His Christmas Cinderella

by Christy Jeffries

  She refused to let her heart do a repeat of last night. “Were you looking for me? Or were you looking for Miss Balthazar?”

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry for that mix-up. My father was the one who told me you were the daughter of one of our business associates. The old man is too vain to admit that he needs glasses and I was too mesmerized by you to even ask for confirmation.” He formally stuck out his hand as though he hadn’t just kissed her on the lips last night. Or sort of kissed her. “I’m Jordan Taylor, by the way.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied. The tray was still tucked under her arm, so she had an excuse to decline the handshake. But she didn’t want to seem bitter. Or affected by his presence either way. She set the tray on the bar and took his offered hand. Ignoring the riptide of electricity that sailed through her skin, she added, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.”

  “Wait,” he said before she could turn around. “Can I maybe buy you a drink? We could sit down and talk.”

  “Listen, I know you thought I was someone else last night. But I’m a waitress, not a socialite at one of your parties.” She looked pointedly around at the almost full tables in the expensive restaurant tastefully decorated to accentuate its rustic origins. Then she gestured to her uniform of a white blouse, black slacks and a long black waist apron. “I’m at work.”

  “Right.” He nodded. She had a feeling he wasn’t used to being told no, even if it was for a good reason—such as not losing her job. “Then can I get your number so that I can call you later?”

  “Here’s the thing, Jordan. I had a great time last night. And I appreciate you coming in and making the attempt. I’m flattered. However, we all know how this will turn out.”

  “How what will turn out?”

  “This.” She gestured between the two of them. “Us. It might be a fun diversion for a few hours, or maybe even a few days. And if I wasn’t working full-time and in the middle of my MBA program and trying to open my own restaurant, then maybe I wouldn’t mind a little...distraction.” She caught herself before she used the words booty call.

  “You know...” He tilted his head and dropped his eyes to the name tag on her white uniform shirt. “You still haven’t told me your full name.”

  If this guy was some sort of stalker who refused to take no for an answer, she certainly wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. “Why do you need it?”

  “Because I’ve been talking to a few people who may be interested in investing in your restaurant.”

  She narrowed her eyes. So maybe Jordan wasn’t a full-blown stalker. Especially considering the fact that his reputation would suggest he was way more likely to be the one being stalked. Still. There was no reason to completely throw caution to the wind and let him think that she had any interest in him other than professional.

  “It’s Camilla Sanchez. If one of your contacts wants to get in touch with me, I would suggest they do so when it’s not during the dinner rush.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, that satisfied grin spreading across his way too handsome face.

  Determined to maintain the upper hand, Camilla returned to her waiting customers, only to realize that she’d completely forgotten the beer list. It took her another hour to get back into the swing of things. By eight-thirty, most of her tables had cleared out and only the customers who couldn’t book earlier reservations remained. When she finally folded her apron and collected her tips, it was nine o’clock.

  And Jordan Taylor was waiting by the hostess desk for her.

  Chapter Three

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?” Camilla asked Jordan.

  “Well you did say to come back when you weren’t working.”

  “No. I said one of those potential investors you were talking about could talk to me when I wasn’t working. And I specifically remember you saying last night that you had no plans to invest in my restaurant because, what was the tired cliché you used?” She tapped her chin thoughtfully as if she didn’t already have it seared in her brain. “You don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “I still stand by that. Let me buy you a drink and we can discuss the terms of our nonbusiness relationship.” Jordan waved at Leo, the bartender, who probably had told him when Camilla would be off work.

  “What?” She swallowed her panic as she looked around at the coworkers who would be staying another hour until closing. “Here?”

  He lowered his head as though he was about to share a secret, and her pulse skipped a beat. “You would prefer somewhere more private?”

  “No,” she said, trying to ignore the way her knees buckled any time those dimpled cheeks were close enough to touch. “We can go somewhere very public and very well lit. Like the Splitting Lanes Bowling Alley, for example.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, causing the other servers and one of the sous chefs to look their way. Camilla wanted to sink into the floor. It was one thing to play make believe last night at a fundraising gala, but it was quite another to have her coworkers think she was seriously considering being used by the rich playboy with a reputation for breaking hearts. Or worse. That he was going to get into the restaurant business with her only in the hopes of also getting into her pants.

  She grabbed his elbow and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. The Bronco Brick Oven is open for another hour and I’m starved.”

  The pizza place was a few buildings over in the recently gentrified district of Bronco Heights. What had once been feed mills and industrial factories and even a muffler repair shop were now upscale restaurants and boutiques made to look rustic and elegant at the same time with lots of restored wood, exposed brick, and metal-infused designs. She’d never understand rich people and their tastes.

  He held open the door for her and she felt the warmth of his hand on her lower back. A shiver raced through her, making her think it was almost scary how her body reacted to his barest touch.

  “This isn’t a date,” she reminded them both.

  That didn’t stop Jordan from asking the young waiter wiping down vinyl-covered menus if they could have one of the booths in the rear corner.

