Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
I love her.
I want to say it, right now, with her body still trembling in my arms. But I don't. She's not ready. Not yet.
Instead, I kiss the frantic, racing pulse in her throat. "You're perfect, Sophie. Absolutely fucking perfect."
She laughs, a breathless, wrecked sound, and twists her head to look up at me with those wild eyes. "Flattery and orgasms will not get you out of practice, Harlan."
She isn't kidding. Once we're able to move again, she puts me to work. And if I ever thought hockey practice was grueling, I was a delusional jackass.
There is nothing more physically challenging than trying to keep up with a professionally trained ballerina. We're barely finished stretching, and my legs are already trembling.
"You giving up already?" she taunts, smirking at me as she goes en pointe in a series of dizzying turns that send her whipping down the length of the ballroom before she catapults herself into the air.
"I'm fine right here," I groan, leaning back against the wall to watch her. "Carry on, ballerina."
She grins at me again, her entire face soft in the way it always is when she's dancing, like this is where she belongs.
"Can you start the next song?" she asks.
I reach for her phone, hitting the button to skip to the next song on her playlist.
I expect her to do another round of turns, maybe show off, but instead she goes very still, her chin lifted, her shoulders melting down as the music swells around us. It's a song I've never heard before, minor and slow.
She doesn't look at me. She just moves, her arms floating up like her bones are made of air, each step a story. I've watched her do all kinds of things—slap a grown man, curse a mountain, take a fall that would break most people in half, and then laugh about it—but I've never seen her like this.
Sophie is pain in motion. She's sadness and longing, all of it thrown out into space by the way she bends her hands or sweeps her body across the floor. She's not just dancing. She's telling a story I can't quite read.
It hurts to watch her. It's also perfect.
When the song dies, she bows her head, her chest heaving, her cheeks red and wet. Just a little. No one would notice except me.
"What the hell was that?" I ask, getting up so fast I almost tip the podium beside me.
She wipes her face and laughs, embarrassed. "It's from the first act of Giselle. She's dancing for the man she loves, even though she knows he's going to break her heart." She shrugs, blinking away the tears like they're nothing.
But my steps stall, my stomach sinking.
"Is that what you think I'm going to do, Sophie?" I ask, my voice quiet as I pace toward her.
"What? Don't be ridiculous. It's just a dance."
Maybe to most people, but I know her. I've watched every goddamn ballet she's performed, so often they're burned into my memory now. And never—not once—has she cried dancing any of them. She's never danced one like that, either, like she was telling her own story instead of the one choreographed for her.
I stride toward her, my steps heavy and careful. "I'm not going to break your heart if you give it to me, baby," I say, whisper-quiet.
Her lips twist into a sad little frown. "What other choice do you have, Harlan?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means…" She huffs a sad little puff of air. "It means your life and career are in Los Angeles. You signed a contract. You can't just walk away from it." Her bottom lip trembles. "And my life and career are in Chicago. Even if we wanted this to continue after this weekend, we're just setting ourselves up for heartbreak."
I rock back on my heels like she hit me. That's what it feels like. Hell, it feels like she just cracked a piece of my heart.
"So that's it then?" I ask. "You just give up on us here and now? Decide we aren't worth it?"
"That's not…" She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just trying to be realistic, Harlan. And realistically, I leave in the morning."
"Jesus Christ." I stare at her, shocked. "You're leaving in the morning."
"Well, yeah." She tilts her head to the side, confusion painting her expression. "I have to go back. You're leaving tomorrow, too."
She's right. I know she is, but goddamn. It feels a little like she just told me that she's leaving me, and I think maybe that is what she's saying—that she doesn't want this to continue after tonight.
She's already decided that I'm going to break her heart, so she's cutting her losses when the weekend ends. She's running, right the fuck out of my life.
"I guess you have it all figured out then," I grit out, my hands clenched at my sides so I don't snatch her up and try to fuck her into seeing it my way. I have a feeling that'll do more harm than good, especially with that haunted, hunted look on her face. "Fuck me, and how I feel, I guess."