One Last Dance (8 page)

“Oh god, I’m going to explode.”
Sophie pushed her plate away. The gesture was an empty one, since the plate was
scraped clean. Wayne chuckled.

“But, there’s lemon meringue pie.
Or coconut cream. Or
Boston
cream.”

Sophie groaned. Boston cream pie
was her favorite dessert. Which Wayne and Darren knew, of course. Just like
they knew she liked baked ziti and French cut green beans and salad loaded with
radicchio. And Shiraz. They’d plied her with all her favorite foods from the
minute Darren had ushered her through the door of their cozy Bed-Stuy
apartment. As if comfort food, no matter how delicious, would make her forget
her new reputation.

“Let’s have some coffee,” Darren
suggested. “Watch a movie. We can have pie later.”

“Guys. I really appreciate all of
this but pie or no pie, I’m still ruined.” She gulped her wine.

Wayne patted her shoulder.
“There’s always Henry’s propositi—”

“No,” she and Darren answered in
unison.

Wayne held up his hands. “Okay,
okay. Plan B. You could sue for libel?”

Darren grimaced. “I don’t think
she can. For one thing, that would take too long. By the time she won a case,
the damage would already be done. And they didn’t claim she
was
an
escort. They just speculated as to the reason Henry Medina would be handing a
gorgeous woman an envelope full of cash.”

Sophie thunked her forehead against
the table. “See? I couldn’t even really prove them wrong. Like I told
him
.”
she sneered the pronoun. “We did sleep together, and he did give me money. So I
guess I am what they say I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Darren
said. “The two events are unrelated, remember? And even if they weren’t, you
didn’t take the money.”

“So I’m not even good at being an
escort. Great.”

“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.”