Page 3 of The Bargain (Dalton Family #2)

Chapter Three

Sofia

M y fairy tale billionaire romance has ended with brutal finality.

Two hours after spying Ethan way too up close and personal with his ex, I’m stuck in a cheap airport hotel waiting for an affordable flight back home—this after discarding the idea of paying the ridiculously expensive price tag that would have allowed me to fly back home tonight.

After picking at, and discarding, my DoorDash-delivered salad, I have now resorted to flipping through channels in an effort to find something, anything , to scrub Ethan from my mind.

The fact that some desperate part of me is hanging on a thread, waiting for him to call me, is the definition of my own stupidity I can’t seem to escape.

Even if he did communicate, I’m certain that any excuse he offers me will be lies, and at this point nothing will change my morning departure.

I do not wish for a life filled with lies, not even for a few short passion-filled months.

My decision is made. If he calls, I won’t answer.

I’m done. I knew that before I ever arrived in this hotel room.

And if I’m honest with myself, I knew better than to get naked with that man, and yet I pathetically moaned for him on repeat, most likely to the detriment of my career, but I can’t think about that now.

My cheeks heat with the memories of our oh-so-intimate moments and of those moans, and I bury my face in my hands.

Frustrated, I throw my legs to the edge of the bed and use the remote to turn off the television, but the empty room seems to mock me.

My phone betrays the silence, and I pant out a breath riddled with more nervous quaking only to find my father’s name, not Ethan’s, stamped across my screen.

Disappointment stabs at me—a telling monster that refuses to allow me to pretend I’m unaffected by all that has happened with Ethan.

With a swallow meant to wash away my emotions, I answer the call. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, honey. I’m at your place. Where are you? I thought you were coming back early tonight.”

Guilt pinches at my chest. I should have communicated, but I’ve been consumed by all things Ethan and neglected everything else.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I meant to call. It’s been a whirlwind.

I had to stay for an extra day of meetings, but all is well.

I’m actually at an airport hotel and flying out early tomorrow. ”

“Oh. Okay. That’s good, I assume? All is well?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, offering rapid assurance and quickly shifting the mood before he reads more in me.

“In fact, I just finished eating a salad I had delivered from a local joint that wasn’t half bad.

Of course, it didn’t beat that little place Mom got you hooked on, and then you me, all those years ago. ”

“Part of that is nostalgia.” His voice is drawn tight, but it shifts and lightens with an obvious effort. “How did it go?”

I hesitate, part of me fearful what’s happened between me and Ethan will impact the business side of this trip, but I quickly set that idea aside.

He assured me the two were not one, and even if he wants to back out right now, the board is all-in.

He’d look bad—wishy-washy—if he turned on me, and I’m quite certain Ethan Dalton is not a man who would like to be perceived in such a way.

“They’re interested in doing a Zoey high-end line for the stores,” I dare, a flare of excitement inside me just saying that out loud.

“Okay, what ? They what? When? How? Most importantly, why did you just tell me this as if it’s nothing? What the heck is going on?”

I place the call on speaker and twist the sheets in my fingers.

“There’s a catch.” Why is my heart thundering as if I’m about to lie?

We aren’t liars in my family, that’s why, but I’m not even sure I know what the truth is to tell about anything that happened to me.

And he hates Ethan. He really does, and no good can come of telling him anything true.

Lies are sometimes necessary , my mother had once said, but only, and I mean only, when it’s to prevent the pain you might cause someone else. Only when they are so much gentler than the truth that it’s soul-changing for the other person.

I don’t know that the Ethan side of my story is soul-changing for my father, but the pain on top of more pain perhaps is.

“A condition of the good stuff is the bad. The board is requiring I spend six weeks in Paris training with a big designer who must then sign-off on my abilities for them to move forward.”

“Whoa. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. This is amazing. What’s the bad part?”

“Dad, I’ll have to leave for weeks. That’s the bad part.”

“That’s not bad. That’s called living life, and in a grand way.”

I think of the advance I’d been offered on my pay, enough to take care of my father, but there is this gut-clawing feeling that it might be a pay for play with Ethan.

I am almost indignant for him a moment later.

That man does not need to pay to play with anyone, most certainly not me.

Believe in myself , I shout silently. My work is what’s in play.

“I’m worried about my store. I’m worried it falters and this goes nowhere. ”

“You have an amazing staff member and me. I’ll help.”

“You can’t do that. You have business to attend to of your own.”

“I can spare a bit of time to help you achieve the dream, honey. We got this. When do you leave?”

