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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.”