  “So you’ve gotten me to sit down with you,” she said when he took the bench seat across from hers. “Does that make me just another woman who can’t resist the Jordan Taylor charm?”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read about me on social media.” He flashed that playful grin again, and Camilla thought she should definitely believe every single word she’d read. “Can’t a man meet a woman at a party and simply want to take her out and get to know her better?”

  “When they meet under normal circumstances? Yes. But the woman you met last night wasn’t the real me.”

  “So then tell me about the real you.” Jordan leaned his forearms on the table, as though he was actually interested.

  “Well, for starters, I’m not the daughter of one of your dad’s wealthy business associates. My parents aren’t cattle barons or landowners who’ve been here for several generations. In fact, my parents immigrated here from Mexico thirty years ago. My dad doesn’t get wine baskets after surgery, he gets a tater tot hot dish and a really bland tuna casserole that Mrs. Waters next door tried to make. I wear jeans and T-shirts when I’m not dressed for work.” Camilla motioned to her standard white button-up shirt and black pants all the servers at DJ’s Deluxe wore. Thankfully it was better than the misshapen brown polyester dress she’d worn when she’d worked at Waffle Station in college. “I don’t wear ball gowns or high heels unless I borrow them. I’m a waitress and a student. I live in a tiny apartment above the post office in Bronco Valley. I drink beer on tap, not fifty-year-old single-malt Scotch.”

  The server returned at that exact minute, and Jordan asked, “Can we get a pitcher of Big Sky IPA?” Then he glanced at Camilla and added, “Beer on tap. Check. What else do I need to know?”

  �
�That I never drink on an empty stomach,” Camilla replied to him before turning to the server. “Can you also bring us the Italian chopped salad please? And an order of the garlic pesto twists?”

  When the server left, Jordan leaned back in the booth, the sleeves of his dark blue shirt pushed up to his elbows. How did this guy look so casual no matter where he was or what he wore? In fact, even his appraising stare seemed casual, despite the fact that he was clearly sizing her up.

  Finally, he nodded slowly. “So last night wasn’t the real you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That would mean that the real you doesn’t like dancing. Can’t stand Beyoncé songs or the ‘Cha Cha Slide.’ The real you hates prime rib sliders—you ate six of them, by the way, so good job faking that—and you never lick your fingers when you spill au jus all over them. The real you doesn’t smell like a wild field of lupines in the middle of June and doesn’t have the widest and most compelling smile I’ve ever seen.” Jordan’s words had almost more of an effect on her than his silky eyes still drinking her in. “And the real you isn’t at all passionate about the traditional Mexican restaurant you want to build using your grandmother’s recipes and your hard-earned experience in the restaurant industry.”

  The pale ale arrived and Jordan poured her a glass with the same ease he’d poured the Scotch last night. Clearly, everything came easily to him.

  “Fair enough.” She took the offered pint. “But Jordan, be honest. When was the last time you dated someone who didn’t drive a luxury car?”

  He pursed his lips and lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if he needed to think of a response.

  She took back-to-back sips of the beer, slowly swallowing as she allowed him more time to come to the foregone conclusion. She exhaled and said, “Your silence speaks volumes.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” he replied. “I haven’t been dating the right kind of women.”

  “According to those society columns you don’t want me to believe, you’ve had quite a variety of ladies to choose from.”

  “Look, Camilla, my dating life is apparently an open book. You obviously know what you’re getting into by going out with me. But I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve certainly never dated anyone like you.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in doubt. “You mean someone in the working class?”

  “I mean someone who seems to enjoy life as much as you do. Who has enough ambition to come to a party where she doesn’t know anyone so that she can pitch her restaurant idea to strangers. Someone who kept me up all night thinking about her infectious laugh and when I could hear it again.”

  Her breath suspended in her rib cage. If she wanted to avoid going light-headed and weak in the knees, she either needed to get some food in her system or she needed to double down on her efforts to resist his charm. Although, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her guard up against this man when he said all the right things.

  If only to keep herself on the defensive, she turned the conversation back to him. “How do I know you’re not just some guy who enjoys slumming it with a girl from the other side of the tracks?”

  Jordan’s raised brow made her wonder if this guy ever took anything seriously. “First of all, Bronco Valley doesn’t have any tracks. They all run north of the Heights.” Then his mouth straightened and his jaw hardened. “And if anyone were to ever refer to me dating you as ‘slumming it,’ I’d personally kick their ass.”

  “Even your father?” she challenged. “I mean, obviously I don’t condone violence toward anyone of an advanced age who clearly suffers from nearsightedness. But how would the wealthy Taylors feel about you dating an immigrant’s daughter from Bronco Valley?”

  Seeing the determination glinting in his eyes, she suddenly wondered how she could’ve thought this multimillion-dollar businessman couldn’t be serious when he needed to be. “I’d tell my family the same thing I tell them whenever they ask about my dating life. It’s none of their business.”