“You’re stubborn and incredible. And I have yet to tell them I’m accepting.”

“ You’re stubborn and incredible. What are you waiting on?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but a truth flows easily from my lips. “I guess…I’m scared.”

“Fear is good. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you present. It means you care.”

I do care , I think. About my career, about him, and unfortunately a bit too much about Ethan. “I’m eager to get home and to the store to try to plan this all out.”

“Get some rest. We’ll pop champagne when you get here.”

“That would be nice. Dinner tomorrow night?”

He clears his throat. “I actually have a date. Would you believe it?”

“Oh, now it’s my turn to say whoa. You know I need details—well, the ones that a daughter can hear.”

He barks out laughter. “I’m not sure I’m exciting enough these days to live up to that comment.”

“Well, as your daughter, I won’t complain, but— who is she ?”

“The owner of a restaurant that just brought in our whiskey. She’s a bit of an entrepreneur. She’s opening a couple of new locations soon.”

“She sounds interesting. How old?”

“Forty-two.”

The same age Mom would be if she were alive, but I don’t say it. “Her name?”

“Kelly.”

“Kelly,” I repeat, trying that out on my tongue, a bit nervous for him. He needs this. “I want to hear more. She gets you tomorrow night, and I get you the next? You can tell me about the date then. Or—if you have a second date, we can move it to breakfast. Of course, if you’re tied up—”

“Stop already. It’s Sunday night. We’ll do dinner Tuesday night. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m proud of you, honey.” His voice is warm with the emotion behind those words. “You dared to present your own line, and look where you are now. You made this happen.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Night, honey.”

“Night,” I murmur and allow the phone to drop to the bed, and ironically, considering all that has happened, I find myself replaying a conversation I had with Ethan.

“Since I was a little kid obsessed with Barbie. I actually started drafting designs at age ten. My mother was so proud. She showed them to the world, and I swear she would have sent out public announcements when I got into design school, had I let her.”

“Does she think Moore’s is the right move for you?”

“Why?” I ask, and not because I’m avoiding the topic of my mother, though on some level I am. Her death cuts deeply. I’m not sure if it’s smart for this man to know that part of me. “Is there something wrong with Moore’s?” I ask.

“It depends on what you want. Store brands are not Prada. Which do you want to become?”

“Prada, of course.”

“Then you don’t want this offer.”

“What if I don’t get another offer?”

“You won’t if you take this one. But do the work, get them to offer, and then that becomes part of your résumé. They offered. You walked away.”

I blink back to the present and sigh, my gaze landing hard on the floral print of the bedspread without really seeing it.

I don’t want to walk away from this opportunity, nor do I have to walk away.

Thanks to him pushing me to reach for my dreams, I dared to do just that by presenting the Zoey line to Moore’s.

Guilt over walking out on him without saying as much stabs at me, and I reach for my phone.

I pull up his number and start to type a message but stop.

There are so many ways he might interpret a “thank you” or “I’m sorry” from me when I’m here and not there with him.

I don’t have a clue what to say to him. And as if he has connected to me across the miles, a message appears on my phone from him:

Sofia, I don’t know what happened, and I told myself to give you space, but I need to say this to you.

First, I’m sorry about my father. That was not a reflection on us or me.

Nor is he involved with Moore’s or Zoey.

Or us. Whatever happened, the future is about you.

And no one gets to take your dream away, most especially me.

Come to Paris. Make this happen. But also, and it’s a big also, emotions have no place in business, and if you turn this down, neither do you.

And yes, I’m brutally honest. That will never change, but I really do hope that honesty leads you to Paris.

—Ethan

For a moment that turns into far longer, I just stare at the screen.

He didn’t call. He seems to have only sent me this message to protect his reputation.

He did, after all, push for the Zoey brand.

There’s a twist in my belly that is pure emotional pain.

I toss the phone across the bed, pull my knees to my chest, and bury my fingers in the light blonde of my hair so like my mother’s.

I miss her always, but in some moments, this moment, more than ever.

She’d talk this out with me. She’d help me unravel the knots in my belly.

Instead, I’m not only alone, but Ethan has just knifed me all over again.

He didn’t say, “Come back.” He didn’t say, “Stay with me there.” He didn’t ask why I left.

He focused on the business side of things.

He told me to go to Paris. I drop my hands and press them to the mattress and face reality.

I’m not personal to him. I try to tell myself that’s actually a compliment.

No matter what happened between us, he sees my work as good for Moore’s, where he’s invested his money.

And yet, even so, I find myself itching to type, Fuck you, Ethan , in reply.

Instead, I type nothing at all.