I’m fine with it because I am fine with myself. And if a man—whether it’s an art teacher or a billionaire—doesn’t want to be with me, that’s his problem.
While this epiphany races through my mind, I’m still standing there, silently looking at Martin. “It’s nice to see you,” I tell him to fill the silence. Itisnice to see him. Martin is attractive in his own small, quiet way.
Not like Ashton.
Martin would be perfect for the old Sophie. “Have a good night,” I say, and then with Kate beside me, I walk away.
I say walk, but it’s really sort of loping.
And I don’t go far before my Dad catches my arm. Duncan Laz—former rock star, romance novel model—dressed in a well-cut suit, his grey hair hanging loose around his face, makes most of the females of Battle Harbour swoon.
And he’s my father. He’s here for me. He always has been, even when I didn’t know it.
“How are you doing?” he asks, forehead creased with concern.
“I’m fine. I’m good,” I assure him.
“Do you needanything?”
“A dance with my dad?”
His face softens, and if possible, makes him even more good-looking. “I would like nothing more.”
Kate takes my crutches. “I’ll take these. You won’t need them if you stand and sway.”
I manage to do more than sway, sliding my foot so we move in a small circle. Dad, with a bemused smile on his face, lets me lead.
“You’re doing well with the foot,” he says.
“I am. I thought maybe I should move back to my apartment soon.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m not sure what I want to do,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m not sure I want to live with Stella anymore.”
“Did you have a fight?”
“No, I just think I’d like my own space.”
“There’s plenty of space in the castle. Magnus would love to have you there. We could move you to one of the suites—”
“I like my room there. The room I’ve been staying in,” I correct.
“Your room. I like the sound of that.” We share a smile.
“I’ll think about it.”
I’ve already been thinking about it. I feel at home in the castle. It’s nice seeing Dad so much, being taken care of, feeling like I belong.
I just have to keep reminding myself about that.
“I wish you would,” Dad says. “I talked to the police yesterday. About the accident. I told them there was no reason for them to keep the case open, that you wouldn’t be pressing any additional charges.”
Gone is the bluster and loud voice of a man defending his daughter. And I’m glad, because with this, I don’t need to be defended.
“It’s not Ashton’s fault,” I say. “I don’t even think he hit me. I don’t want to press charges or start a big lawsuit… I just want my toes to heal and move on.”
And maybe my heart.
