Finding Cinderella Maybe Someday

TATE
Miles: Are you busy?
Me: Always busy. What’s up?
Miles: I need your help. Won’t take long.
Me: Be there in five.
I should have given myself ten minutes rather than five,
because I haven’t had a shower today. After a ten-hour shift
last night, I’m sure I need one. If I knew he was home, a
shower would have been my top priority, but I thought he
wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
I pull my hair up into a loose bun and change from my
pajama bottoms into a pair of jeans. It’s not quite noon yet,
but I’m embarrassed to admit I was still in bed.
He yells for me to come in after I knock on his door, so I
push it open. He’s standing on a chair next to one of the
living-room windows. He glances down at me, then nods his
head toward a chair.
“Grab that chair and push it right there,” he says, pointing
to a spot a few feet away from him. “I’m trying to measure
these, but I’ve never bought curtains before. I don’t know if
I’m supposed to measure the outside frame or the actual
window itself.”

---

Well, I’ll be damned. He’s buying curtains.
I scoot the chair to the other side of the window and climb
up onto it. He hands me one end of the measuring tape and
begins to pull.
“It all depends on what kind of curtains you want, so I’d
get measurements for both,” I suggest.
He’s dressed casually again in a pair of jeans and a dark
blue T-shirt. Somehow the dark blue in his shirt make his
eyes look less blue. It makes them look clear. See-through,
almost, but I know that’s impossible. His eyes are anything
but see-through with that wall he keeps up behind them.
He enters the measurement into his phone, and then we
take a second measurement. Once he’s got both entered
into his phone, we step down and push the chairs back
under the table.
“What about a rug?” he asks, staring at the floor beneath
the table. “You think I should get a rug?”
I shrug. “Depends on what you like.”
He nods his head slowly, still staring down at the bare
floor.
“I don’t know what I like anymore,” he says quietly. He
tosses the tape measure onto the couch and looks at me.
“You want to come?”
I refrain from immediately nodding. “Where to?”
He brushes his hair off his forehead and reaches for his
jacket tossed over the back of his couch. “Wherever people
buy curtains.”
I should say no. Picking out curtains is something couples
do. Picking out curtains is something friends do. Picking out
curtains is not something Miles and Tate should do if they
want to stick to their rules, but I absolutely, positively, most
definitely don’t want to do anything else.
I shrug to make my answer appear much more casual
than it is. “Sure. Let me lock my door.”
• • •

---

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask him once we’re on the
elevator. I’m trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but I
can’t deny the desire I have for him to reach out and touch
me. A kiss, a hug . . . anything. We’re standing on opposite
sides of the elevator, though. We haven’t touched since the
night we first had sex. We haven’t even spoken or texted
since then, either.
“Black?” he says, unsure of his own answer. “I like black.”
I shake my head. “You can’t decorate with black curtains.
You need color. Maybe something close to black but not
black.”
“Navy?” he asks. I notice his eyes aren’t focused on mine
anymore. His eyes are scrolling slowly from my neck all the
way down to my feet. Everywhere his eyes focus, I can feel
it.
“Navy might work,” I say quietly. I’m pretty sure this
conversation is only taking place for the sake of having
conversation. I can see by the way he’s looking at me that
neither of us is thinking about colors or curtains or rugs
right now.
“Do you have to work tonight, Tate?”
I nod. I like that he’s thinking about tonight, and I love
how he ends most of his questions with my name. I love
how he says my name. I should require him to say my name
every time he speaks to me. “I don’t have to be in until
ten.”
The elevator reaches the bottom floor, and we both move
to the doors at the same time. His hand connects with the
small of my back, and the current that moves through me is
undeniable. I’ve had crushes on guys before, hell, I’ve even
been in 
love
with guys before, but none of their touches
have ever been able to make me respond the way his do.
As soon as I step off the elevator, his hand leaves my
back. I’m more aware of the absence of his touch now than
before he even touched me. Each little bit I get, I crave it
that much more.

---

Cap isn’t in his usual spot. That’s not surprising, though,
considering it’s only noon. He’s not much of a morning
person. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.
“You feel like walking?” Miles asks.
I tell him yes, despite the fact that it’s cold out. I prefer
walking, and we’re near several stores that would work for
what he’s looking for. I suggest a store I passed a couple of
weeks ago that’s only two blocks from where we are.
“After you,” he says, holding the door open for me. I step
outside and pull my coat a little tighter around me. I highly
doubt Miles is the type of guy who holds hands in public, so
I don’t even worry about making my hands available to him.
I hug myself to keep warm, and we begin walking side-by-
side.
We’re quiet most of the way, but I’m fine with it. I’m not
someone who feels the need for constant conversation, and
I’m learning that he might be the same way.
“It’s right up here,” I say, pointing to the right when we
reach a crosswalk. I glance down at an elderly man seated
on the sidewalk, bundled up in a tattered, thin coat. His
eyes are closed, and the gloves on his shivering hands are
rifled with holes.
I’ve always been sympathetic to people who have nothing
and nowhere to go. Corbin hates that I can never pass
homeless people without giving them money or food. He
says the majority of them are homeless because they have
addictions and that when I give them money, it only feeds
those addictions.
Honestly, I don’t care if that’s the case. If someone is
homeless because he has a need for something that is
stronger than his need for a home, it doesn’t deter me in
the least. Maybe it’s because I’m a nurse, but I don’t believe
addiction is a choice. Addiction is an illness, and it pains me
to see people forced to live this way because they’re unable
to help themselves.
I would give him money if I had brought my purse.

