Digging in her bag for a hair tie, she scuttled past some of the junior dancers before she dropped into a chair near one of the makeup mirrors. The afternoon classes tended to have more of the sixteen-to eighteen-year-olds who could give her a run for her money physically, which had been just what she’d needed. After a day in the air yesterday, her body had felt off during her first class of the morning. So after her show rehearsals, she’d joined an afternoon session as well to will her body back into show shape. A day missed, and a dancer noticed. Besides, cramming every second of her day with hard work meant there were less opportunities for her older colleagues to quiz her about yesterday.
Or the huge rock on her finger.
She hadn’t left the breathtaking ring on for long, but she’d worn it from the cab to the dressing room before removing it for dancing, causing a room full of whispers and raised eyebrows before the dancing master put everyone to work. She retrieved Quinn’s gift now that she was in street clothes and slid the beautiful piece onto her finger. The few junior ballerinas remaining at the end of the day were in a heated discussion about the romantic availability of one of the male dancers.
“Holy crap, honey, look at that thing.” Jasmine Jackson’s voice surprised her, even though she should have been expecting her friend and publicist to meet her backstage for a quick meeting.
Jasmine rushed toward her, the heavy exit door banging shut behind her as she wove around stored stage lights and rolling racks of costumes covered in plastic. Petite with glossy hair so black it looked blue in certain light, Jasmine had attended ballet school with her in North Carolina for a year before Sofia’s mother had caught the travel bug to tour Europe. Jasmine had quit dancing at thirteen with the arrival of hormones and serious curves. Many women would envy her figure, but Sofia had taken the phone calls from her distraught friend when her breasts had moved well into C-cup range—one of many physical changes that made dancing more difficult and casting directors overlook her. She’d been devastated.
Jasmine had ended up attending Syracuse University for communications and went on to work in advertising and promotions for the fitness industry. Her job paid well and brought her to New York, much to Sofia’s delight. They’d shared an apartment for two years before Jasmine’s budget had seriously outstripped hers and her friend had upgraded to a bigger place.
Sofia squeezed her hand in a fist to keep the ring in place. “I know. I’m terrified of losing it. And it seems really weird that it fits me, doesn’t it?” Had her father shared such personal details with the matchmaker he’d hired? She had considered speaking to him today to assess how much her privacy had been breached. But she was still so angry with him over his presumptuous matchmaking tactics.
Jasmine bent to lift and examine Sofia’s hand. A strand of silky black hair trailed over Sofia’s wrist as her friend peered at the ring in the lights of the makeup mirror. As always, Jasmine looked so put together—her knee-length, gray-and-taupe sweater dress was formfitting underneath a tailored swing coat she left open. Bracelets clinked as she moved, everything about her girly and feminine. By contrast Sofia sported leggings and a man’s dress shirt left untucked, with a black blazer—kind of her go-to work outfit in the colder months. With her wet hair braided, she felt more than a little dull next to glamorous Jasmine.
“Wow. Those diamonds are the real deal.” Her Southern accent had softened over the years, but the lilt was still there. “Come on. Let’s walk and talk so I can bring you up to speed before we meet with your very sexy fiancé.”
Leave it to Jasmine to maintain the façade of this fake engagement in public. She was great at her job and a great friend, too. Jasmine had tried refusing payment for the work she did to promote Sofia’s career, but she wouldn’t hear of it. As it was, she knew the rate Jasmine gave her was far less than what her friend billed her corporate accounts.
“You’re going into the coffee shop with me?” Sofia led the way out of the building, taking the less conspicuous path over West Sixty-Fifth Street instead of cutting through Lincoln Center. “I’ve been second-guessing myself and nervous about seeing him all day.” She squeezed Jasmine’s arm like a lifeline, grateful for a true friend after the past weeks of being on her guard at all times.
“Well, I hadn’t planned on it.” Jasmine frowned, oblivious to the male heads she turned as they navigated streets getting busier as rush hour neared. “The two of you have a lot to figure out.”
“I know. But you’re a major part of that.” If Jasmine was there, it was like a business meeting—a way to coordinate schedules.
“Since when do you need a babysitter for a date? I’ll say hello, but then I’ve got to go. I have an appointment downtown for happy hour drinks.” Her work in PR happened over dinner and cocktails as often as it happened in a boardroom. “So fill me in on what happened today.”
“Not much, thankfully.” She’d been pleased with her plan to avoid talking about the engagement by outworking everyone in the room. “The only one who really cornered me about it was the ballet mistress, and she just warned me to remember that Idris Fortier would surely prefer any woman he worked with to devote one thousand percent to his ballet.”
“Did you tell her that one thousand percent was a bit much?”
“Would I still have a job right now if I did?” The lighthearted moment ended quickly as Joe Coffee came into view and Sofia thought about seeing Quinn again.
Had she overestimated his appeal last night in her trancelike jet lag? She hoped so.
“How are your knees?” Jasmine asked. It was the only question that could rattle her more than Quinn.
Prone to knee problems, Sofia had injuries the same way all dancers had injuries. That is, always. Ballet was hard on the body and a dancer never knew when her time might be up. She feared for the length of her career, especially when she remembered the devil’s bargain she’d made with her father as a teen. Two months after her mother died, he’d refused to let Sofia pursue a dance opportunity in St. Petersburg, insisting she finish her education in the US. But after weeks of begging and crying—it was what her mother had wanted for her—he’d offered her a trade. She could go to Russia for dance school, but only if she promised that when her dance career was finished, she would come to work for him.
Which was not happening. He couldn’t hold her to a deal she’d made as a teen. But she worried for her future with no backup plan after dance. Saying no to him when she had no prospects would be difficult. Staying in this expensive city would be virtually impossible. She willed away the ache in her knee and vowed to ice it longer tonight. It’d have to do.
“I had some twinges in my right knee in Kiev, but nothing that kept me off the stage.” She tucked her shoulder bag closer as a family with two strollers pulled up beside them on the crosswalk. Horns and squeaky brakes mingled with the occasional sound of a doorman whistling for a cab in a cacophony her ears welcomed after six hours of Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky.
“Don’t overdo it,” Jasmine warned. “Staying healthy is more important than Idris and his ballet, no matter what you think.”
“On the contrary, Idris and his ballet are my ticket to a post-dance career.” She knew that a starring role and working closely with the superstar choreographer would completely change her profile in the dance world. It would open doors for a creative project she had in mind, but she needed someone like him to be on board. So she just had to nurse her knee through this opportunity.
Jasmine laughed. “You’re the same as ever, Sofia. I think I could replay the conversations we had at nine and they’d be exactly the same ones we have today. You’ve always had a plan, I’ll give you that.”
Sofia slowed her step outside the door of Joe Coffee, grabbing Jasmine’s arm.
“Not with Quinn McNeill, I don’t.” She wasn’t intimidated