Finding Cinderella Maybe Someday

part of me that Dillon was just touching.
Miles saw Dillon’s hand on me.
Miles is looking at Dillon now as if he just committed
murder.
“Since when do you drink beer from a cup?” Miles says.
Dillon turns around and looks at Miles, then glances back
to me and smiles a very blatant, flirtatious smile. “Since
Tate was standing so close to the cabinet.”
Shit.
He’s not even hiding it. He thinks I’m into him.
Miles walks to the refrigerator and opens it. “So Dillon.
How’s your 
wife
?”

---

Miles doesn’t make an attempt to remove anything. He’s
just standing there, staring into the refrigerator, with his
fingers gripping the door handle harder than it’s ever been
gripped, I’m sure.
Dillon is still looking at me, staring down at me. “She’s at
work,” he says pointedly. “For at least four more hours.”
Miles slams the refrigerator and takes two quick steps
toward Dillon. Dillon stands up straight, and I immediately
scoot two feet away from him. “Corbin specifically
instructed you to keep your hands off his sister. Show him
some fucking respect!”
Dillon’s jaw twitches, and he doesn’t back down or look
away from Miles. In fact, he takes a step toward him, closing
the space between them. “Sounds to me like this isn’t really
about 
Corbin
,” Dillon says, seething.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel guilty that I gave
Dillon the wrong idea and even guiltier that they’re arguing
about it now. But dammit, I love that Miles hates him so
much. I just wish I knew if it was because he doesn’t like
that Dillon is flirting when he’s got a wife at home or if he
doesn’t like that Dillon is flirting with 
me.
And now Corbin is standing in the doorway.
Shit.
“
What
isn’t really about me?” Corbin asks, watching the
two of them in their standoff.
Miles backs up a step and turns so that he can face Dillon
and Corbin at the same time. His eyes remain locked hard
with Dillon’s. “He’s trying to fuck your sister.”
Jesus Christ, Miles. Ever hear of sugarcoating?
Corbin doesn’t even flinch. “Go home to your wife, Dillon,”
he says firmly.
As embarrassing as this is, I don’t do anything to step in
and defend Dillon, because I get the feeling that Miles and
Corbin have been looking for an excuse to defriend him for a
while now. I would also never defend a man who has no
respect for his marriage. Dillon stares at Corbin for several

---

painstakingly long seconds, then turns to face me with his
back to both Miles and Corbin.
This boy seriously has a death wish.
“I live in ten-twelve,” he whispers with a wink. “Stop by
sometime. She works weeknights.” He turns away and walks
between Corbin and Miles. “The two of you can go fuck
yourselves.”
Corbin turns, and his fists are clenched. He begins to stalk
after Dillon, but Miles grabs his arm and pulls him back into
the kitchen. He doesn’t release Corbin’s arm until the front
door slams shut.
Corbin turns to face me, and he looks so angry I’m
surprised steam isn’t coming from his ears. His face is red,
and he’s popping his knuckles. I forgot how insanely
protective he is of me. I feel like I’m fifteen again, only now I
suddenly have 
two
overprotective brothers.
“Erase that apartment number from your head, Tate,”
Corbin says.
I shake my head, somewhat disappointed that he would
even think I’d want to remember Dillon’s apartment
number. “I have standards, Corbin.”
He nods, but he’s still making an attempt to calm himself
down. He inhales a deep breath, pops his jaw, then walks
back into the living room.
Miles is leaning against the counter, staring down at his
feet. I watch him silently until he finally raises his eyes and
looks up at me. He glances toward the living room, then
kicks off the counter and walks toward me. Every step closer
he takes, the more I press myself into the counter behind
me, making an attempt to back away from the intensity in
his eyes, even though I can’t very well go anywhere.
He reaches me.
He smells good. Like apples. 
Forbidden fruit
.
“Ask me if you can study at my place,” he whispers.
I nod, wondering why in the hell he would make such a
random request after everything that just happened. I do it

---

anyway, though. “Can I study at your place?”
He breaks out into a huge grin and drops his forehead to
the side of my head so that his lips are directly over my ear.
“I meant for you to ask me in front of your brother,” he says,
laughing quietly. “So I have an excuse to get you over
there.”
Well, that’s embarrassing.
Now he knows exactly how much I’m not Tate when I’m
near him. I’m only liquid. Conforming. Doing what he asks,
doing what I’m told, doing what he wants me to do.
“Oh,” I say quietly as I watch him ease away from me.
“That makes a lot more sense.”
He’s still smiling, and I didn’t realize how much I missed
seeing that smile. He should smile all the time. Forever. 
At
me.
He walks out of the kitchen and heads back to the living
room, so I go to my room and shower in record time.
• • •
I didn’t realize I was such a good actress.
I had practice, though. Five minutes of practice. I stood in
my room, trying to think of the best, most casual line for
when I walked into the living room to ask Miles for his key. I
decided to wait until a particularly loud moment during the
game, and then I burst out of the room and yelled at all of
them.
“You guys either need to mute the damn TV or go watch it
next door, because I’m trying to study!”
Miles looked at me and tried to hide his smile. Ian looked
at me with suspicion, and Corbin rolled his eyes. “
You
go
next door,” Corbin said. “We’re watching the game.” He
looked at Miles. “She can use your place, right?”
Miles stood up immediately and said, “Sure. I’ll let her in.”
I grabbed my things, followed him out of my apartment,
and now here we are.

---

Miles opens his apartment door for me, even though it
isn’t locked. Corbin doesn’t know that, though. He walks
inside, and I slip in behind him. He shuts the door, and we
turn and face each other.
“I really do have homework,” I say. I don’t know what he’s
expecting to happen right this second, but I feel like I need
to let him know that just because he shows up after a few
days away, that doesn’t mean he’s my number one priority.
Even though he pretty much is.
“I really do have a game to watch,” he says, pointing over
his shoulder at my apartment but walking toward me at the
same time. He takes my books out of my hands and walks
with them to the table, where he sets them down. He starts
walking back toward me and doesn’t stop until his lips are
pressed to mine and we can’t walk any farther because my
back is against the apartment door.
His hands are gripping my waist, and mine are gripping
his shoulders. His tongue slides between my lips and into
my mouth, and I take it, very willingly. He groans and
presses himself against me as my hands slide up his neck
and through his hair. He pulls away just as fast and steps
back several feet.
He’s looking at me like it’s somehow my fault that he has
to leave. He runs two frustrated palms down his face and
releases a deep breath. “You didn’t get to eat earlier,” he
says. “I’ll bring you some pizza.” He walks back toward me,
and I step aside without responding. He opens the door and
disappears.
He’s so weird.
I walk to the table and begin to lay everything out that I
need in order to study. I’m pulling out my chair to sit when
his apartment door flies open again. I turn around, and he’s
walking toward the kitchen with a plate in his hands. He
puts the pizza in his microwave, presses a few buttons and
starts it, and then heads straight toward me. He’s doing that
intimidating thing again that makes me naturally back away

---

from him, but his table is behind me, and I can’t go
anywhere.
He reaches me and quickly presses his lips to mine. “I
have to go back over there,” he says. “You good?”
I nod.
“You need anything?”
I shake my head.
“There’s juice and bottled water in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
He kisses me briefly again before he releases me and
walks out the door.
I fall into my chair.
He’s so 
nice.
I could get used to this.
I pull my notebook in front of me and begin studying.
About half an hour passes, and then I get a text from him.