The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

  Lowering the sports drink, he swallowed hard, staring deeply into her eyes. “Not…everyone.”

  Surmising his meaning, she bit her lip. “About the ABBA, you were right. It was the perfect choice.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. I figured if I followed my passion, I couldn’t go wrong. It’s the philosophy I used when I launched my first start-up, and that seems to have gone pretty well, so I figured this would, too—though I probably shouldn’t quit my day job just yet.” He laughed.

  Francesca joined him. Turning serious once more, she said, “I really loved the dedication to your mum. It…touched me.”

  “Thanks.” He drew a deep breath as if bracing himself to continue. “Toward the end when she was in hospice, the only thing that made her smile was listening to ABBA. I’d play their greatest hits CD and no matter how badly she’d slept the night before or how much pain she was in, she’d hum along. After she…died, my dad told me why. They’d met in high school at a neighborhood roller skating rink. The first song they ever couples-skated to was ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen.’ Their first real date was a concert by an ABBA cover band, the same band that later played at their wedding reception. Those were really happy memories for her, I guess. Listening to ABBA brought her to a better place, a place where there was no cancer and no pain and no having to say good-bye to the people she loved.”

  Tears welling, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.” Or do, especially about you, me, us.

  He hesitated, toeing the Masonite floor with his designer shoes. “Say you’ll dance with me.” He looked up at her. “We never did have that practice session you promised.”

  “Based on what I saw onstage earlier, you hardly need coaching.”

  “Then don’t make it about coaching. Make it about having fun. We’ve worked really hard these past weeks, you as much as me. I’d say it’s time we reward ourselves without cameras or other people watching. So what do you say, Francesca, do we have a date?”

  Heart beating fast, she nodded. “Yes.”

  His smile sent her heart somersaulting. “Tonight, eight o’clock?

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “I’d like to take you out to dinner and a club or have you over to my place, but obviously those aren’t options right now. Does your hotel suite have enough floor space?”

  Francesca hesitated. She’d lived long enough to know the message that her letting him into her hotel suite would send. “It does—and an impressive room service menu as well.” It seemed Starr’s vintage scarlet slippers would be put to work after all.

  His grin grew. “Sounds like we’re set.”

  Sean walked up to them. Scarcely sparing Francesca a glance, he turned to Greg. “Congratulations, you were awesome. You really brought it home out there,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks, man, that means a lot.”

  “Listen, there’re some people I want you to meet, some of our bigger investors.” He glanced over his shoulder to a quartet of dark-suited men all wearing guest passes. “Jerry heard how great your performance went and suggested I have you join us for a drink.”

  “Sure, happy to.” He sent Francesca an apologetic look. “Catch you later.”

  “Of course.”

  Watching him walk away to join the group, she released a sigh. Whether they needed the dance practice or not, whether Greg won or lost Project Cinderella, she wouldn’t miss tonight’s “date” for anything.

  Not for the whole bloody world.

  …

  Standing outside the door to Francesca’s hotel suite, one hand wrapped around a bottle of top-shelf pinot noir, Greg gave himself a moment before knocking. He wanted this night to be perfect in every way, not only for him but for Francesca. He only hoped the surprise he’d had delivered earlier hadn’t in any way offended her. A text message had confirmed that his rush order had been delivered two hours ago.

  He glanced down at his suit, single-breasted and from Tom Ford. He was in no danger of turning into a clotheshorse, but the gray wool had a silky, lustrous sheen that he couldn’t help appreciating. Even though his usual mode of dancing involved shag carpeting and bare feet, the crocodile moccasins were actually pretty comfortable. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

  He drew a deep breath, raised his fist, and knocked.

  Francesca called out, “Come in. It’s open.”

  He stepped inside the foyer, drawing the door behind him. “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” he admonished, feeling all kinds of protective toward her. “What kind of a New Yorker are you?” he added, softening the rebuke with a joke.

