It was Sophie’s turn to snicker now. “I didn’t win in Verona until I was thirteen, I think. Maybe fourteen.”
“But you kept going back.” He dropped his arm from around her shoulders and turned her face up, gripping her chin until she met his eyes. “I was so proud of you. I still am, sweet pea. Your mom, too.”
Sophie cleared her throat of the sudden obstruction and blinked away the sting of tears. “Um, thanks Dad. But I’ve always been passionate about dance. I’m still not sure I get why this one was so memorable to you.”
“It wasn’t the passion, Sophie. Anyone can have passion for something. And it has nothing to do with whether you were winning or not. Your strength, your dedication, your unwillingness to give up. That’s what makes us so proud of you.” He let her go and stood up, taking the ribbon from her hands and laying it gently in the box.
“You went back, and you did better. You kept on, until you made it.” He smiled fondly, finished his beer, and stretched. “I’m going to go have a quick shower before dinner.”
“I love you, Dad.” Sophie’s voice was a breathy rasp as her father’s words washed over her.
“Love you too, sweet pea.” He took only one step out of the door before stopping and turning to look back at her. “Whatever it is, Sophie? You’ll work it out. I have faith in you.”
She couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes at that, wetting her lashes. But her lips curved in a smile. She gave her father a short nod, because she couldn’t speak. He winked and strolled down the hall to the bathroom.
When she heard the door shut, Sophie let out a long, quavering breath. She should’ve known she couldn’t fool her father. He might not say as much as her mother—his little speech a minute ago was about as verbose as he ever got—but that didn’t mean he didn’t pay attention.
“It’s not just the passion,” he’d said. Was that true? Passion had always seemed the most important part of her pursuit of dance. She’d seen it countless times, throughout all the years she’d taken classes, and now, teaching them too.
Some people mastered the technique but were never great dancers, because the passion wasn’t there for them. It was the difference between understanding something and feeling it.
The great dancers were the ones who, when they danced, you could see the passion emanating from them like a glow.
Sophie’s gaze fell to the cardboard box and the small, faded ribbon on top. Her dad’s words touched her mind again, like a hand on the shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t the passion. Or, not only the passion. She had worked hard to be the best dancer she could be. She had practiced and trained and practiced some more. She had sacrificed a lot to make it to the top of the competition circuit, before the injury.
It had always felt worth it though, because she loved it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. That’s why she had felt so lost after the accident. Why she’d fought so hard to get back on her feet, literally, after all the surgeries. Why, when she’d finally reconciled herself to the fact that she would never dance professionally again, she’d opened the studio—with Darren’s help, of course. Why she worked so hard to make the studio as successful as it could be. Because it was a part of her—dance.
And if it got hard, she just worked harder. She always had.
So, why was she running away from Henry? Even if it was over. Even if what the tabloids were saying was true, which Carl had assured her it wasn’t, didn’t she owe it to herself to face it? To face him?
She’d never taken the easy way about something that mattered before. Never skipped a rehearsal or sat out a competition. The question was, she supposed, how much did everything that had happened between them matter? How much did Henry matter?
Sophie dug into her pants pocket, her eyes on the faded pink of the Participation ribbon as she jabbed at the screen and listened to the line ring. Darren answered after the third ring.
“What’s up, Soph?”
“I’m coming home.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath and knew he was worrying. About the news. About whether or not she’d heard the news. “You are?”
“And I’m going to need your help.” Sophie’s lips curved upward in the first real smile she’d felt all day. Darren was frowning. She could hear it in his voice.
“With what?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
Chapter Twenty
Darren was still frowning when she arrived at his apartment later that evening. He tried to smooth his blond brows as he opened the door and ushered her inside, but there was still a small fold just above his nose.
“Hey, Soph! It’s good to see you! What made you turn right back around? I thought for sure you would stay with your parents for at least a couple of days.” His smile was wide and full of white teeth.
Sophie arched a brow at him. “I think you know what brought me back.”
Darren’s smile grew even wider, but Wayne, standing just behind Darren, compressed his lips into a thin white line. Darren ignored his husband and looped an arm around Sophie’s shoulders.
“Of course I do, hun. But I still think you should have stayed. You don’t need to be dealing with all this nonsense right now. You need to be resting and enjoying a nice visit with your folks. That’s the best thing for you.” His big hand squeezed her shoulder.
“I’m fine, Dar, really. The visit helped, even brief as it was.” She pulled gently away from him and sank into one of the plush chairs that were scattered around the living area. It was the first time she’d been at their new place since they’d gotten everything unpacked.
The place they were renting from Henry. That was probably why Darren was as twitchy as a ballerina on coke.
“Oh?” Darren practically chirped as he perched on the edge of the table in front of her. “Tell me all about it. Did you run into an old flame? High school crush? Was the head cheerleader fat?” He waggled his brows at her and extended his hand to Wayne. “Wayne, honey, why don’t you pour us a teeny martini?”
Wayne tipped his head to the side. “Why don’t you stop treating Sophie like a child with a brain injury? It’s kind of creepy and I’m sure she doesn’t appreciate it. She knows something’s up, Dar. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.”
