Fortune's Cinderella

“Doing nothing is not a choice.”

“We’re not doing nothing. We’re waiting.” She paused. “And trusting.”

“Ah. That praying thing again, right?”

He sensed more than saw her shrug before she said, “Tell me about them. Your family.”

“Why?”

“Maybe it’ll keep us distracted.”

Scott’s gut contracted. “You are in pain.”

“Let’s just say I’ll never complain about cramps again.”

Honestly. “Do you always say whatever pops into your head?”

“Depends on the situation. This definitely qualifies. Besides …” She shifted slightly. “Either we’re gonna die, in which case we’ll never see each other again. Or we’ll be rescued—which would definitely be my preference—and you’ll go back to Atlanta, and we’ll still never see each other again. Either way, I’m not too worried about making a good impression.”

Except you are, Scott thought, startled, thinking if he had to be trapped in a pile of rubble with anybody, he could have done far worse than this smart-mouthed, cool-as-a-cucumber little bit of a thing with her soft, raspy voice and even softer blue eyes.

“So talk,” she said. “How many of you are there, exactly …?”

He made her laugh.

And, bless him, forget. As much as she could, she supposed, given the situation. But considering their initial encounter, not to mention the frown lines he’d probably been working on since kindergarten, the last thing Christina had expected was for the man to have a sense of humor.

Not that she couldn’t hear weightier threads lacing the stories about growing up with five siblings, despite Scott’s obvious discretion at how he presented his family to a complete stranger. Even so, when, for instance, he told her some silly story about him and his older brother, Mike, setting up competing lemonade stands across the street from each other when they were kids, she could hear the frustration—and hurt—underlying his words. Mike couldn’t let an opportunity pass to one-up his younger brother … and that their father had praised eleven-year-old Mike for his ingenuity at besting Scott, who’d only been in the third grade at the time.

She was also guessing that Scott had been busting his buns trying to win his father’s approval ever since. Not that Scott would ever admit as much—certainly not to Christina, at least—but nobody knew better than she did what it was like to yearn for a parent’s attention and respect.

His obvious loyalty—and genuine affection—was honorable. But good Lord, if half of what he’d said was true, this family took the concept of sibling rivalry to new heights, not only not discouraging competition but fostering it, pitting the kids against each other to make them stronger. More fierce. And yet, from what she could tell, they all loved each other, even if those bonds were mainly forged by their mutual interest in FortuneSouth’s success.

It was enough to almost make her grateful she was an only child.

“So what do y’all do for fun?” she asked.

“Fun?”

It was almost totally dark by now. And cold. Cold enough that they leaned into each other for warmth. And comfort. The pain in her leg and foot had settled into a dull but constant ache. As had the fear, which was almost like a third person in the space.

“It’s not a trick question, you know.”

“More than you might think,” Scott muttered, then parried, “What do you do for … fun?”

“I asked you first.”

He blew out a heavy sigh, his breath warm in her hair. “Okay … we … go to a lot of charity events.” His accent was pure Southern-privileged, his voice pure man, all low and rumbly. A delicious, and deadly, combination. “Dinners, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Excruciatingly.”

“For pity’s sake—I said fun, Scott. Or do you need me to define the word?”

“How would you define it?”

“Well … fun is something that makes you feel good. Makes you happy. Makes you glad to simply be alive.”

“Such as?”

She thought. “Goin’ to the state fair and eating your weight in fried food. And cotton candy. Tossing burgers on the grill on a summer night, sittin’ around and chewing the fat with friends. Driving to nowhere with the top down, stopping wherever you feel like it. Sittin’ on the steps and watching fireflies. What?”

“Apparently your definition of fun doesn’t include the word exciting.”

“Does yours?”

“Good point.”

“I said, it just has to make you feel good.”

“So … is that your life? In a nutshell? Going to the fair and chowing down on burgers and watching fireflies?”

After a long moment, she said, “I said that’s how I define fun. I didn’t necessarily say that was my life. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just … I’m kind of … focused on other things right now.” When he got real quiet, she said, “What are you thinking about?”

“That I’ve never been to a state fair.”

“Get out.”

“It’s true. But also … that I can’t remember the last time I felt good about doing something that didn’t involve improving the bottom line.”

“And that is too sad for words.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making money, Christina. FortuneSouth provides jobs for thousands of people—”

“Oh, don’t go getting defensive. I never said there was anything wrong with making money. But you have to admit there’s something off about only getting your jollies from work.”

Another pause. Then: “I don’t only get my jollies from work.”

“Lord, I can practically hear your brows waggling. And that doesn’t count,” she said when he laughed.

“It doesn’t?”

“Not that it can’t be fun—don’t get me wrong. But it’s so … trite.”