The Cinderella Pact by Sarah Strohmeyer Read Free Book Online

looking up.
    â€œHave you lost something?” The voice is British. Genuine British. Not my fake Monty Python/Posh Spice/Mr. Bean/Belinda Apple British.
    I snap up and, in so doing, my hair falls out of its clip and over my face like Cousin Itt. I feel a bit dizzy and I must be dizzy because in front of me is standing Mick Jagger, only thirty years younger. But what would Mick Jagger only thirty years younger (Son of Mick?) be doing near the Route 18 overpass in East Brunswick in the Princeton North Corporate Center?
    He grins, and that’s when it comes into focus. This isn’t Son of Mick. This is Nigel Barnes. The Nigel Barnes. Belinda’s Nigel Barnes, whom I last saw in the flesh at the annual Sass! Christmas party.
    That’s where he said to me, and I quote, “Did you make these meatballs? They’re rather good.”
    And I wittily retorted, “Uh-huh.”
    And he said, “Family recipe?”
    And I grunted, “Mother’s.”
    At which point he smiled politely and chirped, “Jolly good.” Then some tart from Personnel threw her arms around his neck and dragged him to a group of giggling fellow Personnel tarts tipsy on punch.
    He is taller than I remembered. Confident in a classic white shirt, a rather preppy striped tie, and worn jeans and somewhat unshaven face. His hands are large with long, almost graceful fingers. Artistic, I think. And other things that I wouldn’t say unless I were Belinda. But I’m not Belinda. I’m Nola. If I were Belinda, I wouldn’t be as eloquent as I am now.
    â€œUm.” I start searching my database for a lie that might explain why I, literally, had my head up my ass. “You see . . .”
    Forget it. There simply is no easy way to recover from being caught checking the state of your underwear.

Chapter Four
    â€œMy car exploded,” I say by way of idiotic explanation as Nigel, probably suspecting that I am a runaway mental patient, insists on escorting me to Sass! Much to his obvious surprise, I declare that we are both late for the same meeting.
    â€œYou work . . . here?” He turns to me on the stairs where I am keeping a careful distance to fall behind. As a general rule, I try to never end up walking ahead of someone up the stairs so that my rear end is in their face. But today this rule has a codicil. The pink underwear codicil. Today no one will see my ass, not as long as there are walls against which to slink.
    â€œI’m Belinda Apple’s editor. We met once at a Christmas party two years ago.” I raise my eyebrows alluringly. “Swedish meatballs.”
    â€œOh, yes, right. Of course,” he flubs, not remembering me or my meatballs one bit.
    Which means I have to gracefully bring up my name so that he won’t have to stumble around it. “Yessirree,” I say, as we reach the corridor leading to the conference room. “It’s hard to forget Nola Devlin’s Swedish meatballs.”
    â€œRight. Nola.” He smiles weakly and opens the door to the hallway, though I demur because of the pink-undie codicil. “Apparently Belinda and I are an item. You know, I should sue since I’ve never even laid eyes on the woman.”
    â€œYou’ve never met her?” I ask innocently.
    â€œNever. I have to say I am a closet fan of her columns. Though don’t tell my students that I read such trash.”
    We both laugh conspiratorially about my trashy prose.
    â€œSeriously. I think her message of encouraging women to relax and enjoy life is simply brilliant. I can’t tell you how many uptight women I’ve met at Princeton who drive me up the wall with their insecurities, their ‘How come you didn’t call me’s’ and ‘Will I get tenure’s’ and ‘Do I look . . .’ Well, you get the idea. Really, most men are sick of it.”
    I should be listening to his rant, but I stopped at the word brilliant. Brilliant! Nigel