“Well,” Wayne said. “You’re in good company. Julia Roberts wasn’t either.”
Sophie’s head jerked up. “What?”
Wayne’s brows merged with his hairline they shot up so high. “Pretty Woman. The movie? How have you never seen that? We have to watch it. Right now.” He began tugging her up from the table. Sophie gave a soggy giggle.
“Honey,” Darren warned softly. “I don’t know if that’s the best choice right now.”
“Oh.” Wayne’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Soph.”
“No, it’s fine. Let’s do it. Clearly my cinematic education has been lacking. Show me this Pretty Woman you speak of.”
Wayne moved to the DVD player and sorted through the collection of movies him and Darren stored beside it. “You know we’re going to back out of the deal,” he said as he pulled a movie from the pile.
Sophie frowned. “What deal?” Was he reneging on the Boston cream pie?
“The apartment. There’s no way we’re going to go through with it now. Right?” He cast his husband a raised brow.
Darren nodded. “Oh, totally. He can stick his apartment in his incredibly cute backside.”
Both Wayne and Sophie shot him dark looks. Darren held up his hands. “What? He’s a total jerk, and there’s no way we’re taking that apartment, but you can’t deny that his butt is fantastic.”
She gave a soft laugh knowing that it was true. “You guys are taking that apartment.”
“Soph, no,” Darren replied.
Wayne squeezed her shoulder. “We don’t have to, Sophie. We’ll find something else.”
“At that price? Hardly. And anyway, if you’re in there then Henry can’t make more money on it. Think of it as sticking it to him for me.” She poked a finger into Darren’s chest. “And not a word from you.”
Wayne’s gave her a skeptical side glance as he poured them each another glass of wine. “Okay then. To sticking it to Henry Medina!”
“Hear, hear!” Sophie cheered, raising the glass to her lips.
***
“I never should have had that last glass of wine.” Sophie groaned. Her reflection seemed to agree. She looked terrible. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her skin was a little pale. Not to mention the fact that her head was throbbing like a particularly difficult tango beat.
She, Darren, and Wayne had run through almost every romantic comedy the couple owned and two, maybe three, bottles of Shiraz. She had awoken that morning sprawled on their couch, still in her clothes from yesterday. As usual, she was the first one up. Even hungover, Sophie was an early riser. She’d left her friends a note and gone home to shower and change.
And then she’d found herself here. At the closed studio. The place was empty and with all of the lights off it seemed sad and forlorn. Thankfully, the reporters were no longer crowding the studio’s entrance. They must have gotten the message that she wasn’t going to talk.
She sipped her water and took a deep breath. She’d always done her best thinking while rehearsing so she cranked up the classical music and began moving through her yoga stretches. She ignored the world outside her window and just tried to concentrate on herself.
There had to be some way to clear her name. But no matter how she wracked her brain, no solution came. Except Henry’s. And there was no way she was going to agree to spend any more time in that man’s company. Whatever he claimed, he’d meant to push her away when he handed her that money. She wasn’t about to let him off just because it was inconvenient for her.
A light knock interrupted her reverie. She let out her breath and cautiously approached the back door. It was Darren, surely, or the more persistent of the reporters. But the quickening of her heartbeat said maybe it was Henry.
But when she pulled the door open it wasn’t any of those people. Sophie blinked up at the tall form of Carl Barrett, her mouth hanging open. His cropped blond hair was thinning on top and the slight paunch of his belly pressed against the grey button-down he wore tucked into his slacks. But his blue eyes twinkled from their web of lines with the humor that was his trademark.
“I know,” he said, mouth twisting wryly. “I get that reaction a lot from women. Can I come inside before you throw yourself at me? I’m not really big on public displays of affection.”
Sophie hiccuped a surprised laugh. “Uh. Come in, Mr. Barrett. You know we’re closed, right?” He’d come to the back door, which seemed to indicate he did. But the news was full of stories about the odd stunts he pulled. Maybe this was one of them? Was he looking for a headline too? “Also, I’m really not an escort. So if you’re here for that...”