Darren’s sunny expression immediately melted into a scowl, aimed directly at his husband. “I’m not treating her like a...” He trailed off, waving his hand, clearly unable to remember exactly how Wayne had phrased it. “Whatever. I’m not. I’m just trying to be upbeat!” His eyes narrowed.
“Try and be honest. I’ll go get us all drinks.” Wayne touched Darren’s cheek briefly and then scooted into the kitchen, his face grim. Sophie sighed.
“Honest about what, Dar? What aren’t you telling me?”
He took both her hands in his and squeezed her fingers. “I don’t want you to panic. I know this is terrible timing what with the news and all.” He pronounced news like it was the name of a disease she had. Sophie rolled her eyes.
“Spit it out. I can take it.” She felt like she could take anything. Darren could open his mouth right now and tell her Christian was back and was slandering her all over town and Sophie thought she could take it in stride. Her talk with her dad had energized her determination, and the feeling had only increased during the car ride back to the city.
Neither of her parents had been surprised when she’d come downstairs with her bags before dinner and repacked her car. Her mother had tried to cajole her into staying to eat, but Sophie had wanted to get back as soon as possible and put her plan into play. She used the time in the car not only to think and iron out the details of her scheme, but to make a few calls as well.
“Well, it’s just... there may have been a few more membership cancellations than I let on.” He grimaced, his eyes intent on her face.
Sophie blew out a long breath. She’d suspected as much. Nicole was leaking stories to the tabloids still, so any progress she and Henry had made by appearing together in public was shaky
at best.
“How many more?”
Wayne returned then, balancing a carved wooden tray of martinis. Sophie lifted hers free and sipped. Given what she had planned for tonight, a little liquid courage couldn’t hurt. Darren took his drink and gulped it.
“Like, fifteen.” His eyes slid away from her face. Sophie’s stomach fell. Fifteen memberships was a fair chunk of change. It wouldn’t break them, but it would certainly put a strain on the month to month running of the studio.
“What else, Dar? Is that it?” Surprisingly, her fingers felt steady around the thin stem of her glass. She shifted on the soft cushion of the chair, some of the tension easing out from between her shoulders. She could do this.
Darren’s lips turned down as he took another sip of his martini. “Some of our clients—our most loyal clients—the professionals who bring in all the other professionals... They’re starting to waver. There have been a lot of calls asking what’s going on. They all want some reassurances.”
“I don’t see why it’s any of their business,” Wayne grumbled into his glass. Sophie touched his knee in thanks.
“It’s their careers, Wayne. I understand that better than just about anyone.” She turned back to Darren and patted his knee in turn. “It’s okay. We’ll be back on top... or as close to as my little studio is ever going to get... in no time at all.”
“Wow.” Darren blinked at her over the rim of his martini glass. “You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would. After the whole thing with Henry and his skanky no-longer-ex with the bad hair...” he trailed off, shrugging one shoulder. Wayne muttered under his breath, but it was too low for Sophie to hear. It sounded like something derogatory about Nicole though, which made her smile.
She took another healthy sip of her martini and let the alcohol bloom warmly in her chest and belly before she spoke. “Whether she’s his ex or his ex-ex is still up for debate. But it’s pretty much an established fact that she’s behind the stories in the paper, and the cancellations too, I would wager. Nicole really has it out for me.”
“That bitch!” Color flared in Darren’s cheeks and he leapt to his feet, pacing. “I’ll scratch her eyes out!”
It was nice to have such good friends. Sophie chuckled. “I appreciate the thought, Dar, but I’ve got other ideas.”
“Your plan?” Darren asked with a sly grin. Sophie nodded.
“Nicole thinks I’m just a weepy pushover—”
“The hell you are!” Darren’s brows snapped down again.
Sophie reached out, grabbed his elbow, and squeezed. “Thanks, Dar. But she thinks that because I’ve allowed her to intimidate me and insult me. Not anymore. I’m going to show her the real Sophie Becker, the Sophie Becker that sambaed to a first place trophy, in Brazil, with a dislocated shoulder.”
Darren punched the air. “Yeah, Soph!” Wayne snorted. Sophie smiled.
“I know where she’s going to be tonight. Her, and Henry.” And more than likely Jorge too, though that didn’t really matter. The elderly man was surely egging the icy blonde on, but he could do little to Sophie himself. “And after tonight, we’ll see what’s what.”
A slow heat burned through her veins. Excitement, apprehension. She was going to see Henry again. The thought tingled in her brain. Sophie shivered. She was going to see Henry and she was going to show Nicole that she was no sad sack, easily pushed aside. And then?
Well, and then they’d go from there. It all depended on Henry’s reaction. She knew how her words to him during their last conversation couldn’t just be brushed aside. She’d been hurt, and trying to hurt him too. If he did care, if he hadn’t just been playing her, than Sophie had a lot of ground to make up.
“What exactly are you planning to do, Sophie?” Wayne had relaxed back against the cream-colored sofa, but his eyes were troubled, wary. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why. And then she realized he was worried for her. It was sweet. She had never thought of herself as being as close to Wayne as she was to Darren. She’d known Darren longer, for one. And the dark-haired accountant kept his feelings to himself a lot. She’d always known he liked her, but hadn’t realized, until now, that he actually cared as deeply for her as Darren did.
