"And where do we find one?" Prince Michael asks, already sounding like he's calculating angles.
“I’ve got the perfect girl,” Steven says. “And she’ll do what I say.”
“And why is that?” Prince Michael asks.
“Because she’s my kid sister.”
“God, no,” I groan, collapsing back into the bed. “Not Maddie.”
Images flash in my mind. Maddie as a gawky teen, hanging on every chord I played.
Then Maddie four years ago, when her ‘surprise visit’ to me and Steven at Harvard ended on a sour note I’ve been trying to forget.
Not that Steven knows anything about that night. Maddie made sure of that. And warned me to keep it quiet, too.
“I remember briefly meeting her,” Prince Michael says, turning to Steven. “Nice girl. But what makes her right to pose as Rio’s fiancée?”
“She has every quality Rio lacks,” says Steven. "She's wholesome. Down to earth. Even worked as an 'official Cinderella' at Disney World one summer.”
I turn to Prince Michael. He’s actually buying it.
“And our sponsor will love that she teaches autistic kids. Especially since he's directing a huge hunk of the concert's proceeds to autism research.”
“No way,” I cut in, flashing back to our last clash in the dorms at Harvard. “Find another Cinderella. Anyone but Maddie. Besides, she'd never agree to being my fake fiancé.”
“Oh yes she will,” Steven replies with iron certainty. “And she’ll meet us in Vegas right after we land.”
I clench my empty coffee mug, a knot of unease twisting inside. Maddie as my fake fiancée?Deadlier than dancing with that damn snake.
CHAPTER 2
MADDIE
“An apple for you, Miss Maddie!”
Gretchen stands in front of my desk, her small hand stretching out with a shiny red apple. My pupil’s mother beams from across the room.
It’s Parents’ Day at the school where I teach on the Lower East Side.
My classroom’s an annex of its own. Nothing fancy. Bare walls brightened only by children’s drawings and the soft rustle of paper mobiles my kids created.
This is where the administrators place the autistic kids in the district The ones from lower-income families whose parents can’t afford private schools.
“You’ve done wonders for little Gretchen,” her mother says. “Her attention is so much more focused. And that sensory box you made — priceless.
“Who would’ve thought a few teaspoons of uncooked rice in colorful wrapping could keep Gretchen from having a meltdown?”
“Thank you.”
The woman's gratitude is well received. Especially since Iremember Principal Walker’s skepticism when he first spotted my obscure sensory tools.
I had spent a small chunk of my own money on them. Yet seeing the children’s progress made it worth every penny.
When Gretchen and her mom leave, I organize my desk. And wish parental congratulations were enough to keep my innovative program funded for next year.
As I gather my purse to leave for the afternoon, Principal Walker enters the classroom.
“Oh! Mr. Walker.” I straighten my posture like I’m a student caught passing notes.
