Operation Cinderella by Hope Tarr

barely stifle her smile.
    The tailored blouse was not only 100 percent silk but also one of Macie’s recent purchases from Ann Taylor—and not from the sale rack. Using what was left of the water in her glass to dampen a corner of her napkin, she caught the glob before it could drop into her lap and take out her skirt, too.
    Blotting the stain and gritting her teeth, she forced herself to say, “Don’t worry about it, Samantha. Accidents happen.”
    Accident, my ass. The little monster had meant to slime her, taking aim with the precision of a paintball enthusiast. Macie met Mannon’s gaze. Beneath the obvious parental mortification laid a fleeting look of fear. He knows she did it on purpose, too, and he’s asking himself what that means.
    He shook his head, looking so stressed she almost felt sorry for him—almost. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Gray. Send me the dry cleaning bill and I’ll take care of it. Better yet, let me replace it.”
    “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
    Surveying the damage, she saw the water had rendered her plunging white silk push-up more or less transparent. Her shirt stuck to her skin, showing through to the lace edging of her bra and perhaps to her “true colors,” too. The bra and panties were the only clothing articles on her body that still let her be herself. She’d thought expressing herself through sexy underwear would be safe. Not so much, it seemed.
    “Look, Daddy, its soaked right through to her…uh…bra.” Samantha’s gaze shot from Macie’s boobs back to her face. Flicking aside messy bangs, she added, “Don’t you worry, Miss Gray, you tell us your size, and we’ll pick you up a nice new one from the Victoria’s Secret over there in Union Station, won’t we, Daddy?”
    “Samantha, settle down!” Mannon, his color high, grabbed for the girl’s arm, pulling her back down into the booth when she would have risen.
    Taking in the byplay, Macie decided Samantha Mannon was either the biggest brat on the planet or a poster child for Ritalin—only time would tell. Either way, having your kid mouth off in public before a total stranger would try the patience of any parent, but for a self-styled child-rearing expert like Ross Mannon it must be torture—or in this case, just desserts. So why couldn’t she shake feeling sorry for him?
    Macie was about to excuse herself to the ladies’ room when the waitress showed up with their meals. She took one look at Macie’s blouse and promised to bring back some club soda for the stain.
    Macie looked down at her lunch of lettuce heaped with strips of hot fried chicken, olives, and hardboiled egg, and felt her stomach flip. The prospect of spending the next six weeks in the thick of the Mannon family’s dysfunction suddenly seemed a lot more like enrolling in boot camp than taking on a journalistic assignment.
    Mannon didn’t look so hungry himself. “I’m going to get you that club soda.” He whipped the napkin off his lap, tossed it on the seat, and slid out of the booth.
    Across from her, Samantha attacked her fries with the gusto of a reality TV contestant who’d lived off worms for weeks. Left alone with her, Macie couldn’t resist asking, “Aren’t you forgetting the missing ingredient?” She tapped the ketchup bottle with her newly shortened, clear-polished nail.
    The kid looked up, gaze glinting with what must be pure evil. “No thanks. I never touch the stuff.”
    .
    “Sundaes for dessert, Miss Gray? Only, if Samantha asks for the bottle of chocolate syrup, I’d think twice,” Mannon said with a chuckle, pushing his cleaned plate to the side.
    Macie felt herself smiling back. Since returning with club soda and extra napkins, her prospective employer had managed to restore them to good spirits—everyone but Samantha.
    “Duly warned,” she answered, cutting the kid a look.
    Sullen gaze on her picked-over plate, Samantha didn’t join in, not that Macie expected otherwise. Clearly her plan to