Sophie has always been beautiful. Every time I see her on some magazine cover, on my feed, or in the news, it's like a punch to the gut. I'm not a man who says much in general, but silence hits different when your brain is stuck on some level of stupid where words don't even exist.
Seeing her in person again has me living on that level.
Her dark hair is pinned on top of her head, with curls floating free around her heart-shaped face. Her green eyes are dark and smoky, her cheeks pink. The red dress she's wearing clings to her curvy body like a second skin, shimmering in the light as she practically glides down the stairs.
She's so fucking graceful. There's no mistaking that she's a dancer. Every move is music. Every move is fascinating. And every single one has my dick pressing up against my zipper, aching like a son of a bitch.
I know I'm staring. I know I should stop.
I also know there isn't a chance in hell of that happening.
I've been fascinated by Sophie since we met at Hattie's engagement party a few months ago. Sliding into her DMs a week later was the best decision I ever made.
I've spent the time since learning everything I could about her—like the fact that she's snarky as hell, hates her dance partner, and takes no shit from anyone. She's also one of the funniest people alive, she's soft as silk even though she tries to hide it, and she works harder than I can even comprehend.
I was close—so fucking close—to convincing her that she wanted to be more than friends. But I may or may not have fucked that up.
Either she senses my gaze on her, or her eyes just happen to shift in my direction because our eyes meet. I'm rooted in place, completely captivated.
She doesnothave the same problem.
Her lips pull down into a deep frown, her eyes narrowing. She looks at me like she's looking at shit on her shoe. I'm not entirely surprised when she lifts her chin in the air and turns her face away, as if she's dismissing me from existence. Truthfully, the only thing that surprises me is that she didn't flip me off first.
"Damn," Briggs whistles beside me. "What the fuck did you do to piss her off?"
"Don't know," I mutter… but that's not entirely true. I know exactly what I did.
I opened my big ass mouth and insulted her profession. At least, that's how the article made it sound when they published the part of my statement where I said ballerinas weren't athletes, but left out the parts where I explained that they were something far more beautiful than that.
Less than twenty-four hours after it dropped, she blocked me on social media. As soon as I tried to call to explain, she blocked my number, too.
It's been two weeks, and she's frozen me out completely.
This is the first time we've been in a room together since we met at the engagement party. Hell, it's the first time we've even been in the same city since then…and I'm guessing it is not going to go the way it always does in my fantasies.
The thought pisses me off. So does the way she skirts around me when she reaches the landing, walking all the way to the far wall just so she doesn't have to come near me.
Nope. Fuck that noise.
I don't care if she is pissed. She doesn't get to ignore me like I'm a stranger instead of the man she's been messaging damn near daily for the last four months.
I drop my bag and stalk toward her, planting myself right in her path. She's a dainty little ballerina. I'm built like a brick shithouse. She has no choice but to stop.
"Excuse me," she says, irritation painted into every gorgeous line of her face. "I was walking there."
"I saw you." She has no idea how often I've seen her over the last several months. She'd probably kill me if she knew how many times I've stalked her social media, just to see her.
I never knew ballet could be so erotic until I was beating off to clips of her dancing every goddamn day.
I'm mad as hell that I can't do it anymore, believe me.
I'm also mad as hell that I let her run at the engagement party instead of taking her home with me. If I'd been smarter, this wouldn't even be an issue right now, but no. I figured we had time, that I could take it slow and ease her into the idea of us.
Well, that backfired in my fucking face.
"Of course you did." She sighs, flicking her gaze up to mine. Her eyes are the sharpest emerald, cold enough to cut. "I don't want your autograph, Mr. I'm-a-Real-Athlete."
Ouch. She definitely saw that bullshit article, then.