Page 23 of The Bargain (Dalton Family #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ethan

W e’re still naked when my cellphone rings at the same time as the doorbell chimes.

“That’s going to be Paul,” I say, laying Sofia on the couch cushion and offering her the box of tissues.

“I’ll tell him to leave my things at the door.

You order the pizza.” I sit up and reach for my pants and retrieve my phone just in time to answer.

By the time I’ve given Paul instructions, Sofia has wrapped a blanket around her and darted away.

When I’ve disconnected and pulled on my pants and T-shirt, I glance around the living room, taking in the cozy feel of the space that contrasts the rather sterile décor of my own.

The couches are blue. The rug is thick and cream-colored with a navy design.

The narrow floor-to-ceiling windows are covered in heavy blinds, with a television mounted on the wall between them and a table beneath.

On top of that table are two candlesticks with a Chanel lookbook display between them.

There’s actually a mannequin with a clothing design in the corner and a wall framed with drafts of her work that would consume me with interest if not for what’s on the opposite wall.

My eyes catch and linger on a photo of Sofia with her father and a beautiful woman I am certain is her mother.

They looked alike, both blonde with blue eyes and heart-shaped faces and high cheekbones.

I’ve found myself lost in Sofia’s stare too many times in a wickedly short time.

I wonder if that’s how hard her father fell for her mother.

I also wonder if the similarities between mother and daughter are bittersweet to her father, seeing the woman he loves and lost in the daughter he loves and protects.

He’s not going to react well to me, and I don’t blame him.

He loves her. He wants to protect her. I’m an outsider who’ll most likely feel as if I’m taking her away from him.

I’m going to need to work hard to assure him that won’t happen.

It hits me that Sofia hasn’t returned, and I grimace, concerned that she’s running away again in her own house.

Damn it, why does this keep happening? I push to my feet and run a rough hand through my hair when I hear the front door open.

What the hell? Is she leaving? I shove my feet into my shoes and round the couch to meet Sofia in the hallway with my suitcase and dressed in leggings and a tank top with sneakers.

“I heard the knock when I was walking this way. Sometimes the doorbell doesn’t work. ”

I step closer and cover her hand where it rests on the suitcase handle. “I thought you were in the bedroom, plotting how to get me out of here.”

“I changed and ordered the pizza. Only, I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered way too much pizza. I don’t want you to leave, Ethan. I was nervous about you seeing my place, but that’s done. And I like my place.”

“I like it, too. It feels like you, and that’s a good thing. Where should I put this?” I ask, indicating my suitcase.

She points behind her. “That’s the bedroom.”

I grab the case and carry it to her room, which is small but comfortable, the king-sized bed covered with a dark blue velvet comforter that matches a chair in the corner. I’m not at all surprised to find a sewing machine and another mannequin with a half-created dress hanging from the structure.

“I have a hard time leaving my work at work,” Sofia explains, stepping to my side. “I do a lot of my design work here.”

“Then you won’t get mad at me working?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.

“Why would I get mad at you working? You’re successful. That doesn’t come from watching everyone else do the work. And I’m always designing. I try to control the urge, but it’s excessive. You might be the one who gets mad at me.”

“Never. You’re going to make us both rich.”

“You’re already rich.”

“In some ways,” I say, thinking about how close she is to her father. “Money isn’t everything, of that I promise. It sure won’t bring either of our mothers back.” There’s a bitterness lacing those words that I bury in distraction, motioning to a wall of framed drawings. “Can I look?”

“Of course. Those are my first designs that actually ended up in my store. They’re sentimental.”

I catch her hand and walk her with me to a closer view, studying a drawing of a pantsuit, a formal gown, a pair of jeans, and a dress, each better than the next. “You do it all.”

“I love clothes, all clothes, so yes. I design a little of everything.”

I glance down at her, curious about the definition of “all.” “But only women’s wear?”

“I’ve actually been working on a men’s line.”

“Good. That’s good. And necessary to truly make the Zoey line take off.”

“I can see that,” she says. “And I want to do a full-service brand. I can show you the designs over dinner.”

“I’d like that. How have you handled manufacturing up to this point?”

“That’s been a struggle. I’m not high volume enough to get discounts, so I overpay a small company to produce a handful of each design. I keep them all limited edition, and the customers like the idea of owning something no one else can get. I’ve made it work.”

“The store is profitable?”

“It is,” she confirms. “A location in a high-end neighborhood has helped. I truly believe that foot traffic matters, but I’d have to expand in a big way to ever make any real money.”

“Which is why you pitched Moore’s. And why you’re going to Paris. You’re expanding your brand.”

The doorbell rings again. “That will be the pizza. It’s right down the road, so it will be hot and wonderful.” She heads for the door and calls over her shoulder. “It’s a lot, though. We’ll never eat it all.”

I follow her to offer aid, and discover that she wasn’t joking about how much she ordered.

A few minutes later, we’re sitting at her round antique wood dining table with her to my left.

There isn’t one, but four boxes of pizza, cheesy bread, and a variety of drinks in front of us.

The volume of food barely fits on the small tabletop.

With plenty of choices to fill our bellies, we eat heartily for a few minutes, chatting a bit, but when I reach for my can of soda, she points at the Diet Dr. Pepper label to match her own.

“You didn’t seem like a diet kind of guy.

I thought for sure you’d choose something else.

” She finishes off a slice of pineapple and bacon pizza, which we’ve discovered is also a shared favorite.

We seem to just click. We get each other, and I’ve never experienced this level of ease with any other woman.

“I hate sugar in a drink,” I say, “but give me a Mr. Goodbar any day and I’ll make it disappear.”

“Oh, I love those. And Tootsie Rolls. It was a thing for me as a kid I never outgrew. My mother loved them, too.” She shoves away her plate.

I do the same with mine. “I was admiring the photo of you and your parents. She was beautiful.”

“Inside and out. You have no idea. She was a high school teacher. The kids wanted to please her, even the rowdy ones. She had that quality.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

“I wish you could have, too. She wouldn’t have been intimidated by your money.”

“I wish you weren’t. Why are you?” And then I pull one of my father’s negotiation tricks out of the bag, seeking truth in spontaneity as I challenge her with, “Answer without thinking.”