Cinderella-ish (Razzle My Dazzle Book 1)

by Joslyn Westbrook

  “Uh, not yet. Enlighten me.”

  Emma comes back into view with her phone in hand. “Well, it hasn’t quite made the show yet, but it is on their website.” She lets out a squeal as she scrolls through her phone, making me think she quite enjoys me being in the media.

  Stacy clears her throat. “Brace yourself, Daniella.”

  “You ready?” Emma grins.

  “Sure. Go for it.” I adjust the pillows and prop myself upright, bracing myself for—whatever.

  “Okay, so first the headline: Enemies to Lovers? Antonio Michaels and Daniella Belle (Once Known as Miss Potty Mouth) Arrive at LAX…Together. And We’ve Got the Exclusive Photos.”

  Enemies to lovers? Photos? As in more than one?

  Emma holds her phone up to the screen, showing two photos of Antonio and me. The first one shows us walking side by side, stepping through the double door entrance of LAX. In it, Antonio and I are both facing each other and smiling. And the other…a snapshot of us stepping onto the escalator, Antonio’s arm clearly around my waist.

  Emma emphatically points to his arm and grins. “D, you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

  Oh my God. Now I see how situations captured by overzealous paparazzi behind a lens can be thrown out of proportion. I shake my head and I don’t know if I should be annoyed or flattered by the photo’s inference. “You both know I tend to be a little clumsy. I tripped while stepping onto the escalator and Antonio caught me, and it appears as though that photo was captured right at the moment it occurred. It looks like I’m leaning into him and he’s embracing me. But that’s not at all what happened.”

  Both Emma and Stacy flatten their lips and raise their eyebrows. I swear they are like the same person at times.

  “I’m serious!” I say, clearly defending my story.

  “Well, pictures don’t lie, D. He’s into you. I can totally see it.” Emma says, arms now folded.

  Stacy elbows Emma on the side. “That’s enough. Go shower so we can get ready to buy some groceries.”

  “Bye, D,” Emma says, blowing a kiss. “Send lots of photos. I’ll text you later. Love ya!”

  “Love ya too, babe. Behave yourself.”

  Stacy looks at me, her dark brown eyes speculative and knowing at the same time. “You like him, I can tell. Nothing gets by me.”

  It’s true. Nothing tends to get by Stacy, having personally crossed-examined hundreds as a lawyer. But this time, she’s dead wrong.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I give her a frosty side-eye.

  “Bullshit. When you wake up from that dream, please let me know. Anyway”—she gives a dismissive wave of her hand—“I need to get dressed. Try to live it up princess-style in Milan. And enjoy your time with Antonio. Stop getting caught up in that I’ve sworn off men crap. If it’s meant to be, you can’t fight it. Bye-bye, love.”

  Hmm. Stacy and Emma can draw whatever conclusions they want. They’ll see. There will never be anything between me and Antonio.

  Ever.

  Antonio suggested I take time to rest up while he tends to some business obligations. So, I’ll spend the rest of the evening hunkered down in my suite, immersed in the hotel room’s majestic 18th Century décor and lavish amenities. The room is at least 1,200 square feet with hardwood floors and walls painted a dark tan with burgundy and white trim. Florentine-red-colored velvet curtains cover the huge bay window that overlooks a private garden courtyard. The living room has an enormous flat-screen television, a small sofa positioned near a bookshelf, full of books all about Italian culture, a small oval table, and two antique side chairs. The bedroom has a king-sized poster bed as well as another huge flat-screen television. The bathroom: to die for. Not only is there a huge Roman soaking tub, but there is a walk-in shower with five shower heads. Of course, there are many spa-like lotions, soaps, and shampoos, that I will gladly take back home to Emma.

  I pull back the velvety curtains and peek outside. It’s dark now, but I can sense the excitement looming.

  Milan.

  I can’t believe that I’m actually here.

  I would love to get out—venture about. But unfortunately, I have to rely on Antonio since I know nothing about the city. He promised to take me around a little after we visit the factory tomorrow morning.

