Chapter 18
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I don’t care what anyone says. My boss is not my fairy godmother.
Mirabelle
With Fawn oohing and ahhing over my shoulder, I stare at my…boss. Who is physically attracted to me. And also standing outside my door the night before Halloween, with a…gown.
Dangling from his fingers is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The long, starry sleeves billow around an equally cascading skirt.
I frown, cutting my eyes toward a not-entirely-small box he’s managed to clasp in his massive hand while presenting the dress. No doubt there’s a whole crown in there. No doubt it’s not party jewelry with plastic gems, either.
“I said I’d be Cinderella, pre-magic,” I remind him.
The huge man nods. “I know. You did.”
“Soo…”
The huge muscly man who eats 200 grams of protein a day turns around.
To reveal tiny wings.
“Oh my—” Fawn swears.
Mr. Anders says, “I’m your fairy godmother. Alakazam.”
My mouth falls open while Fawn absolutely and irrevocably loses it.
She’s wheezing before I can even try to process this.
“Let him in,” Fawn says, the betrayer of all betraying.
“What!” I snap as she wipes her tears and reaches for his arm, trying to drag him inside my home, my sanctuary.
“He’s in tiny wings for you, Mira. At least let’s see what he has in that box where it’s warmer.”
“But…but…”
As his ginormous body slides in past me, he meets my eyes and echoes, “I’m in tiny wings for you, Mirabelle. Imagine the number this is doing on my masculine pride. You should really consider pitying me.”
And we’re back on the trend of gross, obvious manipulation.
I slam the door behind him and fold my arms.
Unfortunately, something in the pit of my chest heats. Boils. It is painful. And it makes it hard to breathe…and…and…swallow! It also makes it hard to rip my gaze off him.
When he said he’d be honest, I wasn’t expecting him to be this honest. Blatant. Open.
I don’t know.
Honest to the point of shameless isn’t what I expected, but honest to the point of shameless is what I’m getting.
Laying the dress out over the back of my couch, Mr. Anders opens the box he brought for Fawn to see.
Her hand slaps to her face, nearly knocking her glasses off, as she gasps.
“Starlight princess,” Mr. Anders says, casually, unsmiling.
Fawn swallows, lowers her hand, and mouths the words.
“From the recent Amare galaxy line,” he elaborates.
Fawn cusses. “How much was all this?”
“Does that matter?”
Her eyes shoot up to meet his. “I need to know how much to reasonably pawn it off for later.”
“Probably find a private buyer instead.”
“Got it.” She nods once.
Then two sets of eyes pierce me.
I yelp and plaster myself to the front door. “No…please…” I sniffle as tears gather in my eyes. “I’m just a sad little girl.”
Fawn’s teeth bare, wicked and possibly sharp as she grabs me, secures the dress, and shoves me into my bedroom with it. “Three minutes, or I’m sending Damion in there to help you change.”
I squeak, arms full of silken, glittery fabric.
Deep and low, Mr. Anders’s voice slithers through the cracks in my door. “See, precious? Fawn knows how to use my first name.”
I might, openly, weep.
Or…
Dumping the fabric on my bed, I rush to the window. It opens easily and silently.
I can esca…
A shadow appears, looming, once I have one leg thrown onto the sill.
Looking up, I meet silver eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
A puff of air leaves Mr. Anders, then humor ignites in those ethereal silver eyes of his as he drags his knuckles up to cover the teetering edge of a burgeoning smile. Laughter shakes him, quietly moving his shoulders and tainting his voice. “You’re really…trying to climb out…the window.”
I lose my ability to think.
Mr. Anders…is laughing.
Mirth bathes him, filling his face with joy and delirium. Tears prick the corners of his eyes as he fights, and loses, this battle to contain himself.
I must stand there, starstruck, for ages, because the thing that wakes me is Fawn shoving into the room, shouting, “Three minutes are up!” She stops, takes in my leg still on the sill of my open window and Mr. Anders beyond it.
Blinking, she sighs. “Oh for crying out loud.” Marching across the room, she grabs my wrist, yanks me away, slams the window shut, tosses the drapes over it, and faces me, finger jabbed.
“It’s a pretty dress. You love pretty dresses. Put on the pretty dress. Now.”
When my door slams again, I find myself robotically stunned into submission and slipping the silken starlight princess dress over my head.
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“Wow,” Lynn whispers, conspiring against me with the rest of my book club, and Fawn, who—FOR THE RECORD—hates people.
Graceful as a princess nearly about to be subjected to treason, I float in my expensive dress with my million and one dollar crown, doing my royal duty of passing out candy to peasant children. Benevolent, me. Kind, me. Easily stabbed in the back, sniff, me.
