Cinderella for Hire

I was treated like a princess. By the hairdresser and the stylist I mean. Nicholas treated me like crap.

"I don't get what's your obsession with blondes," I said as the hairdresser did his magic on my hair. "You're seriously coming across as some sort of a…a…haircist."

"A hair what?" Nicholas said, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. We were in his penthouse which had an awfully boring selection of furniture (black and white everywhere. It was like walking into a chessboard, I swear). "I have a thing for blondes. Plus, your red hair color is absolutely horrid. I'd sue your hair dresser's ass if I were you."

"One, this is my real hair color. Two, not everyone can afford lawyers. No, wait, not everyone goes around suing their hairdressers for that matter."

He shrugged. "I'm just saying."

I blocked him out for a while by dreaming of glorious meat. And food in general. Mm, food.

Oh damn, I want a glazed donut.

"April," Nicholas' stern voice wrenched me away from my daydream. He was sitting on a stool next to me, holding up a can of soda. I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes as Mr. Hairdresser literally yanked and pulled on my hair. "You look thirsty."

For a moment, I was caught off guard. This man had a heart!

"I don't want you to look like a dried up prune when we reach the event," he continued.

Aaand there went my faith in him.

I grabbed the can from his hand and opened the tab as he chattered on calmly – formally…in a very business-y tone.

"You're not going to speak to me like this, are you?" I asked. He raised his eyebrow questioningly. "I mean, the way you talk doesn't strike me as a loving boyfriend," I continued, waving my hands around and trying to hold in my sigh of relief because I nearly added, "Or a loving, caring human being for that matter."

"I'm not one of your…employees. Wait, okay, maybe I am," I quickly added after a second thought. "But you know, you're supposed to be madly in love with me, since…you know…I am your girlfriend and all," I said, adding a grin at the end of the sentence. He didn't budge.

"So I should be more…?"

"Mushy."

"Mushy," he repeated, his voice was slightly strained.

"Yes! Definitely!" I exclaimed. "Girlfriends and boyfriends are usually mushy with each other. I mean, can't you tell from your parents or something? At one point in life, they must've been mushy with each other in front of you," I said, recalling my parents mushy moments.

"My parents divorced when I was 8 years old," he said stoically.

"Oh. Oh, okay then. So let's try something out here," I said, quickly trying to change the sudden awkward situation. I intertwined my fingers together and placed it over my heart, and tried to do a dreamy facial expression as I batted my eyelashes.

"Oh god, are you constipated—" he said but I cut him off.

"Oh, my sweet and wonderful April. You are the apple of my eye, my missing puzzle piece, the Mark Zuckerberg to my Facebook."

"Say what?"

I ignored him and babbled on, still batting my eyelashes, swaying my body as hard as I could (it was pretty hard, Mr. Hairdresser shot me a grumpy look and held my head in one place), "If it weren't for you, my love, I would still be the grumpy 26-year-old guy and I would probably die alone," I said, sighing dramatically as I placed the back of my hand against my wet forehead.

He stared at me as if I grew another head on my nose before taking a deep breath with his eyes closed.

"Oh, my sweet and wonderful April," he started and my jaws dropped.

"Oh wow, you're actually going to say it?" I said, smiling from ear to ear. He tilted his head at me with his brows furrowed.

"Of course not! Are you insane?!" he exclaimed.

Sigh. Well, that failed.