  So, for now, my first night in Milan will be spent with me taking a long bubble bath, ordering a room-service dinner, then crashing out in the comfy bed.

  I close the curtain, switch off the lights in the living room, then head into the bathroom to draw the bath. I don’t even wait until it’s completely full before I undress and sink into the bubbles. I scoop up a mound of suds with the palm of my hand and blow, sending a flurry of bubbles into the air.

  At this moment, I feel like Julia Roberts’s character in Pretty Woman. Wait. So does that make Antonio, Richard Gere’s character? He certainly was quite dashing in that movie.

  Prince Charming-ish.

  Yet, that movie had fairy-tale ending written all over it, and almost everyone knows that I—Daniella Belle—am a big-time Scrooge when it comes to all things fairy tales.

  Chapter 19

  Daniella

  Despite a pesky case of jet lag, waking up in Italy fills my soul with absolute jubilation. I was even too excited to order a room service breakfast to eat.

  Antonio texted me about an hour ago, reminding me that we have an appointment at the factory. Sometimes I feel our roles are reversed; shouldn’t I be the one keeping tabs on appointments? However, in my defense, he hasn’t quite shared the complete itinerary of this business trip. All I know is today we are to have a meeting at his uncle’s factory where all of the CraveMe pieces are made, and then a short tour of Milan tomorrow or the next day. Beyond that I have no clue. And he did ask me to pack a small overnight bag with a change of clothes just in case he’s too tired to make the drive back to Milan this evening.

  It’s cold outside, and I’m glad I was able to shop for this trip. Living in California does nothing to prepare residents for real winters.

  So today’s ensemble:

  Designer Jeans. Black Boots. A Long-Sleeve Blouse.

  Hair Down—parted in the middle—Long and Straight. Wool Coat.

  A quick tap at the door startles me at first, but I know it’s Antonio beckoning. He’s only in the suite across the hall, after all.

  I grab my purse and unlock the door, opening it to his—

  I fucking swear, is there no end to how hot this man can look?

  “Buongiorno, sunshine. Did you sleep well?”

  I’m unable to answer just yet, still thrown off-kilter by Antonio Super Hottie.

  A Black Medium-Length Trench Coat. Black Dress Slacks. Black Oxfords. Muscle-Hugging Dress Shirt.

  And…hair done up in an I Woke Up Like This style.

  Oh. My. God.

  I bite my lower lip and want to kick myself for suddenly becoming a mute.

  For the love of Pop-Tarts, get a hold of yourself, woman.

  So I settle for a half-smile and what turns out to be an embellished nod.

  “Great. Did you eat? If not, we can grab breakfast. They have good pastries and wonderful espresso.”

  “Breakfast sounds good, thanks.” I let the door slam closed behind me, and the two of us stand in the hall, gazes fixed, until he motions for me to follow.

  As we enter the restaurant, located in the lobby of the hotel, Antonio is greeted immediately by a host.

  “Signor Michaels, è un piacere rivederla.”

  “Grazie, Matteo, anche per me.”

  The host looks at me and nods courteously. “Buongiorno, Signorina.”

  I smile and nod in return, hoping to God, he didn’t ask me a question expecting me to provide a detailed answer.

  I’ve so gotta pick up an English to Italian dictionary.

  “She speaks English, Matteo.” Antonio smiles, placing his arm around me, sensing my discomfort, I suppose.

  “Of course, Si
gnore. Would you two like a table?”

  “Yes, please. My usual spot.”

  “Of course. We reserved it, knowing you’re in town. Welcome back, by the way,” Matteo says, speaking English very fluently, albeit with a sultry Italian accent. He’s a tall, older man, with heavy wrinkles defining his face. He grabs two small menus and gestures for us to follow him, leading the way past a few occupied tables to the back of the restaurant. Away from everyone else.

  “Here you are,” he says, pulling out a chair for me to take a seat. “And here are your menus. Can I get you both something to drink?”

  “I’ll have an espresso, please,” Antonio says, peering down at his phone.

  Matteo nods. “And you, Signorina? Would you like espresso, as well?”

  “May I have a latte?”

