Page 4 of The Bargain (Dalton Family #2)

Chapter Four

Sofia

I walk into my Cherry Creek home, a duplex that no one knows is a duplex, my pride and joy, that’s always felt like a dream come true.

I bought it. I own it. Now, I have the chance to turn my design dream into an even bigger dream, a Cinderella story, of sorts, and for just a little while I thought Ethan was my Prince Charming.

But I don’t need Prince Charming. I have come a long way all by my lonesome.

I set my bag inside the door, lock up, and flip on the light, silence greeting me.

So. Much. Silence.

Too much silence.

You’d think after twelve hours of travel delays, I’d welcome peace and quiet, but somehow it feels off.

It feels lonely. “Damn you, Ethan,” I whisper, and grab my bag again, to stomp into the bedroom.

One look at the bed, and I head to the kitchen, open a bottle of wine, fill a glass, and then grab a bag of Cheetos.

Dinner is served. And it’s the best. No , I think, tossing the bag on the counter.

It sucks. I’m ordering ten egg rolls, two pizzas, and a few tacos.

I finally settle on a pint of brownie ice cream which I set on the nightstand to get mushy, just the way I like it, and then hit the shower.

Of course, I take my phone. What if the asshole calls?

He won’t, but what if? And why do I care?

I step in the shower and attempt to melt my skin off with a ridiculously hot spray of water.

When I’m bright red, and my body is as scorched as my heart, I pull on baggy pajamas and plod my slippered feet to the bed where I climb under the sheets, ignore my wine, and proceed to eat the entire pint.

I hate him , I think, as I fall asleep, only to fade into a dream in which I’m naked and he’s between my legs, licking me with the precision of an asshole using me for sex.

Very well.

I wake up a ball of emotion and frustration, which is exactly why I start the day with a run, which is a hobby that became a near obsession after I lost my mother.

My therapist said I was seeking the endorphin high, and even though it was a fitness habit, excess is never a good thing.

I’d also learned then that I was hiding from the emotional pain with physical pain.

I kind of think Ethan was a version of an endorphin high, another way to fill the emptiness of life without my mother.

She would have been so excited for me right now, and it’s hard not to feel that.

It must be messing with me. Why else would I sleep with him even after I knew he was basically my boss?

I might not fully understand what is going on with my decision-making right now, but I know that I need to go to Paris.

I know that Ethan will be in Paris, which means I need to set healthy limits with him the way I have with other things in my life.

With a solid plan in place, I shower, down a protein shake (surely that makes up for the pint of ice cream?), and dress in a breezy pink sundress I designed myself.

I’ve seen time and time again that wearing my brand is the best way to show off my designs and stir excitement in my customers.

I’ve just finished off a cup of coffee when my father shoots me a text. Are you home?

Finally, I reply. I got in late and didn’t want to wake you, but I’m up and headed to the shop now.

Perfect. You can set the schedule up for when you’re in Paris. You know I’ll keep an eye on things.

And there it is. Another concern niggling at me.

He’s struggling with his own business. He doesn’t need mine in the mix as well.

But nothing I say or do will stop him from looking out for my store and me.

He’s devoted to those he loves. He’s devoted to those he’s in business with as well, and yeah, my father hit some financial bumps, but he’s a solid investment.

Ethan couldn’t see beyond the finances, and he missed out.

He couldn’t see the man, only the money.

And yet, he’s doing business with me.

There’s no right way to deal with this when it comes to my father, and for now I grab my purse and head for the door.

A few minutes later, I’ve finished my walk through the cozy, upper-class area of Denver called Cherry Creek, where I live and work.

I adore the walkability and storefronts in the area, and I love my corner location in a big way.

Visitors who enter Zoey’s are greeted with racks of adorable clothing and a cluster of cute displays that spotlight makeup, accessories, and knickknacks, all of which I’ve brought in through years of partnership developments, the most recent of which is our shoe department.

“You’re back!”

This from Lily the pretty, my part-time store manager, who’s presently rushing my direction. Lily is truly the sweetest person I know, a pretty blonde who’s positively stunning today in a whimsical white dress etched with flowers, which just so happens to be one of my favorite creations to date.

I’m swept into a hug, after which she compels, “Tell me all about New York!”

Her excitement is contagious, and despite my Ethan situation, I find myself excited to talk about the Zoey brand.

We head to the back office and spend half an hour talking through the entire presentation, and Lily’s excitement is over the top.

“I just have to ask, will you hire me if this goes all the way? Like, really hire me? Do I have a shot?”

“You’re being silly, woman. Is that even a real question? You’re already Team Zoey, but I’m worried about the store when I’m gone.”

“I’ll handle it,” she insists.

