The Cinderella Fantasy (Playing the Princess Book 1)

by Sara Jane Stone

  Risk two: asking you to send me a picture in return. I want to know more about your ‘passions’ too.

  Sweet Dreams,

  Mr. Workaholic

  “Well?” Emma demanded.

  “I haven’t opened the attachment. Just the message,” Lucy said. “He’s matching me risk for risk.”

  “I like him.” Emma stood. She picked up the remote and turned off the T.V. “Give him a chance, Lucy. You should have dinner with this one. He already sounds more promising than the last dozen dudes you went out with to escape the sucky fact your fiancé left.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “Yes, it is,” Emma said easily. “You wanted to prove that you could move on. And you did that with a dozen jerks and losers. Now it’s time to get serious about someone you might actually like or stop wasting your time.”

  Is that what she’d been doing? Running from her heartbreak? Trying to prove to herself that she could claim the future she wanted? The one that had slipped through her fingers like the sand from Palm Beach’s shore.

  “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “That’s why I play Belle.” Emma paused in the archway leading to the hall and the stairs. “She’s the smart princess. Your girl fell for the first guy she met at a ball and lost her shoe.”

  “Depends on which version you read. In some stories, Cinderella knew the prince first. As a man, not just a gorgeous, single and very powerful member of the royal family.”

  “And she still lost her shoe. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just try to toss them away for the right guy.” Emma pointed at the computer. “Open that picture and respond tonight.”

  “You’re not my fairy godmother, Em.”

  Emma laughed as she headed for the stairs. “I’m so much more than that. I’m your matchmaker.”

  “Great,” Lucy muttered as her friend’s footsteps faded. She didn’t need a matchmaker. She had profiles on three different dating sites. Well, four now thanks to Emma. She sighed and turned back to the screen. In a few hours, she needed to be dressed to play her part again for another little girl’s dream party. She should follow her friend up the stairs and head to bed . . .

  Or I could end this right now. One picture of his face and I’ll learn why his profile highlighted his arms.

  She clicked on the picture. The image filled a portion of the scene. Her eyes widened, and she cocked her head to drink in the full wow factor. She’d expected a man’s face. But this shot didn’t tell her the color of his eyes.

  Philip Ryder, the self-described workaholic, had sent her a picture of his desk. Judging from the angle, the phone—or whatever he’d used to capture this insight into his world—was sitting on the far edge. He hadn’t bothered to angle the camera. A stack of papers filled one side of the picture and continued above the top of the image. On the right, she spotted a pen. The generic, black ballpoint didn’t offer a clue as to where he worked. But unless this was his home office, Philip Ryder had taken a big risk by posing for this picture.

  A man’s hands rested on the desk’s edge between the stack of papers on the left and what looked like a paperweight on the right. Muscular forearms filled most of the shot. But his abs covered the background like mouth-watering wallpaper. No shirt. Just a sculpted six-pack on full display. If he’d worn pants, the camera had cut them off.

  She should close the message and send a quick thanks, but no thanks note. She had rules about ab pics.

  But this one is just for me. I asked for a picture that showed something about him.

  “He’s still at work.” Lucy glanced at the digital clock on the cable box. One in the morning on a Saturday night and this man was at work.

  Shirtless.

  She studied the image for more clues. She couldn’t see much of the room beyond his muscles. Papers covered the desk’s surface. And that paperweight . . . oh wow, that was not a paperweight.

  A pair of metal handcuffs rested beside his pen, one cuff stacked on top of the other. But I play hard too. He’d written that in his message. And he wasn’t talking about surfing on the weekends. Philip Ryder, the poster man for arm porn, possessed lickable abs. And he liked his toys.

  I want to play with him.

  Her imagination kicked into overdrive. She pictured that body, those arms coupled with Jared’s face. She saw his playful smile as he dangled the handcuffs in front of her. She completed the wicked fantasy with her clothes piled in the corner as she held out her wrists. His desk, his bed, up against the wall—the location didn’t matter. Her body begged for this mystery workaholic to take her. Heat pooled between her legs. Her brain, drugged by this picture, sent a misguided signal to her breasts: High alert! We’re about to get down and dirty.

