Cinderella and the Playboy by Lois Faye Dyer Read Free Book Online

“I like the customers, the other waitresses, even my boss. I plan to keep working there until I get my degree.”
    “What are you studying?”
    “Education—I want to be a teacher.”
    “Good for you.” His smile held approval and respect. “What kind of classes are you taking?”
    “An English lit class, which I love,” she told him. “And a psychology class, which I don’t like very much. Still,” she added, “at least it’s not an art class.”
    “You don’t like art?”
    “Oh, I love art,” she assured him. “I love going to museums and looking at sculpture, oil paintings, watercolors…I especially love Impressionist paintings. But I have very little artistic talent, unfortunately, and I need a passing grade in several art classes to finish my degree.”
    “How many hours are you at the diner every week?” he asked with a frown. “Aren’t you working full-time? How do you have time to study?”
    She smiled impishly. “I don’t date. It’s amazinghow much free time a woman has when she cuts men out of her life.”
    His arms tightened, pulling her closer. “That’s got to change,” he growled.
    She laughed, her breasts pressed to the muscled strength of his chest, his powerful thighs hard against hers. Excitement and heat shivered through her and she tilted her head back to look up at him. “But I have to earn my degree if I want to become a teacher—and I really, really want to be a teacher.”
    His gaze studied her before he nodded. “I can see you being a teacher—little kids, right? Or are you thinking of teenagers?”
    She shook her head. “I’m more interested in grade school.”
    “Yet another thing we have in common,” he commented. “Both of us want careers where we can help people.”
    She stared into his eyes, struck by the truth of his comment. They did seem to have a lot in common—and with each new revelation, her feelings for him deepened.
    Conversation lapsed as they danced, the brush of their bodies casting a spell that held them, growing stronger, hotter with each movement of body against body as they swayed to the music.
    When the orchestra took a break, Chase tipped his head back to look down at her.
    “Thirsty?”
    Jennifer nodded and Chance released her, his hand stroking in a warm caress down her arm before he threaded her fingers through his and led her from the crowded dance floor.
    Guests strolled the periphery of the ballroom, sat with wineglasses at small tables, or gathered in groups to chat and observe the colorful swirl of other guests in the center of the room.
    The champagne fountain sat on a white linen-covered table. Chance handed a filled crystal flute to Jennifer and lifted a second one.
    “Hello, Chance. Frank told me you were here.”
    Jennifer looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the lanky, blond man in a white chef’s coat. His features were movie-star handsome and a counterpoint to Chance’s dark masculinity.
    “Jordan,” Chance greeted him with a wide grin. The two men shook hands and then Chance slipped his free hand around Jennifer’s waist to draw her closer. “Jennifer, this is Jordan Massey, the best chef in Boston.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Jennifer.” The swift glance Jordan raked over her was pure male interest.
    Jennifer felt a subtle tension in Chance. The possibility that he might be jealous of the good-looking chef was intriguing but she dismissed the notion. Instead, she smiled and held out her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Jordan. I’m so glad I have an opportunity to tell you how wonderful our dinner was—I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”
    “Thank you.” He took her hand, holding it a second too long and giving her fingers a light squeeze before releasing her. He lifted an eyebrow at Chance. “She’s beautiful and she loves my cooking. Where have you been hiding her, Chance?”
    “Never mind.” Chance’s voice held a definite possessive warning. “Back off.”
    Jordan