But I do drift off. Eventually that hope makes it into my dreams.

That’s all it is though.

Because when I wake up to the bright sunshine coming through the hotel windows, she’s gone.

So I do the only thing I can think to do to make it right. I pick up the phone and call a girl.

Chapter Twenty-Five

My only saving grace is the fact that Claudio is out screwing around with Steve. Because if he was home, he’d know immediately. And he’d know it was Fletcher. Then he’d whoop and holler and do that stupid little I-told-you-so dance until he convinced me that Cole is a jerk and Fletcher the stripper is the man of my dreams.

But let’s be real. Fletcher is an asshole. No, not last night. But pretty much every other night. He’s an asshole. He uses girls for sex and… whatever. I don’t know his problems. Everyone has them, and I’m sure he’s no different. But he’s got a free room in a luxury resort, a job that maybe requires him to work thirty hours a week, and a paycheck that is far higher than a guy whose main claim to fame is making women scream his name deserves.

Not to mention his side business. If you can call that a business.

I let the water from the rain shower pound down on my shoulders and spit some out.

But fuck if he isn’t hot.

And experienced. Very experienced.

God, just thinking about his tongue on my pussy and the way he fucked me afterward. Holy Jesus. I could get used to that. And the way he was last night has me reconsidering things.

Tiffy.

I know. I cannot fall for a stripper. I still remember my mom struggling when I was little. I’ve seen pictures of my real father. He was an attractive man. Too attractive. Like Fletcher. These guys are never satisfied. They’re always looking for something better. Better girl, better job, better house, better car. All that bullshit.

My mom didn’t have it easy before she married into the Preston family. And neither did I. It sucked to have no father when I was little. It sucked to have to have that empty pit in my stomach every time I thought about the man who didn’t want me.

And even though my new dad was the prince in my mom’s Cinderella story, she told me over and over as I was growing up that princes don’t normally save the day. I should not count on being saved. She pounded it into my head that all choices have consequences. Both the good and the bad.

If you find a good guy—one who provides, one who cares for his family and is faithful, one who works hard and still knows how to relax at the end of the day—well, you don’t let him go. No matter what.

And I can still hear my question after she told me that the first time. It was a couple years after she first started seeing Randall Preston, but she was still working the night shift.

What if I don’t love that guy?

Love is an illusion, she said back. Love is what you make it. She smoothed down my hair and smiled a strained smile, her lips painted a bright red for her job, her hair piled on top of her head in a dramatic updo. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Tiffany Marie. When she used my real name I knew I had better listen up. And I did. That conversation has stayed with me all these years. Find a good man. A solid man with a good job and a soft heart. A man who won’t hit you, or yell, or walk out on you and your children. And you never let him go.

I thought her long silky dress was something out of a fairy tale back then.

It took years to realize my mother was a hooker and Randall was her client. When Fletcher said Cole might be using one, I feigned ignorance. No one knows what my mom used to do. Not even Claudio.

Everyone has a secret they’re desperate to keep hidden.

Yes, my mother had the Cinderella story. But she never loved Randall. And he never loved her that way either. I have felt, from the first day we moved into his huge mansion in Monterey, that I was the glue that held them together. He never had kids and I was his one chance. He was the perfect father. A fairytale father.

But he cried at her funeral. I took his hand that day. I was only fifteen when she killed herself, but I knew that Randall felt responsible. They didn’t fight. Ever. Not in my presence, anyway. It could’ve happened in private, but I don’t think so. My mother was the perfect wife on the outside. She never raised her voice. She never complained. She was simply grateful and satisfied.

Maybe that’s not how you take life by the horns and make the most of it, but it worked for her. And it gave me opportunities that I would never have had.

Randall loved her in a way a man loves a woman he wants to save. And even if she didn’t love him back, she respected him and he treated her well. Gave her everything she ever wanted.

Then why did she kill herself?

I have asked myself that question since the moment I learned it happened. She was supposed to be at the Four Seasons for a spa day, but they called and said she never showed up. We didn’t start to worry until she didn’t show up for dinner at home. She was always home for dinner. It was a constant thing in my life once Randall took us in. We were a family, he said. And families eat dinner together.

The police found her car off the side of a cliff.

And there was a note. All it said was, I can’t go on.

Why? How could her life be that bad? My therapists said she was depressed and didn’t seek help, so it overpowered her.

But I don’t know about that. I’ve never been convinced. Something was missing from her life and I always felt that even though Randall was perfect, she was infatuated with my real father.

Maybe infatuated isn’t the right word. In fact, maybe it wasn’t love she felt for him at all. Maybe it was the idea that she wasn’t good enough to keep him around.

Fletcher reminds me a lot of that man, the sperm donor who walked out. And Cole reminds me a lot of Randall, the prince who saved us. Maybe it’s unfair, but what reason, beyond great sex, has Fletcher given me to think otherwise?

I turn the shower off and wrap myself in a towel. My body aches from the sex. I can still feel Fletcher’s touch from last night. I can still feel his breath on my neck as he held me close as we slept.

But what does any of it mean? And why would I throw away a good possibility with a man like Cole for those brief moments with Fletcher?

But God, it felt good. And not just the sex. Why can’t the hot guy be the prince? Just once?

Maybe Fletcher is a prince?

It’s a novel idea for me, since I’ve only seen him as a player with all the right moves to win the game.

But then I swipe my hand across the mirror so I can look myself in the face. Tiffy Preston might be rich, and educated, and cultured—but she is still the girl who was left behind. Just like her mother.

It would be a monumental waste of time to explore the idea that Fletcher Novak might be a real possibility. I know nothing about him beyond what I’ve seen here at the hotel. And I have to admit, reluctantly, that none of that looks good for a future with him.

He’s an expert in one-night stands, seduction, and helping girls manipulate their future husbands into loving them.

I reach for my phone and text Cole. I’ll give him one more chance.

Want to meet for dinner?

No answer.

Maybe all men are assholes? Maybe I should just give up on them altogether and just concentrate on my career? Maybe I should hang out with the gays and just have fun? Maybe I should—

Are you working today? he texts back.

No, I’m taking the day off.

Good, he replies a few seconds later. Your father thinks you’re working too hard, so I told him I’d arrange a spa day for you. They’re expecting you at ten this morning, so don’t be late. And dinner will be fun. What time?