  She imagined his lips touching her, offering a hard, demanding kiss as he secured her hands. She’d never tried handcuffs. Not even with the man she’d planned to marry. But she wanted to cast her inhibition aside. She would lose herself in this imaginary kiss that felt . . . familiar.

  As if she’d seen those arms somewhere. Or touched those abs before.

  In The Taco Bar’s supply closet. When Jared pressed his lips to mine.

  But Jared’s face didn’t belong in her fantasy. She refused to spend the next month, or even the next week, reliving Jared’s kiss. He would disappear back to New York and move on with another one of his arm-candy girlfriends. Sure, he had claimed that she wasn’t another one of his affairs. But she couldn’t trust his words. She’d know him for years. He’d always placed work first—like Philip Ryder, the workaholic.

  Still, Philip put himself out there. He was looking for a relationship. Why else would he waste his precious work hours creating a Fated for Love profile?

  To get laid like the rest of the jerks she’d dated.

  Lucy picked up the computer and headed for her office. If she let her cynicism win, if she stopped taking chances and going on dates, she’d never find the man who could deliver the future she wanted. Watching the Gilmore Girls with her single girlfriends wouldn’t lead to marriage.

  She headed for the office space across the hall. Setting her laptop on the loveseat, she pulled out her phone and propped it up on the desk using a silver, plastic crown left over from one of the parties. Her fingers toyed with edge of her pink tank top. She dressed for her girl’s night in head-to-toe Victoria’s Secret, from her white lace demi-bra to her Pink branded yoga pants and sleeveless tank. But she knew that if she took this picture and sent it to a virtual stranger that she ran the risk the image wouldn’t stay secret for long.

  Take a chance. He might be worth it.

  She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it on the loveseat beside the laptop. Then she folded the band on her yoga pants down revealing her abs. She didn’t have a six-pack. Not even close. But the crunches she attempted once in awhile left behind a hint of definition. She rested her left palm against the desk and reached for her phone with her free hand.

  Click. Click. Click.

  She picked up the phone and scanned the images. The last one. She’d send that image to Mr. Ryder along with a message.

  Mr. Workaholic,

  I’ll match you risk for risk. But I might have to borrow your handcuffs. Mine are pink and fuzzy. They would look out of place on your desk.

  Yours truly,

  Naughty in Pink

  She read through the brazen words. She couldn’t send that to a stranger. First of all, it was a lie. She didn’t own handcuffs. She’d never ventured beyond vanilla sex. But the thought of sending this picture to Mr. Arm Porn?

  Simply thrilling.

  Her breasts agreed, forming tight peeks beneath her bra. Post break-up Lucy went after what she wanted. And right now, she wanted Philip Ryder—handcuffs and all.

  She hit send.

  Chapter 9

  Jared leaned back in his desk chair. The leather was cold against his skin. This high-back brown chair matched the one in his New York home office. Only this one wasn’t broken in,
worn from his long hours at his desk. Back in Manhattan, he spent half the night in his office.

  Working.

  But he wasn’t reviewing spreadsheets or crunching numbers tonight.

  He spun the handcuffs around with his left hand. The metal felt cold and hard. Nothing like the way he’d defined Lucy Linden up until five minutes ago. He’d thought of her as sweet and innocent, like the character she portrayed at parties. And she was. But she was also so much more than his friend’s heartbroken, off-limits little sister.

  He’d never had a thing for Cinderella. He wasn’t one of those assholes who saw Lucy in her gown and wanted a peek underneath—at least not because of her getup. He wanted to look and touch because he wanted the girl beneath the gown. And sweet little Lucy had just given him a glimpse.

  He stared at the image filling his desktop screen. The picture she’d sent in the middle of the night matched his dare. She’d replicated his pose, apart from one arm reaching forward to take the shot. Her taunt abdomen, the glimpse of her white, lacey bra, the curve of her hip that left him wanting to see more.