  Laughter served as her reply. “One who’s apparently been in LA overly long. I’ll be out in two ticks. Make yourself at home. There’s a bar if you’d like a drink.”

  “Not right now, thanks.”

  Greg looked around the living room area, elegant if not especially homey. The suite was predictably posh with sumptuous furnishings and appointments, multiple plasma TVs, and sliding glass doors leading out onto a spacious balcony with both mountain and city views.

  The sound of a throat clearing had him turning back around. Francesca stepped forward from the alcove and Greg caught his breath. The ruby-red Vivienne Westwood gown he’d chosen molded to her beautiful body in all the best places, the strapless bodice showing off creamy shoulders and a mouthwatering swell of cleavage. According to the online description, the tapered, floor-length skirt had a hip-high side slit that Greg couldn’t wait to see in action.

  He ran his gaze over her, awed that this gorgeous woman was his date for the night. “You look…amazing.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smoothing a palm over the skirt. “Since you not only purchased it but also went to the trouble to have it sent over in time for tonight, I thought I owed you a grand entrance at the very least.”

  He shrugged, as though buying beautiful gowns for beautiful women was something he did every day. “I owed you a dress, remember? I’m guessing those spaghetti sauce stains didn’t come out.”

  Francesca’s nod confirmed it was so. “Vivienne Westwood is one of my favorite designers. How did you know?”

  “You mentioned it in a blog interview you gave to a fashion e-zine a while back. Once I had the names of a few designers you liked, it was easy to go to their websites and see who had brick-and-mortar stores nearby.”

  “And my dress size?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to come across like a stalker. “The studio wardrobe people have it on record. I had Cindy get it for me.”

  The tiniest trace of a worry line materialized on her forehead. “She didn’t ask why you wanted it?”

  Wishing he could smooth the mark away with his lips, he shook his head. “Since we brought Bosco back to her, I’d say we’re both pretty much golden.” He ran his gaze over her again, stopping at her feet. “I probably owe you shoes, too, but there was no way of guessing your size. Looks like you have that covered. Those are pretty. Obviously I’m flying blind when it comes to this fashion stuff, but the velvet is a pretty close match to the dress. Did you just get them?”

  Her mouth curved in a secretive and very sexy smile. Holding out one velvet-clad foot, she shook her head. “No, I brought them with me. They’re vintage from the thirties and on loan from a friend.”

  Several small steps brought her inside the room—and closer to him. “I don’t typically accept expensive gifts from men, and I am most definitely not used to being dressed by one.” For a fleeting few seconds, he wondered if he’d offended her, raised her feminist hackles or whatever, but the subsequent smile she sent him washed those and other fears away. “It’s rather a nice change,” she admitted.

  Relaxing, he said, “I wanted to do something nice for you, so if it helps, think of this as my way of saying thanks for coming out to meet me for all those predawn Muscle Beach mornings. Most coaches are compensated for their time. You’ve been helping me for all these weeks out of the goodness of your heart.”


  Her smile dimmed, but perhaps that was only a trick of the low light. “And it seems you’ve come bearing more gifts.” She glanced down to the wrapped wine bottle he’d all but forgotten he still held.

  Crossing the carpet to meet her, he held it out. “I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I shall. I’ll open it now.” She moved to the bar. Greg followed her over, loving how the gown hugged her hips as she moved.

  Slipping the bottle from the fancy bag, she exclaimed, “What lovely wine! It’s one of my very favorites.” She whirled to face him. “How did you know that?”

  “You said you liked pinot noir, and I…made a lucky guess.” Not knowing much—anything—about wine, he’d relied on the rave reviews at Wine Spectator rhapsodizing over its “finish” and “bouquet.” “If it stains your teeth, I promise not to notice,” he added, a not-so-thinly-veiled reference to their last time at Venice Beach. She’d ended that day by shutting him out and then sending him away. He wasn’t about to let her get away with that tonight.

  She decanted the wine and then poured two generous glasses. Turning to face him, she held one out. “Shall we have this on the balcony?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, wrapping his fingers around the stemless glass.