Carl chuckled. Heat splashed Sophie’s cheeks as he stepped past her into the studio. “I am aware of both of those things, Ms. Becker, believe it or not.”
She closed the door, watching him with wide eyes as he strolled around the office area. He picked up a stack of flyers for children’s free style dance classes and fanned them out. “I’m a terrible dancer, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.” She also didn’t know what the hell a famous comedian was doing sneaking in the back entrance to her besieged studio. Carl picked up a single loose tap shoe and twirled it between his hands.
“I am. Always have been. Not just two left feet, but two left lame feet. But my sophomore year in college, I fell crazy in love with this girl who was... you guessed it... a dancer.”
Sophie frowned. “Is this about a class? Because we’re closed for the foreseeable future.”
Carl waved his long fingered hand, smiling at her. “No, no. This is about Mirielle, who didn’t even know I existed of course. I was even gawkier than I am now.”
“You didn’t move in the same circles?” She had no idea where the story was going but she figured Carl Barrett hadn’t shown up at her studio just to chat about unrequited love.
“Worse than that. If Mirielle moved in a circle, I moved in a square. We lived in that different of worlds. But I desperately wanted to be in hers, so I auditioned for the school’s performance of West Side Story.” He plopped down in Darren’s chair, stretching out his long legs.
“Mr. Barrett, I really don’t understand—”
He crossed his arms over his paunch. “Now, my roommate had the moves like Jagger. And he gamely tried to teach me how to not completely suck at dancing, but despite his determined efforts I didn’t improve much. But when it came to audition day he was right there in the auditorium by my side, cheering me on.”
Sophie bit her lip, unable to keep herself from asking, “Did you get the part?”
He snorted. “Of course not. I was tragic. The only impression I made on my darling Mirielle was that of a spastic dork. Not my finest hour.”
“Mr. Barrett, please. Why are you telling me this?”
“My friend,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, “had, it turned out, anticipated the possibility of this very thing happening and signed up for an audition himself, unbeknownst to me. So he gets up there and knocks it out of the park.” Carl leaned down and plucked an unopened bottle of water from the mini-fridge. “So, my roommate gets the part opposite Mirielle. And let me tell you, she is thrilled. He’s tall, dark, handsome. And he can dance.”
Cold tendrils of dread began to snake through Sophie’s guts. Tall, dark, handsome, and a good dancer? “Wait a minute—”
But Carl ignored her. “I am, of course, devastated. Not only have I failed in my mission to let Mirielle know I’m alive, but she’s now turned her sights on my much handsomer, more accomplished friend. I was out of luck.”
“I don’t want to hear anymore.” Sophie stomped her foot. Carl quirked a brow.
“I’m almost done. Hear me out.” He took a sip of water. “I moped around our dorm room for months, mooning over Mirielle and barely speaking to my roommate. Every day that he went to play practice I got a little more morose. And then, one day, out of the blue there’s a knock on our door. Who do you think it is?”
“Mirielle?” She asked, knowing he was dedicated to finishing his story.
Carl toasted her with the water. “Mirielle. She wanted to know if I’d like to go out some night. I jumped at the chance, and two nights later we went on our first date. So while we’re talking over dinner I ask her what made her come to my dorm. And she says how my roommate talked about me a lot during practice. Said she’d gotten to know me without even realizing it.”
Sophie cocked a brow. “And you lived happily ever after?”
“God, no. The break-up was Broadway levels of theatrical. But we did end up dating happily for several months.”
“Was Henry good in the play?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t care about Henry Medina or anything he did. Past or present.
Carl gave her a pointed look. “He didn’t do it. He dropped out the minute Mirielle asked me out. He’d only been going to practice to talk to her about me.”
Sophie pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to relieve the pressure that had built in her head as Carl was talking. “So, what? He did you a solid by talking to your dancer paramour and you thought you’d return the favor? Is that it?”