“He’s huge,” Beth hisses.
“He’s hot,” Leeann states.
Fawn chuckles. “He has so many tattoos.”
The women gasp, and the huddle gets more claustrophobic. Which—FOR THE RECORD—Fawn is supposed to hate. Clearly, her hatred of the present starlight monarchy outranks her hatred of people. I am, genuinely, shocked and appalled that she came with us tonight.
Since.
You know.
She also hates children.
Threatens to eat them, she does, whenever possible.
“Where are the tattoos?” Lynn asks, an old woman starved for scandal.
“I’ve seen them on his arms, but I bet they’re everywhere.” Fawn chuckles some more, evilly this time. “Why don’t we ask Princess Mira for more details? I bet she’s seen the grand number.”
I hand a full-size Snickers to a boy dressed in an inflatable dinosaur suit and let my poor lip tremble as I meet my former friend’s eyes. “Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you. I love you. And a future where you are a pampered princess. Forever. No more cooking and cleaning. Spoiled princess wife life only.”
I bristle at the very notion. And then I bristle again because the love child of Spider-man and Goliath sidles up beside me the second the street obtains a brief reprieve from children. Tense, I turn myself toward Mr. Anders.
Spider-man looks at me, and I gulp. It’s not cheap spandex he’s wearing. It’s Hollywood-grade, quality costuming. The only hint I have that Tom Holland does not lay beyond the red-and-blue suit is that I don’t believe Tom Holland is twenty-seven feet tall.
“Are you cold?” Mr. Anders asks, as though I’m not at risk of overheating in front of my favorite superhero.
I shake my head. “Are you?”
He looks down at his full suit, not an inch of skin revealed. “Bit warm, actually.”
Oh. Great. Fabulous. That makes two of us.
Snuggling up with the bowl of candy I’m holding, I hope I don’t melt the chocolate as I look down my skirt at the pavement. “Thank you for getting me a dress with long sleeves.”
“I checked the weather forecast before I rush ordered it.”
A cool breeze touches my neckline, and Mr. Anders moves from my one side to the other in order to block it, which…kinda makes me need it more if I’m being honest. So it’s a good thing I’m not the one obligated to be honest.
“Do you get the feeling,” Mr. Anders begins, voice low beneath the whistle of wind and distant laughter of children, “that the people behind us are in need of popcorn?”
I glance back at the people behind us. Breaths bated, all four of them stare.
Facing forward again, I mutter, “I think the people behind us need lives.”
A sound I’m coming to recognize as a laugh leaves Mr. Anders before his covered hand weasels mine away from my bowl of candy to lace our fingers.
He turns. With some amount of great skill, he steals my entire bowl of candy and dumps it in Fawn’s arms before he tugs me along after him, toward the side of Lynn’s house.
Gathering my skirt and tripping to keep up, I say, “Mr. Anders? Where are we going?”
He stops us once we’re far enough away from the street that I can no longer hear my former friends plotting against me. Then he locks my hand in his grasp and pulls, flattening my back against the siding.
My eyes widen as my heart kicks my ribs, screaming curse words I do not entertain in its grand scheme of escape. I whisper, “Mr. Anders?”
The billowing sleeve of my dress falls to my elbow as he pins my hand above my head.
Breath caught, I do not move when he leans in, slants his face, and touches his mask to my wrist.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
“Mr.—”
“Damion,” he rumbles. Heat pours from the fabric of his mask to caress my skin. “You are a vision, Mirabelle. A dream. I’d wish on a star for you to be mine, but their light is too pale next to you for me to see when they fall.”
“Sir…” I whisper. “Please.”
“Damion, please,” he corrects, drawing his nose down my skin to rest at the crook of my elbow. “Such sweet agony.” His free hand settles at my waist, dreadfully present in its weight, in the press of his fingers, in the additional heat.
His thumb swipes, and my knees threaten to buckle. Shivering and shattered, I say, “Damion, please.”
He cusses. Pulling his face from my arm, he studies me, and I find myself wishing I could see his eyes.
Right now, he’s more of an enigma than he’s ever been, and I am more at his mercy than I have ever felt.
Staring helplessly at the blank canvas of red and blue before me, I wait—patient—for something to break.
Mr. Anders’s grip loosens, slips. My arm falls to my side the second I’m free, but I can only relish the freedom a moment before he cups my face and presses his mouth to mine.
Everything inside me electrifies as the knowledge of his lips beyond the fabric of his mask writes itself into my brain. The “kiss” lasts barely a second. Then the press, the heat, the sureness and stability, are gone. And he’s gone.
And I’m staring ahead at the neighbor house’s siding while his heavy steps abandon me there, confused…and ablaze.