Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“A lot of guys want to ‘get to know’ Sofie, but I was hoping you were different.” She stands, her mouth a straight line, and raises blue, disappointed eyes to me. “I’ll show you out.”
“I like her.”
The words spill out before I have time to think better of it. I don’t even know this little sprite of a woman, but it’s apparent to me that she cares about Sofie, that she knows her. And the fact that she knows more about Sofie than I do means I should take her question seriously.
Stil slowly settles back onto the edge of the desk, a small smile playing around her lips.
“What do you like about her exactly?”
I wasn’t prepared for a Sofie pop quiz.
“I like that she is absurdly honest,” I say. “Like rudely so.”
“You like that?”
“I hate bullshit. I hate having to figure out what people really mean behind what they say, and she’s not like that.” I shake my head and give a quick laugh. “Except for the fact that she pretends not to like me.”
Stil lifts one pierced brow.
“Confident, aren’t we?”
“Would she want a man who wasn’t?” I return her grin before continuing. “So will you help me? Tell me where she is?”
“No, I’m sorry I can’t tell you where she is.”
I stand up, ready to head out. As much as I want to find Sofie today, Henri will be calling soon reminding me about the meetings that take up the rest of my afternoon. The reason I’m actually in New York.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Stil.” I start toward the door.
“Wait.”
I look back to find Stil walking toward me, eyes fixed on her phone.
“I can’t tell you where she is now.” She glances up from her phone to offer a conspiratorial grin. “But I can tell you where she’ll be tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sofie
No pain. No gain.
Really, I put myself through this pain so I don’t gain. Even though I’m retiring from runway, I’ll have opportunities for years to come, if I play my cards right. If I expect to still fit the sample sizes my favorite designers send over, I’ll keep pressing through the pain of these crack-of-dawn workouts. Look at Christy Turlington, Giselle, Kate Moss. All older than I am. All with endorsement deals and contracts coming out of their perfectly toned asses.
These are the things I recite to myself as I walk to Bodee Barre Studio a few blocks from my apartment building. I, along with just five other women, take private barre classes from Jalene, a former ballerina and the tyrant we voluntarily submit to at least four times each week. I hang my coat up in the small coatroom at the back of Jalene’s studio, tugging off my UGGs and pulling my gripping socks out of the bag. My black capri leggings and hot pink halter top are both from a line I’m test running for Haven. It seems like everything I eat, do, or wear lately connects to Haven. I’m not complaining. With all the crap going wrong in my life right now, Haven feels like the only thing going according to plan.
“Morning, Sofie.” Anna, one of the girls in the class, walks in and starts the same ritual I just completed, hanging up her coat and slipping on her barre socks. “How are things going?”
“Great.” I pull my hair into a high ponytail and manage to grin at her despite the early hour and lack of caffeine. “How’d the audition go?”
Anna spends the next few minutes telling me about her upcoming Broadway show while we walk back out into the studio. The other three girls have already assumed their places at the barre.
“Morning, ladies.” Jalene’s bright eyes and smile defy the early morning hour. “Hope you’re ready to work hard. We’re supposed to have a guest, but I don’t see—”
The door behind me opens, ushering in some of the brisk October morning air.
“Ah, here he is now.” Jalene’s aging-but-still-lovely face breaks into a girlish grin.
I glance back to see the guest who elicits such an uncharacteristic response from the termagant ballerina.
Unbelievable.
Trevor Bishop’s eyes locked with mine are like hot chocolate on this cool autumn morning, steaming up the room around me. I’m trying hard not to eat this man up with my eyes, but after three weeks, the way he fills out the sweatpants dripping from his hips and the Princeton sweatshirt pressing against those massive shoulders, has me greedily taking in every detail. I still feel his eyes on me when I make myself turn away.
I miss whatever Jalene says about him joining us today. It doesn’t matter. Whatever flimsy excuse he offered to get into my class doesn’t interest me. We both know why he’s here. I search for anger, frustration, irritation—something more appropriate than the tiny shoot of pleasure springing from some secret part of me that has hoarded images of him for the last few weeks. That part that should know better than to think things could work between a woman like me and a man like Trevor.