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)
“Then it’s nothing.”
I fumble with the lock behind my back until it turns. I grab my coat and bag, slip on my UGGs, and leave without giving him a chance to protest anymore. We’re done. I wish he’d just go back where he came from so I can forget about even the possibility of him.
The studio is deserted. Jalene is probably in her office. I’m through the door and on the street, walking back toward my Fifth Avenue penthouse that sits atop the world, a symbol of all I’ve accomplished. Without my parents. Without a man. Without anyone but myself. I’ve learned that I’m the only person I can depend on. A man like Trevor Bishop could make a woman forget that, and it’s the only thing that has kept me moving forward, one foot in front of the other, all these years.
And that’s what I’m doing now. Pressing through the early morning crowd, now out and on their way to offices and jobs, avoiding touching whenever possible. Maintaining the force field around themselves you need to survive in a city that could swallow you whole like you never existed without anyone knowing you were ever there. One step at a time puts as much distance between Trevor and me as possible when a hand breaks the rules, grabbing my elbow. Trevor pulls me around to face him, as wide and strong as a wall with the crowd rushing around him like water.
“Dinner, Sofie.”
The intensity of his eyes on my face. The gentle way he holds me, like he’ll let me go if I want, but he hopes I won’t pull away. The determined set of his jaw, like he’s fully prepared to fight for this. Only I know once he has what he thinks he wants, he’ll be disappointed.
“I said no.” I make my voice as hard as it’s ever been, and it’s been hard before. “Maybe this kind of thing works on the country bumpkins you usually take on sweet dates, but not on me. Back off. Is this the same man who spouts all those lofty principles?”
“Sofie, stop.” His eyes, soft and hot on my face, cool and harden. “I know what you’re trying to do, and—”
“You don’t know what I’m doing. You don’t know anything about me, and if you have any of the self-respect I thought that guy from the videos had, you’ll stop. You’re just making a fool of yourself now, and it’s beneath you.”
I gesture to the people milling around us, several slowing their steps to study me closely.
“Everyone walking past us right now knows exactly who I am. I don’t need a scene in the middle of the street with some do-gooder who wants to take me to dinner before he gets his rocks off. Now do I need to get a restraining order? ’Cause I will.”
I hate how hard his face has grown. Whatever he thought he wanted from me, I’m sure I’ve convinced him now it doesn’t exist. That I don’t exist outside of billboards and Playboy spreads and runways. That what you see is all you get. That what you see is all there is. I think he believes that now because with one last livid look, with a press of his lips so tight the dimples pop in his cheeks, he turns on his heel and walks away.
And I should feel good. Watching the broad back and shoulders headed in the opposite direction, hunched into the Princeton hoodie against the morning chill, I should feel good. This is what I wanted; the only way. I should feel satisfaction that he finally got it through his thick skull.
Then why do I feel like a petty bitch who just tossed something precious away like trash? Tossed out the possibility that what he thinks he sees in me, might actually be there.
I see you, Sofie.
He said it to me on the rooftop, and those words tugged something in me up and forward in a way no one’s words ever have. What exactly does he think he sees? Whatever it is, he may be the only one who’s ever seen it, and I just shoved him so hard I don’t have to worry about him ever looking back.
Panic grips me by the throat, strangling anything I would say to stop him. I can barely see him now, a distant shock of cinnamon bobbing over the people around him. He’ll be gone soon, and the look on his face when I landed my last verbal blow tells me he’s not coming back.
I don’t know if it’s a decision I make, or if that part of me that’s keeping secrets about how I feel about this man from the wiser, saner parts of me takes over, but across the dense, bustling crowd, a stone’s throw from Fifth Avenue, I call his name loud enough for anyone to hear—doing exactly what I accused him of doing. Making a fool of myself.