  He watched her walk ahead to the sliding glass doors, her gown’s side slit giving him a good glimpse of leg laid bare up to the thigh. Greg sucked in a sharp breath.

  “It sticks,” she said, pushing harder.

  Aware of the wine sloshing over her glass, he said, “Here, let me do that, but I’d better give you this.” He handed back his wineglass.

  She took it, moving aside, and he pulled the door open. They stepped out onto the lantern-lit balcony. Pieces of patio furniture pushed to one side as if to make room. Now that the sun had set, the air was chilly, but the view still sublime. Lit votive candles had been scattered about, their flames flickering in the breeze.

  Greg followed her over to the rail. “Take my jacket,” he said when he caught her shivering.

  Turning to him, she shook her head. “I will not. You look too fabulous for that and so do I. Dancing will warm us up, but first what shall we drink to?”

  “How about to happily ever after?” he suggested, watching her face.

  She hesitated, her smile tentative, her beautiful eyes as yet unsure. “Very well, provided we also toast to your success today and to bravery and hard work reaping its due reward: winning your crown.”

  Being here with you is winning, Greg thought but didn’t say. Certainly being with her like this made him feel like a king—or at least a highly hopeful prince-in-training.

  They touched glasses. Mostly a beer man, he almost never drank wine. He did as she did, rolling his wine about the glass and then taking a sip. Swallowing, he fought making a face. The stuff tasted like he imagined sweaty gym socks would if wrung into a glass, but as long as she liked it, he would consider the absurd amount of money well spent.

  “Lovely,” she said, licking her lips.

  Imagining tasting her mouth and other parts too, Greg felt his temperature rising—and his groin thickening. “I’m glad you like it.” He smiled and forced down a second swallow.

  “It is chilly,” she admitted, chafing her arm with her free hand. “Perhaps we should have that dance sooner rather than later.”

  “Sure,” Greg said, striving to sound casual though he could hardly wait to hold her. He took the glass from her and set it aside with his, and then reached into his jacket pocket for his iPhone for the music he’d downloaded. Scrolling through his playlist, he found the piece he’d bookmarked earlier, “Cuando”—“When”—by the Puerto Rican artist Ivy Queen. He hit play and set the phone down. “Shall we?” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She gave it, her slender fingers entwining with his, her lovely face relaxing into a smile—not the tight smile she sometimes wore on set but one that reflected in her eyes. “With pleasure.”

  Called the Cuban Dance of Love, the bolero was the slowest and sexiest of all Latin American ballroom dances. Its slow and dreamy tempo and beautiful melodies seemed to evoke romance, or so the Wikipedia entry said, which was why he’d chosen it for his first dance with Francesca. Finding the accompanying music had required a bit more research, but he believed he’d picked the perfect piece, one that Francesca would appreciate.

  The smoky-voiced vocalist sang, “Adam sinned because he loved Eve, the love of Celia and Pedro touched the stars, but only when you learn to value women, you can be happy…”

  Her gaze widened. Her green eyes shone. She searched his face. “Oh, Greg, it’s…perfect.”

  Not only the artist’s message but his, he hoped, was clear. Francesca deserved to be with a man who would love, respect, and value her. If only she would see that man was him.

  He took a moment to mentally rehearse the dance sequence. The first step was taken on the first beat, held during the second beat with two more steps falling on beats three and four. The basic step was a long, sweeping sidestep on the slow beat, followed by a rock step forward or backward on the quick-quick beats. Based on the YouTube video he’d studied, it didn’t look all that different from the old-school two-step he’d seen his parents dance around the living room every New Year’s.

  He’d been practicing—and those sessions counted even if his partner was a broom. Sure, Brittany would have gladly stepped in and Kim too. But it wasn’t about that. He’d waited a long time to have his first formal dance. He didn’t want to share the experience with just anyone. He wanted to share it with the partner of his choice—and his choice was Francesca.

