Cinderfella ~A Modern Fairy Tale~

They say that Cinderella was blessed with her prince through her kindness and hard work and a little bit of magic. Well. The magic part's definitely not going to happen for me. Don't mistake me, I'm no Cinderella. But my prince is...

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7. Chapter 7

I push him away. My mind is telling him to stop, even though a part of me screams out for more.

He looks at me perplexed, then shrugs his shoulders.

"A bit soon, isn't it."He smiles sadly, then packs up his guitar and disappears.

I still stand, somewhat lost in thought.

"Xavi, wait!" It finally registers. I stop him in the bedroom.

"Xavi, honestly, I just want time to get to know you better before all this." He nods, still silent. I hate it. I want him to make a joke, anything to make this newfound awkwardness disappear.

"Mi amor, I understand."

I stop him there.

"Can you teach me Spanish?" I interject, awkwardly. "I feel like there's a bit of a language gap sometimes and I hated not understanding what your step mother was saying." He looks at me quizzically.

"Are you willing to learn?" he asks. I smile. 

"Of course."

"We'll start with 'Hola'."

As the days go by, Xavi teaches me more Spanish, in between part-time jobs. I get a part time job at Starbucks, even though I've had little-to-no experience working before. In a weird way, it's like having a new family, just him and I. He teaches me Spanish with food, with things, and suddenly things have meaning to me, more meaning than decoration, they are teaching props. And there are no more kisses, but secretly I yearn for them.

After about two weeks, we decide to have cook special dinner together, almost like a date.

"Xavi, how do I cook the tortillas? Como este? Like this?" He guides his hands over mine and helps me flip the thin tortilla I'm cooking on the comal, a small skillet. 

"Bien trabajo, mi amor. Nice work." He smiles at me, encouraging me.

I smile back, but there's still something he hasn't taught me.

"What does mi amor mean?" I ask, awkwardly. "You aren't calling me stupid, are you?"

He laughs, then grows serious, thinking. Almost if he's debating it, knowing he's taking a risk, he speaks deliberately.

"It means my love."

We're silent again, cooking tortillas, and he's trying to judge if what he's said is too soon.

"Mi amor." I whisper.

"What?" he asks, head perking up.

"Mi amor! Necesito ayuda! Help me!" The tortilla is scorching the bottom of the pan and smoking the oil.

He jumps to action immediately, gracefully discarding the scorched tortilla in the trash bin before re-oiling the skillet and adding another thin, dough pancake. He cooks it to perfection, silently, while I stand awkwardly watching.

He puts the pan to the side of the stove, the side that isn't hot.

"Mi amor," I whisper. The words taste sweeter than honey drizzling down my throat.

"Que?" he asks, coming closer.

"Te quiero." My throat is dry, and I choke out the words that I've learned secretly, waited to tell him for such a long time. His eyebrows raise, as he pauses too long and I turn my eyes to the floor to avoid letting the hot tears of disappointment fall, and then he raises my chin and rewards me with a kiss, and I lean in and drink it up, and it's amor pura, pure love. The tears come anyway, and he pauses, shocked.

"Why are you crying?" He brushes away a tear, a worried frown growing on his face.

"Because..." I sob, "you're beautiful. Thank you." And then I kiss him again, and he yelps, as we accidentally knock the tortillas we've cooked to the floor.

"Five second rule," I call, as I neatly pick them up and brush them off. He rolls his eyes.

"I did scrub the floor today," he mentions.

"You scrub it every day, mi amor." I jokingly poke at him. "Can we make enchiladas now, please?"

Just as we are sitting down to eat, the door knocks.

"L.A. P.D., Open up!"

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