Accidental Cinderella. Nancy Robards Thompson

him.

      All he wanted was a restaurant where he could cook what he wanted to cook and play by his own rules. A place where he could open his doors to kids who’d screwed up and give them a fighting chance in this world.

      Because didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

      He’d had it all once—right in the palm of his hand. Until his fall from grace, when he’d lost everything.

      The past two years had changed him. Rearranged his priorities. Proven that there were more important things than money and parties.

      But it also showed him how much he valued his independence.

      Now that the dust had settled and he’d begun to pick up the pieces, he knew he didn’t need the pretty people to succeed. The ones who once called him friend, but now pretended to not remember his name. But that was fine—life in the fast lane came with too many strings and always, always too high a price.

      He would make his own way—as he’d started to before Donna and all her glitzy ambitions. He would be beholden to no one.

      “So I guess this means I need to cold-call Lejardin’s office and try to get us in sometime in the next week,” Max muttered, pensive, as if contemplating an impossible task.

      “No need,” Carlos said.

      Max sighed, a weary, exasperated sound.

      “Lejardin’s stopping by the booth on Wednesday. Though you might want to call his assistant and confirm, things were pretty crazy at the wedding. They only had to do the garter toss six times. But still. Since he was in the wedding party, he was a little distracted. But I had to get out while I could. Before I hurt someone.”

      Carlos smiled at his own joke. Dazed, Max opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He snapped his jaw shut.

      Carlos reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s his direct line. Should get you right through.”

      The trip to the airport where the St. Michel state jet awaited to fly Lindsay home to Trevard was a scenic fifteen minutes by limousine from the Palais de St. Michel. Lindsay settled into the soft leather seat, savoring her final glimpse of the St. Michel coast and the last vestiges of the good life.

      Who knew when she’d return? She wanted to commit this parting scene to memory, to drink it all in. Even though she wanted to think she’d visit Sophie regularly, she didn’t expect her friend to send a jet to fetch her every time they wanted a girls’ weekend. And God knew she’d have to miser away every spare cent and every minute of vacation time before she could afford to take another trip abroad.

      She sighed as they passed the yacht club, boats bobbing in the azure water, crisp, white sails billowing in the wind. Most of the vessels were larger than the modest apartment Lindsay called home.

      Pointedly, she ignored the nagging question that kept forcing its way to the front of her mind—just how did one go back to Trevard after living like this?

      Experts claimed it took twenty-one days to make a habit. She’d been here exactly thirty-two days. Not that it had taken anywhere close to twenty-one days to get used to the St. Michel life.

      But the habit rule also worked in reverse, she reminded herself. She had a good job back in Trevard. A life there—no matter how much she’d love to stay in St. Michel, no matter how tempting Carson Chandler’s offer to audition for The Diva Dishes, Lindsay had been away long enough.

      The longer she put off going home, the harder it would be to go back. Besides, judging by the hoops she’d jumped through to get the time off—even though she had the vacation days—she didn’t dare ask her boss for a single day more.

      As the limo passed through a seven-story carved stone archway that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a blue funk threatened to envelope Lindsay. She fought off the mood by reminding herself to look at the good. How many people had flown by private jet, been chauffeured by limousine and lodged in a five-hundred-year-old castle?

      It was good while it lasted, and she needed to make the most out of these last moments rather than waste them brooding.

      She grabbed her handbag, a cavernous Marc Jacobs—another bridesmaid gift from Sophie—and foraged for a compact and tube of lipstick to touch up her face before they arrived at the airport.

      Instead of the makeup, her fingers found their way to Carson Chandler’s business card and plucked it from the inner pocket where she’d stashed it. She ran her finger over the black letters embossed on the ivory-colored linen, then flipped it over and studied the bold script he’d used to write the contact number for his assistant, Sheila.

      It would be a very nice opportunity for the right person. And I believe you might be the right person, Miss Bingham.

      Sophie had promised Chandler was a gentleman, “…happily married for nearly fifty years.”

      Interesting, since the man had a reputation in the business world for changing his mind as often as the wind changed directions. Even the spot he’d invited her to audition for seemed tentative.

      “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Sophie had confided. “So you can’t breathe a word, but you know he just purchased the Epicurean Traveler Network. Well, he wants to eventually turn the three-minute Diva spot into an hour-long show. You have to do this, Linds, because this little spot could turn into something really big.”

      Yeah, right. And it could be a dead end if he hired her and later decided to go with someone else—as he’d fired the previous Diva host.

      Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to get Sophie’s voice out of her head. “Cinderella certainly didn’t get to the ball by locking herself away in the tower. She saw the opportunity and she took it.”

      Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at the Cinderella metaphor. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were simply one big fairy tale?

      Then she wouldn’t have to worry about cads who lied and cheated to get what they wanted.

      Lies that cost Lindsay her fiancé, her job as a television reporter and her dignity.

      “Chandler knows if he does you wrong he’ll suffer the wrath of the future queen of St. Michel.”

      Lindsay sounded a humorless chuckle. God, Sophie almost sounded serious.

      “Should I call you Ann Boleyn?” Lindsay had asked.

      “Nah. Your royal highness will suffice.” Then it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. But her laugh was genuine. “You know I’m right, Linds. You’ve been hiding behind the reception desk. You’re wasting your talent answering phones.”

      Really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t the bad taste her foray into journalism left in her mouth as much as it was the uncertainty of the job in question.

      Even if The Diva Dishes did have the potential to morph into a full-fledged television show, Chandler seemed too likely to change his mind midstream. His vision seemed too fickle. Sure, she had the future queen of St. Michel on her side—she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality of Sophie’s new life—but Chandler was a businessman and he’d make decisions based on what he deemed good for business, as evidenced by the way he fired the former host when she didn’t live up to his expectations.

      What if Lindsay couldn’t pull it off? Her job at Trevard Social Services wasn’t ideal, but she’d been there so long. It was comfortable—well, as comfortable as Mary Matthews allowed you to become. Lindsay’s salary, though not huge, was enough to make ends meet, and you couldn’t beat the government benefits.

      Plus, she wouldn’t be able to give two weeks’ notice. Mary was certain to get her panties in a wad over that. She’d fussed over Lindsay taking time off for the wedding—even though Lindsay had more than enough accrued vacation.

      No. Quitting on a whim just wasn’t practical.

      Sheila’s number