  The moment she stepped into his arms, he knew it was going to be all right—really all right. His fingers firmed about hers, his other arm wrapping about her waist. She leaned her lithe body into his, trusting him to lead. Several movements had them circuiting the wide balcony. After the first few, Greg stopped counting.

  Relaxing into the music, he drew her even closer. She melted into him—no offering up resistance, no more shutting him out. “You’re safe in my arms, Francesca,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.

  She looked up and smiled. “I know that.”

  The tempo slowed although Greg’s heart pounded. The big finish, the dip, was coming up. Strictly speaking, it was optional. The bolero didn’t require it. Should he go for it or play it safe?

  Greg went for it.

  Francesca followed him, her knee lifting to his shoulder, her heat searing his side, the dress sliding away. Out of the corner of one eye, he caught a glimmer of something sparkly, the beading on the red velvet slipper still planted to the ground. Like a friendly guiding star, the shoe seemed to wink at him, urging him to greater boldness.

  Holding her suspended beneath him, his muscled arms more than up to the task, he slid his free hand along the length of her exposed leg, fingertips trailing the opening in the fabric from sensitive knee to smooth thigh. Her skin had warmed from the dancing. Resting his palm on the satiny spot, he took in the rapid fire rising and falling of her small and beautiful breasts, saw her eyes darken and her lips part, and suddenly he knew, he just knew.

  She wasn’t only a crush. She wasn’t only a love. She really was his one true love, his soul mate. He didn’t have to wait for someday. He didn’t have to reach for happily ever after anymore. It was right here on this balcony, here and now and in his arms.

  He lowered his head to hers until their mouths were inches away from meeting. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  Glowing green eyes met his, warm and trusting and sure. “So are you.”

  Showing through her sheer lipstick, the freckle on her bottom lip beguiled him. Inhaling her wine-spiced breath, he leaned in to kiss her.

  The belted-out bars of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child o’ Mine” broke through the magic. Francesca started. She stiffened, the lazy-lidded look leaving her eyes. “That’s my phone—and Sam’s ringtone. I have to take it.”

  For a sad few seconds, disappointment
buried him like falling bricks, but of course helping her up was the only decent thing to do. “Sure, no problem.” He removed his hand from her leg and straightened, bringing her upright. Letting her go, he stepped back.

  She rushed inside to catch the call. To give her space, he stayed outside, but he still couldn’t help overhearing.

  “Darling, how are you? No, of course it’s a good time. I’m so pleased you rang. How’s school? How’s… You’re seeing someone? That’s…marvelous. What does your father think of him? You’re bringing him around for dinner with uh…them? That’s splendid. I only wish…I wish I could meet him, too. About summer break… Oh, I see. You’re quite certain you won’t have any time for the two of us to get away? The week before school starts in August? Yes, of course we can do something then. If that’s all you’ve got free, I suppose I’ll make do. What’s that? No, darling, I’m not angry, just…disappointed. Must you really dash off so soon? In that case, I shan’t keep you. Call me when you can, anytime…and…I love you, Samantha.”

  Her sigh sliced through the silence. She came back out to the balcony, looking as though she’d been kicked. “Remind me where we were?” she asked, sounding as though her spirit had been sapped.

  He crossed toward her. “You were in my arms, and I was about to kiss you.”

  “That sounds…nice.” She reached for her wine, stared at it, and then set it down untasted.

  Nice—not the reaction he’d hoped for, but based on past experience, he knew it could always be worse—a lot worse. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Shoulders dipping, she shook her head. Another sigh and then, “I just…miss her so very dreadfully.”

  “I know you do. Come here.”

  The command seemed to startle her. “Why?”

  Greg blew out a breath. A few minutes ago, she’d put her body in his hands, trusting him implicitly. What would it take for them to get back there?

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want to comfort you.”

  She set her jaw, easily as stubborn as she’d been the first day they’d met at Cloud Flyer. “I don’t need comforting.”