Page 161 of Facing Off
I tut, peppering kisses along her bare shoulder. “Baby, it’s no big deal that I believe in you so much, I want to shout it to the whole world.”
She lets out a soft breath, one that feels lighter than before. “You know what?” she says, turning slightly to face me in the dark cabin of the car. Her voice is quiet, but certain. “I believe in myself too.” She swallows, gaze fixed on the streetlights passing outside her window. “Maybe what happened at the gala sabotaged my chances, but Iwant this. I want to go into that audition room in front of Bob Pepita and give it everything I have.”
My chest tightens. Pride doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“You probably want to go to the studio right now,” I say, sighing and grinning, “even though it’s late and your feet are killing you.”
“Maybe.” Her mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“Okay, then…I have something for you.”
She eyes me, suspicious. “What kind of something?”
“A surprise.”
Her mouth purses. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” I wink. “But this one’s good, I promise.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at my place, standing outside the gym where she used to train with Team Nutcracker.
She eyes the door, then glances sideways at me, frowning. “Did you want to…work out together or something?”
I know why she’d think that. I had every known piece of equipment inside, the best home gym money can buy.
But not anymore.
“Go inside,” I say, my voice rough. “You’ll see.”
She pushes the door open without much ceremony. I trail behind her, my pulse kicking into a sprint.
She takes one step in. Two.
And then she jerks to a stop.
Completely still.
Her hand flies to her mouth.
Gone is the equipment. Every last weight, bench, and machine.
There’s nothing left but cushioned, sprung flooring and mirrors on every wall. A mounted barre runs the length of one side, installed at just the right height for her.
And then there are the black bows. The fancy ones you put on presents. In retrospect, a hundred of them hanging from the ceiling might’ve been a bit much. But I should distract her from them,ifthey are too much, right?
Is it too much?
Fuck!
I scrub a hard hand down my face as my pulse skyrockets.
She hasn’t said anything. Her hand’s still at her mouth, eyes wide.
“Wait—Sonya—just before you say anything, you should know, the floor…it’s customized to absorb impact,” I blurt out, “so it reduces the stress on joints.” I spin halfway around and gesture at the sleek white unit on the wall. “And there’s full temperature control. Too hot, you can cool down with air-conditioning. But if your muscles are sore, you can crank up the heat. Nice, right? And—there’s a kitchen—in the corner?—”
More gesturing.
All while Sonya has kept quiet.