  Matteo tilts his head, shooting me a doubtful glance, and Antonio immediately lifts his gaze from his phone to me.

  “Uh, Signorina…just to be certain, you would like a cup of milk?”

  Antonio flashes an empathy-laced smile. “She’ll have an espresso macchiato, Matteo. Thank you,” Antonio replies, saving me further embarrassment.

  I smile appreciatively and hide behind my now-open menu.

  Antonio chuckles. “You’re cute. I should have warned you about the latte. But I just assumed you wanted espresso.”

  “And an espresso macchiato is?”

  “Espresso with a splash of frothy milk. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  Feeling it’s safe to remove the menu from shielding my rosy face, I find my voice and reply, “Thank you. I reckon while we’re here, you can order for me.”

  “That’s too much pressure. What if I order something you don’t like?”

  “I’ll starve and lose a few pounds. Then people will mistake me for a lean and hot model.”

  He leans into the table; his eyes dance around mine. “Like they don’t mistake you for one, already?”

  He’s not flirting. He’s only being polite.

  Feeling a flash of heat overtake me, I pick up a folded cloth napkin and fan my face.

  And this is only the beginning of day one in Milan.

  Only nine more days to go.

  Complimentary pastries are delivered to our table, along with our smooth-tasting espressos. I’m still a little too excited to eat more than a couple of bites of my cornetto—which is a light pastry similar to a croissant. And Antonio is engrossed in his phone.

  “TMZ has us pegged as lovers,” he says, looking annoyed.

  “Right. Emma showed me the photos last night.”

  “Daniella, I am so sorry to have your name smeared over the media. I-I thought for sure the sunglasses would help. But I suspect they followed me from my house to yours, most likely tipped about my airline reservation.” He signals for the waiter who served our food.

  “I’m not concerned. I mean, I know very few people who will even care about me in the news.” I reach over and touch his hand. “Seriously, it’s okay.”

  He raises his eyebrows briefly. “Well, if you say so. Still, I want to protect your dignity in the future. I’ll figure something out.”

  Matteo comes and clears the table. “Thank you, Signore. Do you need something else?”

  “No, thank you. Just the check, please.”

  “Signor Michaels…it’s on the house. Enjoy the rest of your day.” He nods and walks away.

  “I hate when they won’t let me pay.” Antonio tosses his napkins onto the table. “Come on, we need to pick up the car.”

  “No more fancy limo driver?”

  “Nope. I like to drive myself when at all possible. They have cars to rent here so I reserved a Maserati.”

  A fucking Maserati? Why am I not at all surprised?

  The valet pulls up in a white Maserati, gets out, and tosses Antonio the keys. “La Sua auto, Signore.”

  “Grazie, amico mio, lo apprezzo.” Antonio walks over to the luxury car and opens the passenger door, looking straight at me. “Come on, Miss Personal Assistant. Time to head to the factory.”

  It’s the week before what’s known as “fashion week”, yet the streets of Milan are already satiated with sartorial perfection. As Antonio maneuvers his sporty rental car through the busy intersections of Milan, I spot model-types prancing about the famous shopping district, bedecked in everything from flappy dress suits to eye-popping print dresses. There are photographers abound, feverishly snapping away at unsuspecting and equally suspecting passersby.

  This is indeed everything I dreamed Milan would be—and more.

  We finally make it to a main highway leading toward Northern Italy—a place called Bergamo—where his uncle’s small factory is.

  “Sit back and relax, Daniella. We’ve got an hour’s drive ahead of us, at least,” Antonio informs, looking over to me, his blue eyes much darker than normal. Besides that, I also noticed his voice sounds slightly different. More authentic.

  “You’re speaking with a slight Italian accent. Did you know that?”

  He laughs with cheeks dusted a light coat of red, much like an embarrassed young boy. “Oh, yes. Seems as though once I begin speaking Italian, an accent pops up. I can’t help it.”

  I shrug. “I suppose it’s much like when I visit Texas. My Texas drawl prominently surfaces.”

  “Exactly. Then you can totally relate.”

  I steal a lengthy glance, not long enough to call it a stare, but just enough to capture him in a moment of vulnerability as he keeps his eyes on the open road—seemingly deep in thought.

