  “Don’t get wet,” he said. “Follow Georgie.”

  The cat obviously had no intention of getting wet. Tail up, he marched over to the outdoor pavilion. Under that large structure was a full stainless steel kitchen that included a huge grill, a fridge and a bar. Beside the food-prep area was furniture like she had never seen. A dining table, with deeply padded chairs, cushioned in tropical lime green leaf pattern, invited people to sit and seemed to promise lively conversation.