“I’m trying to tell you that Henry is a decent guy,” he said, taking a serious tone for the first time.
She inhaled a slow breath through her nose. Carl Barrett’s touching story did nothing to negate what Henry had done to her. “Your decent guy slept with me and then handed me an envelope full of cash!” Hot blood throbbed in her cheeks.
“Henry told me what happened. He said he was paying you for dance lessons, not sexual favors.”
“They only reason he’s even bothering to apologize is because of that picture in the paper.” Sophie wanted to pace, or stretch, or dance. Something. Her muscles ached for movement.
Carl frowned at her. “He said he called you multiple times the next day and you didn’t answer.”
“He did not! I didn’t go anywhere all day.” She narrowed her eyes. Now Henry was lying to his friends to make himself sound better? How despicable.
“This phone?” Carl pointed at the one sitting on the front desk.
Sophie scowled, her forehead tightening with the force of the expression. “What? No. I was home.”
“He said he called you here. Does he have your home number?”
Her mouth fell open. Henry had called her to apologize? Before the scandal? Well, so Carl said. The phone in the studio didn’t have an answering machine, so she couldn’t verify it but clearly Carl would do anything for his friend. She snapped her mouth shut. “No. But we’re closed on Sundays. Henry knew that.”
“He called the only number he had for you, Sophie. Look, does Henry have baggage? Of course he does. Everyone does. Can you honestly tell me your past doesn’t occasionally inform your present?”
Her past, particularly the injury and the end of her relationship with Christian, had a lot to do with the way she reacted to things. She knew that. Was she being unfair to Henry? Carl seemed to think so.
“Henry knew what my baggage was before we were involved. I told him. He didn’t do me the same courtesy.” That was true. He’d hid from her. But hadn’t she known that? And she’d slept with him anyway. She really did only have herself to blame.
“Look, I came here—on my own, I might add—to ask you to give him a chance to fix this.”
Sophie slumped against the wall. Just the thought of making herself vulnerable to Henry again made her heart sink. “He’s just worried about his business,” she shot back. But it was a last ditch refusal.
“Sophie, I haven’t seen him like this since—since—well to be honest I’ve never seen him like this before. He hasn’t slept, he can’t eat, and forget about work. Why did you think I came here to ask a you to give him a chance? And no offense, but this scandal will hardly bring Henry down. He’s not worried about his business. It’s a nuisance, that’s all. But it’ll ruin you.”
Did Henry really care that much about her that he was that broken up about the scandal? It wasn’t just an act for her? Which was a bigger danger to her? Losing her business or spending a few uncomfortable hours with Henry?
Carl was right. She did have much more to lose than Henry and she didn’t have any better ideas, even after a night of watching rom-coms with Darren and Wayne. If she risked her last stake in the dance world just to prove a point she would never forgive herself.
“Fine, I’ll participate in Henry’s charade. But that’s all it will be.”
Carl clapped his hands. “That’s all he’s asking for.”
Sophie toed the makeshift tap shoes she’d been working on earlier. She never thought she’d be paying such a high price for just one dance.
***
Sophie stared into her closet and plucked at her lower lip. She’d pushed all the t-shirts and blouses aside, uncovering the second row of clothes. Her dresses. There was an entire rod full of bright hued creations in satin and silk adorned with ruffles, sequins and plunging necklines. Every single one of them held a memory. A competition, a dance, a time when Christian was holding her in his arms. She fingered the dresses, determined not to think about any of those memories now. She had bigger things to worry about.
“Henry’s got a black tie event tonight. You guys can use it as your ‘coming out’,” Carl had said. And now here she was, standing in front of a closet full of dresses that she hadn’t worn in years.
She heard the apartment door shut and quick footsteps crossing to her bedroom door. “Stop worrying, I’m here!” Darren called out as he pushed into the room.
“I can’t wear any of this,” she said despondently as she eyed Darren.