  Fuck me, I don’t think this is what Finn had in mind when he said, “Woo her.”

  But Jared had started it. He’d set up that first shot. He couldn’t blame the tequila for his last-minute decision to add the handcuffs. The liquor had worn off hours ago. No, he’d wanted Lucy to see him. If he was going all in—and declaring his intentions to her brother sure as hell answered that “if” with a resounding “hell yeah”—he couldn’t hold back. Yes, he was using a fake name. But he still planned to let her in and show her exactly who he was.

  I could have saved the handcuffs for the second or third picture. I didn’t need to test her limits on the first shot.

  After he’d sent the picture, he’d poured a glass of scotch and analyzed his motives. He’d swirled the amber liquid, barely touching it, wondering if he’d tried to sabotage his own fake dating profile. Did he want Lucy to fall for Philip Ryder, the imaginary prince charming he’d created with her brother’s help?

  No.

  He wanted to Lucy to fall for him. But he couldn’t fault Finn’s logic. Lucy was fighting the attraction burning between them like a beach bonfire. She wasn’t willing to give Jared Mitchell a shot.

  Now Philip Ryder? She might give him a chance. She wouldn’t write him off as a billionaire player or shit, toss him in the “out of her league” column. Judging from this picture, Lucy wanted to play in his league. And with his handcuffs.

  Jared studied the screen. He couldn’t see her breasts or her long legs, but the image still left his dick aching. He was tempted to unbutton his jeans. He could tell himself he was taking the edge off the lust before he sent Lucy another message. If he let his dick rule his brain, he’d tell Finn’s sister that one look at her bare stomach and he wanted to take her to bed for a week. He craved filthy, kinky sex with her, and only her.

  He closed his eyes and kept his hands on the armrests. He drew the line at jacking off to a picture of Lucy’s abs in the middle of the night.

  Right now, he needed to go to bed. Then in the morning, he would respond to Lucy. If he messaged her again tonight . . . hell, he’d never been so damn tempted to send a woman a picture of his dick just to see if she would strip off her panties.

  He possessed enough sense to know that was a stupid move. Lucy might be willing to expose her wild side to Philip Ryder, but she would draw the line at a picture of his cock. She’d lump his fake profile persona in with drunken dads and disastrous dates. And she’d be right. She deserved more from him.

  “I’m going to deliver, Lucy,” he murmured as he rose and headed for the hall leading to his bedroom. “Trust me.”

  Jared let his bare feet sink into the sand. Technically, he owned a strip of the beach. He’d purchased a piece of oceanfront real estate, sand included. Yet, everything below the high water line belonged to the state and was open to the public. By noon, visitors from the neighboring streets would stake their claim with towels and umbrellas. But at six in the morning on a Sunday, there was nothing but sand and seaweed. He spotted a dog running beside his owner in the distance. The yellow lab was barely visible in the pre-dawn light. Still, the pup and his owner would keep him from doing something stupid.

  Like taking a picture of my feet in the sand and sending it to Lucy with a sappy message.

  He set out at a jog, heading north where the shore curved and came to an end at the inlet. The water rushed over the beach, but the waves were peaceful. The surfers would stay home today. He stuck to the packed sand and avoided the layer of seaweed that had washed in with the high tide. He still remembered the first time he’d accidentally stepped on a jellyfish as a kid. The damn thing had been hiding beneath a pile of seaweed and trash. One sting and he’d learned his lesson. But he still ran barefoot on the beach, willing to run on the edge of trouble.

  “Jared?”

  He slowed his pace at the familiar female voice.

  “Jared Mitchell?” the woman called again. She was gaining on him.

  One glance over his left shoulder confirmed his suspicion. Delaney Mayor glided over the sand, her long, athletic build carrying her closer and closer. Born and raised in Palm Beach, Delaney was a hard-working, single mother who found time to sit on the local town council. She’d married a New York hedge fund manager while attending college. And divorced him shortly after graduation when she returned home to run the family business and raise her daughter.

