Page 3 of Cinderella-ish
Pushing myself off him, I grab a tight hold of the pole and can’t help but laugh at the sight of hisshirt.
Sweet ironic revenge at itsbest.
He looks down at his shirt, then up at me, and without taking his eyes off me, he swipes the jelly off his shirt with the tip of his index finger, and calmly licks the sticky goo off before he winks. “I’ve got a wide selection of clean shirts I can change into at myoffice.”
For a split second, the sight of him licking his finger makes my spine tingle. The dark-haired guy is scrumptiously gorgeous—tall, tan, with smoldering dark blue eyes. But his sarcastic remark just downright infuriatesme.
“You’re a first-class jerk, aren’t you?” I suggest, feeling my face heatup.
“And why would you say such a thing? You hardly know me.” The tone of his voice has a delicate accent to it, a sultry brew of American, Italian, and French—an international delight,perhaps.
“Thank goodness for that,” I admit. “I would pay good money to never have to bump into the likes of youagain.”
“Ouch. You certainly do possess a spicy little bite, huh? And a huge scruffy attitude, too.” He flirts as he runs his tongue across his softlips.
I glare at him, displaying I am not at all interested in flirtatious banter. “Scruffy attitude? Let’s not forget you are a huge reason why I have thisattitude.”
He shakes his head. “Oh no. Don’t try to pin it on me. I watched you as you got onto the train. You looked annoyed after you glanced at your phone. And now you’re taking it out on me. Let me take a wild guess…did someone dump you viatext?”
“You know what? Screw you,” I spit out, more shocked than he probably is. Sure, I tend to curse like a sailor, but not in the presence of hundreds of commuters on atrain.
“Whoa! Such language for a little lady.” He smiles conspiratorially and leans in close enough for me to get an accurate count of the somewhat sexy sprinkle of freckles along the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, how many guys have you kissed with that potty mouth ofyours?”
I step back, flabbergasted at his blatant audacity to deliver such a question so bluntly. Without much thought, I cleverly toss back, “Tell me, how many women have you lost with that endless arrogance of yours? It spills out of you with as much force as water gushing out of a busted watermain.”
The train comes to a halt and I realize it’s my stop. At least I think itis.
I rush past the brute who’s un-graced me with his presence for the last ten minutes, and as I get closer to the exit, I hear his voice gripe in the distance. “Good luck on that job interview, Miss Potty Mouth. It’s a crying shame you can’t use me as your characterreference.”
I’ve walked at least three blocks and, thankfully, I’m just about there. I was so flustered on the train, I got off a stop too soon. But who could blame me? The guy was utterly despicable. In my not so humble opinion, walking the rest of the way is a winning trade-off, despite the fact I know darn well my feet are going to be done-in by these shoes once I get to the office building for theinterview.
Part of me wants to head back to Stacy’s Beverly Hills home and forget this interview since my appearance is less than to be desired. Honestly, who shows up to an interview with food spillage? My gut tells me something good has got to come out of this bad start to my day. The worst is behind me…left on thattrain.
When I finally arrive, with about twenty minutes to spare, I head straight for the receptionist desk to check in and when I approach, a young woman popping pink bubble gum is busy on the computer. She bops her head from side to side as if she’s got a groovy pop song stuck in her head. At first glance, it’s safe for me to assume she’s around my age—early twenties, at least. Her dark blue eyes switch from the computer screen to my face, then almost immediately switch to the pitiful stain on mydress.
“Oh my goodness! What happened to your beautiful dress, hun?” She covers her mouth and her eyes widen, displaying what appears to be empatheticshock.
Instinctively, I try to cover the now dried-up jelly glob with the palm of my hand, but realize it’s a total waste oftime.
“Oh, I was accosted by a jelly donut on the train this morning,” I sarcasticallyexplain.
“A jelly donut? That’s freakishly bizarre because—” She pauses, holds up her index finger, and mouths the words ‘hold on’, reaching to answer the office phone that sits underneath a pile of file folders on herdesk.
As she diverts her attention to the person on the other end of the phone, I take a seat on one of the two couches that sits in the center of the lobby. The black-and-white walls are decorated with large gold-framed photos of women who are scantily adorned in exquisite lingerie pieces—a tasteful shrine of blown-up magazine spreads ofCraveMeunmentionables.
“Sorry about the interruption,” the woman says, with a gesture for me to make a return to her desk. “The phone has been ringing nonstop since a job opportunity was announced.” She looks at me questionably. “Wait. Are you here for an interview?” She steals a quick glance at my ill-stained dressagain.
“Yes, actually Iam.”
“Oh, goody! What’s your name,hun?”
“Daniella Belle. Belle with an E.” I anxiously tap my fingernails against the top of her elongated, podium-styledesk.
She picks up a clipboard and skims over the list of names. “Oh right, B-E-L-L-E. Here you are. Sign in, right next to your name, please. You’re slotted for 9:53 a.m.” She smiles as she hands me the clipboard along with an ink pen. “I’m Liza, by theway.”
“It’s great to meet you,Liza.”
She focuses on me with her head cocked and her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed as I hand her the clipboard. “You look like you’ve had a rough start to your day. How about I loan you something to put over your dress? You know, to cover up thatstain?”