“What’s the occasion?”
Sophie slid her gaze away from him. She called him after Carl had left and asked him to help her get ready for a night out, but she hadn’t given him any details. “I sort of agreed to go along with Henry’s scheme and he’s got a black tie event tonight. We’re going as a couple,” she said quickly, trying to soften the blow of the news.
Darren frowned. “Henry as in ‘we’re going to stick it to Henry Medina’?”
“Yes?” She plopped onto the end of her bed. “I didn’t have any other choice. Trust me, I considered all of my options. If I don’t do something fast the business is done and my second career is over. I don’t think I can handle that again.”
He sat down beside her and took her hand. “Just be careful, Soph. He might have some ulterior motive in all of this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him with a watery grin. “I am not in the least bit interested in pursuing anything with him. I’m only doing this to save the studio, my reputation, and both our jobs.”
“So you’re not worried about getting caught in the crossfire again?”
“Once I clear my name I won’t be seeing him anymore. Look, tonight isn’t about him, Dar. It’s about me.”
He narrowed his eyes in consideration before patting her hand and popping to his feet. “In that case, we need to make you look as hot as possible for your final tabloid appearance! ”
Sophie laughed as he began rummaging through her closet. Almost immediately, he snagged a golden yellow dress scattered with glittering rhinestones and thrust it at her. The skirt was floor length, but slit up the center to allow for ease of movement when dancing tango. She pulled off her workout attire and shimmied into the tight dress, turning to look at herself in the mirror.
“No,” Sophie said as soon as she realized that the dress bared her knee. She could see that low back flattered her figure and the yellow hue made her skin glow, but no matter how good she looked otherwise, her mangled knee was the first thing anyone’s eyes would be drawn to.
Darren sighed. He turned to the closet and studied the remaining dresses. Embarrassment and anger burned in the back of Sophie’s throat. Damn Henry Medina for putting her in this position!
Darren pulled out a cherry red silk dress and held it up. It was strapless, tight as a gl
ove until mid thigh, where it flared out in a fall of black feathers. She’d never danced in it, but she had attended several functions with Christian in the sexy gown. It pushed her breasts up, giving her about a mile of cleavage. Sophie’s heart thumped at the prospect. She shook her head.
He sighed. “What’s wrong with this one?”
Sophie crumpled back onto the bed, tugging the yellow satin over her disfigured knee. “The same thing that’s wrong with all the others,” she whispered, eyes downcast. Still, she didn’t miss Darren’s crossed arms or cocked eyebrow.
“And what’s that?”
“Me. I can’t do this, Dar. I was crazy to agree to it. This event is going to be sophisticated, and I’m just...” she motioned vaguely at the bright red gown he still held, “not.” Tears pricked her eyes.
Darren lay the dress on the edge of her bed and knelt in front of her. “Soph, you’re one of the best dancers the world has ever seen, and now you’re a successful business owner. These people should be thankful that you’re attending their boring event. You’re going to put on a gorgeous dress, and take your gorgeous face to this ball and knock them all on their asses.”
“I am?” she sniffled.
“You are.” He nodded his head assuredly, ending any more discussion of Sophie’s shortcomings.
She gave him a wan smile. “Okay, but I really can’t wear any of this.”
He’d just opened his mouth to answer when a loud rap at her apartment door startled them both.
“Are we expecting any more company?” he asked.
“No.” She rose with a frown and walked slowly toward the apartment door, Darren following behind her.
Her spine went stiff as she pulled the door open and looked up into the striking face of Henry Medina. “What are you doing here?” It was a stupid question, but she hadn’t been expecting him at her doorstep so soon. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored tuxedo, its cut accentuating his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and the long line of his well-muscled legs. His olive skin stood out lustrously against the starched white of his shirt. Mother-of-pearl cufflinks glinted at his wrists, and his shoes were polished to a high shine. There were bags under his eyes, apparently Carl hadn’t been lying.
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