  My mind is saturated with a bazillion questions as I feel compelled to know more about what makes Antonio Michaels tick.

  “How did you learn to speak Italian?” I say, disrupting the momentary silence.

  “My grandma. She’s Italian and speaks English too, but having raised me, she thought I should know Italian as well.” His eyes narrow as the sun beams into the car.

  “So you’re Italian?”

  He chuckles. “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “I’m sorry.” I giggle. “It was meant to be a question—mainly because I get the sense it’s a little more than Italian.”

  “Very intuitive. I’m a mutt—a mix of Italian on my mother’s side and French-American on my father’s side.”

  I knew I picked up on that mixture when we collided on the Metro.

  “Very complementary mix.”

  “I suppose. And you?” He turns to me, his lips forming a half-smirk, half-smile that could probably charm the panties off any woman he meets.

  “I’m not too sure.” I begin to fidget and shift my gaze out the window. “I’ve heard I have Latin roots on my mom’s side, which is probably where I get my mostly tanned skin tone.”

  “There are many ladies who pay good money to look as naturally tan as you do, you know. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, Daniella.”

  I feel my entire face—well, actually—my entire body heat up.

  And now what am I supposed to say?

  “Thank you, Antonio,” I mutter, still internally beaming.

  The rest of the drive, Antonio explains more about what we will be doing this week and also provides details about what I should expect the following week. According to him, the closer Fashion Week approaches, the crazier it will get.

  He exits the highway and we take some side streets until he turns onto a street called Via Confortino. And then we pull into a parking lot in front of a small factory.

  “And here we are: my uncle’s factory.”

  The two of us are out of the car for only thirty seconds when a tall, thin man with dark hair and a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper-colored beard approaches, arms spread out, headed right for Antonio. “Benvenuto, nipote mio!” He cups Antonio’s face in his large hands, planting a kiss on one cheek, then the other.

  “Hello, Uncle Carlo. It’s great to see you,” Antonio says, switching the conversation from Italian to English, for my benefit, I assume.

  His uncle looks
at me with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. “Ooooh. Such a beauty. Is this a girlfriend you’ve been hiding, eh, bel diavoletto?”

  Antonio swallows his embarrassment and clears his throat. “Uncle Carlo, this is Daniella Belle. My new assistant.”

  “’Your assistant? E cosi che si chiama, adesso?”

  Antonio rolls his eyes. “No, Uncle. Assistant still means assistant. Not a new term for girlfriend.”

  Uncle Carlo approaches and greets me in the same manner he did Antonio, planting a kiss on one of my cheeks before moving to the other. “It’s good to meet you, Daniella Belle. And welcome to Italy.”

  He stands between me and Antonio and claps his hands. “Shall we go on in? We’ve got lots of work to do, I hear.”

  He leads the way through the factory doors, taking us past endless rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with layers of color-categorized garment fabric.

  We end up in an office, its walls splattered with labeled sketches of all sorts of designs—from coats, to pants, to shoes, dresses, and lingerie.

  He encourages me to sit on a small white sofa, perched against a copper-toned wall displaying vibrant artwork of small Italian cities. I sit down, sinking into the couch cushions, feeling a little tired now. Jet lag to blame, no doubt.

  He sits on the edge of his desk, and opens a drawer, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Antonio shakes his head. “Uncle Carlo…put those away. Does Aunt Bettina know you’re smoking again?”

  Uncle Carlo grimaces, placing the pack of cigarettes and lighter back in the desk drawer. “No. And you better not tell her.” He smiles. “I’m doing much better now anyway, only down to one or two cigarettes a week.” He coughs and grabs a bottle of water and takes a long sip. “Oh, can I offer you both something to drink?”

  I shake my head and both Antonio and I offer a “No thank you,” in harmonious unison.

  Uncle Carlo laughs. “Hmm. Soon you two will be completing each other’s sentences.” He professes, his thick Italian accent brimming.

  What is that supposed to mean?

  “So, Uncle, let’s discuss the designs. Do you have the sketches?”