“I’m just going to a party. That’s all.” She winked at him.
Wayne frowned. Darren’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened, but before he could utter a word, there was a short rap at the door. Sophie popped to her feet and set aside her empty martini glass. When had she finished it? She didn’t know, but it was a warm glow in her belly now.
“That will be my third musketeer.” She practically skipped to the apartment door and pulled it open.
Carl stood on the other side, tall and lean and grinning wider than the Cheshire cat.
“My lady.” He sketched her a quick bow. “Do you know who owns this building?” He cocked a brow at her as he straightened.
“I do.” She tugged him inside. “Darren, Wayne, this is Carl. Carl, Darren and Wayne.” Sophie pushed the door shut and stared up into Carl’s grinning face. “Did you bring it?”
The comedian winked and lifted the garment bag he held at his side. “You’d better believe it.”
Sophie clapped her hands. “Great!” She turned her dazzling smile on the other two men in the room, who both looked slightly stunned. “Well, don’t just stand there! We’ve got work to do!”
Chapter Twenty-one
The gallery was dripping with softly glittering lights, purposefully arranged to highlight the works of art. Both the stuff on the walls, and what people wore. Not to mention the glint at throats, wrists and fingers. All the glitterati were here tonight, to see and be seen, and had dressed their plumage to best advantage.
Sophie didn’t feel a bit out of place on Carl’s arm as they glided into the front room. Her dress was every bit as fabulous as any of the other women’s. Perhaps more so. Carl had outdone himself. Sophie didn’t even want to know how much it cost. It was merely a loaner, anyway.
It was a Monique Lhuillier in shocking red with a demure illusion neckline and a deep V in the back. But the hem was going to draw the most attention, Sophie knew. That was the point. In back, the tulle brushed her heels, but in front it barely brushed the tops of her knees, and the heavier pleating of the embroidered overskirt didn’t even reach mid-thigh.
The dress showed off the entire length of her legs all the way down to the strappy black heels and her cherry painted toenails. The pale pitting and thick twist of her scar was visible for everyone to see for the very first time since her surgeries, and Sophie didn’t care.
Okay, she cared a little. But it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as she’d always feared. She held her head high, her hair in soft, dark waves around her shoulders, with only the front held back simply by a couple of jeweled pins. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and her hand shook a bit where she clutched Carl’s elbow, but there was more excitement in it than shame or fear.
“You ready for this, Ms. Becker?” He smiled down at her, eyes glittering with amusement. She squeezed his bicep a little. On the ride over in his limo, Carl had kept up a steady stream of hilarious banter, not giving her the time to worry about how tonight was going to go.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Mr. Barrett.”
“We’re already drawing some attention. It must be you. No one ever notices when I arrive.” He winked, patting her hand.
Sophie chuckled. “I find that hard to believe. And it’s the dress, I’m sure. You have impeccable taste. Remind me to call you the next time I plan to walk a red carpet.”
Carl snatched two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed her one. “Is that something you’re planning on doing a lot of?” He drew her further into the crowd. Sophie did her best to ignore the murmurs of people around them. She heard the whispered hiss of her name several times and knew what speculation was going on. They probably thought that now that Henry had gone back to his real girlfriend, the cast-off harlot had moved on to his best
friend. She straightened her shoulders and toasted Carl.
“I don’t know, maybe. If it doesn’t work out tonight, maybe I can convince you to take a chance on another dancer.” She only said it because she knew for a fact Carl wouldn’t take her seriously.
He didn’t, he threw back his head and laughed the raucous, braying laugh she’d become used to in the short time she’d known him. Sophie’s mouth curved in an answering smile.
“You just might be able to, if anyone could.” He clinked his glass against hers. “But I think it won’t be necessary. There’s no way anyone could resist you in that dress.”
Sophie caught the wink of light on metal and glanced to her left, not entirely surprised to find the scowling visage of Jorge Medina. He sat straight in his wheelchair near a steel sculpture of half a man carrying a javelin. His white hair was loose around his shoulders too, his wide mouth a thin white line as he stared daggers at her.
“I think I’ve found the exception to that rule.” She tilted her head in Jorge’s direction. Carl’s gaze followed the movement and his own lips thinned.
“Well, they say it’s the exception that proves the rule, don’t they?”
Sophie snorted. “Come on. I’m not going to run scared from a grumpy, bitter old man.” Carl strolled in Jorge’s direction, spine stiff. Sophie knew he didn’t like Henry’s father any more than she did, but Carl was part of Henry’s life, and so was Jorge, so they had to deal with each other.
“Jorge.” Carl wasn’t about to concede power by addressing the elder man as ‘Mr. Medina’. She saw the flare in his dark eyes and knew he’d noted the slight.
“Barrett, isn’t it?” Jorge barked, as if Carl hadn’t been Henry’s best friend for the last decade. He cut his black gaze to Sophie. “I see you brought the whore. Picking up my son’s cast-offs now?” He chortled.
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