“You have design school and a limited schedule.”

“I have my new part-timer I just hired to lean on. Kayla is amazing. I like her.”

“We barely know her,” I remind her, pointing out the obvious, “and she’d be running the store when you’re in class.”

“For a limited number of hours,” she counters. “And we’re connected on text. She’s an excellent communicator. She’ll call me if there’s a problem. Problem erased.”

“Okay. Maybe. But think about my father being alone—”

She holds up her hands. “Whoa. Whiplash. You’re giving me whiplash.

Your father’s a grown man. He doesn’t need a babysitter.

He’s a great guy who I know is telling you to go.

” Her brows dip. “Why are you making excuses? Are you self-sabotaging, and if so, why in the world would you do that to yourself?”

I’m reminded of Ethan saying life should be about “no regrets” back when we were in Hawaii and it gives me pause.

Am I holding myself back? Is there really even a connection between the Paris internship and Ethan that I actually need to worry about?

“I have to go unlock the store,” she says, “but we’re not done here; of that, we can be certain.

” She exits the office, and after a few moments of telling myself to just go to Paris already, I decide this is where limits come into play.

Ethan needs to know I’m not desperate. Desperate is not a good look.

I don’t feel comfortable using Harper as my attorney, after all that’s happened, but I’ll have our family attorney look everything over for me. Which is the smart thing to do.

I email Phil, my lead contact at Moore’s:

Dear Phil,

I’m excited about the mentorship and potential to build the Zoey brand with Moore’s Department Store.

I do need to seek legal counsel before I sign the contract.

There’s quite a lot of small print that is more legal-ese than fashion sense.

My attorney is a tad slow, but important to my processes.

Can I please get a week to review and return this document?

Kind Regards,

Sofia Cameron

I hit send and calm the flutters in my belly by reminding myself that this is a common business process. I should get an attorney and they will expect such responsible behavior from a potential partner. However, as I’m trying to make myself believe those words, Phil has already replied.

Ms. Cameron,

We will reluctantly grant you your week. While the Zoey brand is the way we want to move forward, when we decide to make a move, we believe in rapid actions. Try to expedite this process before the one week.

—Phil

Reading between the lines, I decide the board is sold on me, and the Zoey brand, but they’re equally sold on the premise or a high-end brand within their brand. If I am a problem in any way, they’ll find another designer if necessary.

Which guts me.

This is a dream come true, every young designer would hope to achieve. I pitched the idea. I opened this door. To have them use it on their own would be a blow. It would destroy me, so why in the world am I not just jumping through hoops to make this happen? Why?

What’s holding me back, besides me?

I haven’t found that answer when Lily returns with Kayla in tow, and I’m meeting my new employee, a brunette about ten years older than Lily, who’s fashion-forward in a cute black jumpsuit and friendly but highly professional in her manners.

I like her quite a lot, and the barriers between me and Paris seem few.

Really only one. Ethan. As if he can read my mind, my cellphone rings, and his number is on the caller ID, my heart lurching with the very idea of talking to him.

With a trembling hand, I decline the call, and about the time I pull out my sketchpad from a drawer, my text message goes off, and, of course, it’s from him.

We need to talk , the message reads.

I swallow cotton and reply with, Business or personal?

Both, is his immediate answer.

This sets my heart to racing, but that doesn’t stop me from answering with, The two don’t mix, remember?

And yet, they do, he answers , or you would not have just asked for a week to think about Paris. There’s nothing to think about. This is a good move for you.

Spoken like a man who thinks he knows better than me. I’ll let you know after I’ve reviewed the documents with a clear mind.

That’s why I introduced you to Harper. She’s still your attorney. She’s handling this for you.

The memory of meeting his attorney and friend flashes in my mind.

I’d felt a part of his inner circle, and it’s as confusing as this text exchange.

He was with his ex , I remind myself. With that grim detail in mind, I type: I think it’s best I use my attorney here.

Once he’s reviewed the contract, I’ll move forward.

The time to do so is a reasonable request.

Of course it is, but we need to talk, he repeats.

The best way for me to make my decision is by not talking to you, Ethan.

I don’t believe that, Sofia. Something happened. I want to know what. Talk to me.

Now he’s pissing me off. Something happened ?

Really? He’s playing dumb because he doesn’t know I saw him with her, and that’s just pure deception.

My fingers pound out a message: I’d be more comfortable communicating with my contact who is not you.

I appreciate the opportunity, and I’ll probably take it.

I just need time to get my ducks in a row.

For a long few beats, he doesn’t reply, and there’s a small part of me that fears I’m going to be fired. Finally, his answer is: I’ll give you six days. And all six will kill me.

Liar, I want to type, but once again, I settle for saying nothing at all.