  He stopped running. If he was lucky, he could keep their early morning catch-up brief before they went their separate ways.

  “Delaney.” Jared rested his sweaty palms on his thighs. The last time he’d seen her—New Year’s Eve at a Palm Beach charity ball—she’d wrapped her arms around him as if she didn’t plan to let go. The time before that, they’d been naked on the beach.

  “Mind if I join you?” She jogged in place at his side, her sleek, black ponytail swishing from side to side behind her, barely grazing her shoulders. “I’m going to the tip of the island today.”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “Sure.” Then, he started off, setting a punishing pace that he hoped would keep her focused on running.

  “I heard you were back,” she said, easily matching his speed. “Business?”

  “Always.”

  “That’s too bad. You should spend more time here. You can’t beat the weather.”

  “No, you can’t,” he murmured. He remembered why he’d placed her in the one-night stand column. Delaney spoke her mind. Every detail. She’d talked straight up to, and after, he’d made her come with her back pressed into the sand. And she hadn’t screamed, “Fuck me, Jared.” She’d praised his shoes. The expensive, designer loafers he’d kicked off while preparing to blow her mind.

  “Don’t you miss the sunshine while you’re up in New York?” she asked.

  Right now, I’m missing oxygen from keeping up this pace, he thought.

  “The sun shines there too.” He panted the words, pulling back slightly.

  “I know.” She slowed too. “But it’s not the same. You look at home here. I can’t escape the feeling you belong right here at the beach on a summer morning. Don’t you feel it?”

  He shrugged and glanced to the right, out at the water sparkling in the early morning light.

  He moved with ease through Manhattan. The city pulsed with life and excitement. When he was there, he went with New York’s rhythm. The hustle made sense to him. But he could slip out of that fast pace as easily as he’d stepped into it.

  And come home to south Florida. A place that hadn’t made a damn bit of sense growing up.

  But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t living on the other side of the bridge with his mom. He wasn’t flailing, wondering what the hell would happen to him if his mother went to the bar and forgot to come home. For the first time, he knew what he wanted out of south Florida.

  Lucy.

  He stopped running and planted his bare feet in the firm
, damp sand. “Delaney, can I ask a favor?”

  She jogged to his side and smiled up at him. Not that she had to look far. At close to six feet tall, his former one-night stand stood a few inches shorter than him.

  “Ask away,” she said.

  “Take a picture of me looking out at the ocean, capturing the light on the water. The clear sky. All of it.” He reached for the pocket in his running shorts. Shit. He’d left his phone at home. “Another time. I didn’t bring my cell.”

  “I have mine.” She unzipped a side pocket in her fitted running tank and withdrew a slim phone. Then she jogged back a few steps. “Turn around, handsome.”

  He shook his head and placed his hands on his hips. “No. I want the shot from behind.”

  “Adding a little intrigue?” she called.

  “Yes.” He stared out at the gentle waves and mentally composed the note he would send to Lucy.

  Good Morning, Naughty in Pink,

  You’re beautiful. I want to know more about you.

  His brow furrowed. I want to know more about you? That sounded lame. He mentally deleted the first two lines.

  Dear Naughty in Pink,

  You said you would match me risk for risk. I dare you to meet me for a walk on the beach. Sunrise or sunset—your choice.

  Your daring suitor,

  Philip

  He grinned. That was a helluva lot better than a dick pic on a Sunday morning.

  Chapter 10

  “Stop pacing.” Nicole’s voice filled the kitchen and slipped down the hall to where Lucy balanced on one foot as she adjusted her left heel. “Your sister will be down in a minute. Have a drink while you wait.”

  “Is that an order?” Finn’s deep baritone demanded.

  “A what?” Nicole asked.

  Lucy paused in the hallway. Her friend sounded flustered. Or maybe the late night, followed by a long morning princess party, was wearing on her.

  “I’m ready.” Lucy carefully walked into the kitchen on the black, open-toed stilettos that had looked better on the shelf than they felt on her feet.