I stumble to the elevator and slam my hand against the button. I'm so mad I could scream. I'm so mad I want to run back and kiss him again. And I'm furious that both things are true at the same time.
"Dammit," I groan, burying my face in my hands as soon as I'm on the elevator, with the doors safely closed between me and him. Why the hell did I agree to his little bet?
I can't even ski!
This is going to be a shitshow.
Chapter Three
Harlan
"Son of a bitch," I groan, my hands in fists as soon as Sophie appears in the great room. How the fuck she manages to look edible dressed from head to toe like she's going to war with a goddamn snowman, I don't know, but she does.
Her pink ski jacket is the exact same color as bubblegum. So are the pants. Her hair is in a high ponytail on top of her head, with thick, glittery earmuffs covering her ears.
She's the only woman alive who could make this much pink sexy.
Her eyes narrow, then flick to my boots, up to my eyes, then straight back to her phone. She sniffs, the sound so full of disdain I can't help but smile. Then she turns on her heel, ignoring me completely, and heads for the espresso cart.
"Motherfucker," I growl.
Hattie giggles beside me. I turn a dark glower on her, but she just beams up at me, her cheeks already pink.
"I didn't say anything," she says.
"You didn't have to say it. That laugh said it for you," I mutter, shaking my head. "You're loving my misery."
"Only a little." She nudges me, laughing again. "She's only mad because you hurt her feelings."
"You know what happened?"
My baby sister shrugs. "She might have mentioned wanting to set you on fire after that article came out."
Dammit.I hoped she'd unblock me last night. She didn't. I refreshed her profile for a good three hours once I made it back to my room, just waiting for it to load, but it never did.
"You like her, don't you?"
I hesitate and then nod. There's no point denying it when it's already pretty fucking obvious to everyone with eyes. I didn't make a secret of chasing after her at dinner last night.
Besides, I don't care who knows that I'm into her. It's not like I'm trying to hide it. I'd just prefer not to involve my siblings or hers. Shit is already complicated enough.
"Want my advice?" Hattie asks.
I eye her warily, not convinced I trust her advice. Last time I took it, I ended up with Icy Hot on my balls after pulling a groin muscle. For the record, the pulled groin muscle was the least of my concerns that day.
"Knock yourself out," I mutter anyway.
"People are constantly trying to change her or make her fit what they think a ballerina should be," she says, watching as Sophie makes herself a cup of coffee. "She's been insulted and criticized more than anyone I know, just because she dared to dance without being a size two. She has walls up because it's the only way to survive all the crap that gets flung her way. If you want her to fall for you, show her that she's safe with you. Let her be exactly who she is, and remind her that it's enough. She needs to hear it, Harlan."
I feel the words hit right behind my sternum, where the little kid version of me still lives, the one who used to believe he could make things better for his sister, just by being big enough, loud enough, or mad enough. I hate that she knows what it means to have people pick you apart just for existing. I fucking hate that Sophie knows it, too.
I've seen the shit other dancers and critics say about her. It pisses me off every goddamn time. There's nothing wrong with her body. It's strong and beautiful, capable of effortlessly doing what any other ballerina can do. And that's the problem.
They hate her because she makes it look easy. When she dances, you can't help but watch her, not because of her size or because she doesn't fit, but because she dances with her soul. She moves in a way no one else does. She isn't replaceable, and they fucking hate her for it.
They also hate her for daring to change an institution that's been frozen for longer than any of us have been alive. Ballet has been around for hundreds of years, and in all that time, ballerinas have always looked the same. Now, because of Sophie, they don't. They see her as a threat to a tradition that, quite frankly, should have died a long time ago.
I pull Hattie against my chest, tucking her head under my chin. She accepts it, almost melting into the hug. Even now, with the wedding a week away and her life more together than any ofthe rest of us, she still feels like the little girl who clung to me during thunderstorms.