  The chopped salad and the fragrant knots of perfectly baked dough topped with basil and parmesan arrived, and Jordan asked if she wanted to order anything else. She was starved after skipping lunch to run all those errands today, but she shook her head.

  When the server left, Jordan asked, “How long did it take you to have me all figured out?”

  She pointed her fork at him. “About five minutes.”

  “Because you knew my name and you knew my reputation based off some online articles.” He slid a hot, cheesy twist into his mouth. Watching him, Camilla’s stomach melted like the garlicky butter he’d just licked off his fingers.

  “Also because I know guys like you. Rich boys who’ve never had to work hard for what they wanted.” She shoved a forkful of salad in her mouth, not wanting to entice him the same way he was enticing her.

  “You don’t think I can work for what I want?”

  “I’m sure you’re a very good businessman, Jordan. I also read the financial articles about you, not just the society columns. Unfortunately, I’m not one of your business ventures or some associate who is open for negotiations.”

  “That’s a good idea.” He finished off the rest of his beer. “We should negotiate.”

  “I just said I wasn’t open to that,” she reminded him. But then her curiosity got the better of her. “What exactly do you want to negotiate?”

  “Give me four weeks. Go out with me at least twice a week for four weeks and I’ll prove to you that I’m not the guy you think I am.”

  “You’re crazy.” She chuckled, then realized he wasn’t laughing with her. “You can’t seriously think us dating is a good idea.”

  “Why not? Are you worried that you’ll get too attached and fall in love with me?”

  In love? Not a chance. But she was already recklessly attracted to him, so she did have some concerns about letting him get too close. Unfortunately, she’d inherited that Sanchez competitive gene and, like everyone else in her family, she’d never been able to back down from a challenge.

  “I’ll give you two weeks.” She took another bite of salad, hoping she wasn’t going to regret this. “Two weeks will be long enough for you to realize that we’re way too different to be together.”

  And not so long that they risked getting their hearts involved. Oh, who was she kidding? She was the only one at risk for that. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t determined to prove him wrong. Besides, if he could introduce her to some possible investors, then it would all be worth it.

  “Three weeks,” he countered before refilling their glasses and holding his up in a toast. “That’s long enough for me to convince you that we have a chance.”

  “Fine. Three weeks.” She clinked his glass with her own in agreement. “If you can even last that long.”

  * * *

  Jordan checked his reflection in the rearview mirror a second time. He didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard, but he also didn’t want Camilla to think he didn’t care. He’d been hoping for a weekend date, but Camilla insisted that Friday and Saturday were her busiest nights at work and she relied on the extra tip money.

  He hadn’t wanted to wait until the middle of the week to start their three-week agreement, so she suggested they jump in with both feet. Sunday night dinner with her family.

  Really, it was more of a dare than a suggestion. One that Jordan had all too willingly accepted. After all, when was the last time he’d actually met the family of a woman he was dating?

  Even when he already knew the parents—like the Abernathys—he still avoided any setting that might suggest the relationship was at that sort of level. If he wanted to prove that Camilla was different from the women of his past, then he’d have to approach their relationship differently, as well.

  The Sanchez family’s house was in the heart of Bronco Valley. It was a modest one story in an older subdivision wh
ere many of the homes looked identical. Jordan had purposely driven one of the ranch trucks instead of his Tesla. Since his money was already an issue with Camilla, he didn’t want to draw any more attention to it.

  There were several vehicles crammed into the driveway and on the surrounding street, so he was forced to park three houses down. As he approached the front door, he could hear several male voices inside arguing about fouls and free throw lines. Jordan took a deep breath before lifting his hand to knock. Before he could, a slightly younger, shorter version of Camilla almost hit him with the door.

  “Come on in. Camilla is in the kitchen with our mom and I’m on my way to the store to get more mangos.” The woman passed by him as he stepped into the entry, then leaned around him to call out, “Even though everyone knows you can’t get a decent mango in Montana this time of year.”

  “Stop yelling, Sofia.” An older, redheaded version of Camilla came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron printed with the words Your Opinion Wasn’t in the Recipe. “Mr. Granada always keeps a couple of ripe ones for me behind his checkstand.”

  “Hey, Dad,” a guy Jordan’s age wearing a blue Bronco Fire Department T-shirt said. He was sitting on the armrest of an oversized brown corduroy sectional and didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “What else is Mr. Granada keeping behind his checkstand for Mom?”

  “Knock it off, Felix. And sit on my sofa like a normal person,” the obvious matriarch of the Sanchez family scolded before her eyes landed on Jordan. “Oh, hello. You must be Camilla’s friend. I’m her mom.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sanchez,” he said, then passed her the bouquet of flowers he’d gotten from a flower shop on his way over.

  Her smile was just as wide and enthusiastic as Camilla’s as she beamed at the flowers. “Please call me Denise. Aaron, did you see Camilla’s friend is here?”

  A taller man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard had already hefted himself up from a recliner chair and used a pair of crutches to limp toward them. Jordan hurried to meet the man halfway. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanchez.”