---

I realize I’m no longer walking when I feel Miles steal a
glance back in my direction. He’s watching me watch the
old man, so I pick up my pace and catch back up with him. I
don’t say anything to defend the troubled expression on my
face. It’s pointless. I’ve been through it enough with Corbin
to know that I don’t have the desire to try to change all the
opinions I disagree with.
“This is it,” I say, coming to a pause in front of the store.
Miles stops walking and inspects the display inside the
store window. “Do you like that?” he asks, pointing at the
window. I take a step closer and look at it with him. It’s a
bedroom display, but there are elements in it that he’s
looking for. The rug on the floor is gray with several
geometric shapes in various shades of blue and black. It
actually looks like something that would fit his taste.
The curtains aren’t navy, though. They’re a slate gray,
with one solid white line running vertically down the left side
of the panel.
“I do like it,” I reply.
He steps in front of me and opens the door to let me walk
in first. A saleswoman is making her way toward the front
before the door even closes behind us. She asks if she can
help us find anything. Miles points to the window. “I want
those curtains. Four of them. And the rug.”
The saleswoman smiles and motions for us to follow her.
“What width and height do you need?”
Miles pulls his phone out and reads off the measurements
to her. She helps him pick out curtain rods and then tells us
she’ll be a few minutes. She heads to the back and leaves
us alone at the register. I look around, suddenly developing
the urge to pick out decorations for my own place. I plan on
staying with Corbin for a couple more months, but it
wouldn’t hurt to have an idea of what I’ll want for my own
place when I do finally move out. I’m hoping it’ll be just as
easy to shop when that time comes as it was for Miles today.
“I’ve never seen anyone shop this fast,” I tell him.

---

“Disappointed?”
I quickly shake my head. If there’s one thing I don’t do
well as a girl, it’s shop. I’m actually relieved it only took him
a minute.
“You think I should look around longer?” he asks. He’s
leaning against the counter now, watching me. I like the
way he looks at me—like I’m the most interesting thing in
the store.
“If you like what you already picked out, I wouldn’t keep
looking. When you know, you know.”
I meet his gaze, and the second I do, my mouth gets dry.
He’s concentrating on me, and the serious look on his face
makes me feel uncomfortable and nervous and interesting,
all at once. He pushes off the counter and takes a step
toward me.
“Come here.” His fingers reach down and wrap around
mine, and he begins to pull me behind him.
My pulse is being ridiculous. It’s sad, really.
They’re just fingers, Tate. Don’t let them affect you like
this.
He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold
screen, decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It’s the
kind of screen people place in the corners of bedrooms. I
never understood them. My mother has one, and I doubt
she’s ever once stepped behind it to change clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He
grins and steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so
we’re both shielded from the rest of the store. I can’t help
but laugh, because it feels like we’re in high school, hiding
from the teacher.
His finger meets my lips. “Shh,” he whispers, smiling
down at me while he stares at my mouth.
I immediately stop laughing but not because I don’t find
this amusing anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as
his finger is pressed against my lips, I forget how to laugh.

---

I forget everything.
Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it
slides softly down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the
tip of his finger as it keeps moving, trailing gently down my
throat, all the way to my chest, down, down, down to my
stomach.
That one finger feels as if it’s touching me with the
sensation of a thousand hands. My lungs and their inability
to keep up are signs of that.
His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a
pause at the top of my jeans, right above the button. His
finger isn’t even making contact with my skin, but you
wouldn’t know that based on the rapid response of my
pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly
traces my stomach over the top of my shirt until his hand
meets my waist. Both of his hands grip my hips and pull me
forward, securing me against him.
His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again,
he’s no longer looking down. He’s looking straight at me.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked through
my front door today,” he says.
His confession makes me smile. “You have incredible
patience.”
His right hand leaves my hip, and he brings it up to the
side of my head, touching my hair as softly as possible. He
begins to shake his head in slow disagreement. “If I had
incredible patience, you wouldn’t be with me right now.”
I latch on to that sentence and immediately try to figure
out the meaning behind it, but the second his lips touch
mine, I’m no longer interested in the words that left his
mouth. I’m only interested in his mouth and how it feels
when it invades mine.
His kiss is slow and calm—the complete opposite of my
pulse. His right hand moves to the back of my head, and his
left hand slips around to my lower back. He explores my

---

mouth patiently, as if he plans on keeping me behind this