But I can’t flirt with her to save my life.
I mean, I can flirt. And Sophie is pretty cute, but when I look at her, all I can see is Duncan glaring at me. Or Spencer hauling me off to court to sue my sorry butt because I made the mistake of driving just a little too fast.
Maybe it’s because of the instructions from my father, or the guilt that I am not admitting but am definitely feeling, or because she’s only dressed in a thin hospital gown.
All I can think of is whether it closes at the back.
I danced with Sophie on the final night of my stint on The Suitorette and the memory of holding her in my arms always makes me look twice when I see her.
She’s cute. She’s nice. She’s not for me.
My life would eat her alive, and I wouldn’t want that. I feel bad enough that she’s in the hospital because of me. That her parents are fighting because of me. That she had to call some friend, and apologize for not being able to take her shift at the restaurant.
I heard that conversation earlier as I hovered in the hallway.
I don’t want to be unkind, or untruthful, but honestly, I have no choice.
It’s not the threat of the police that has me smiling at Sophie as she lays in her hospital room, it’s the fact I haveone option leftif I want to continue with my life as a driver. No one will give me a car to race because I got mad and sideswiped my teammate, wrecking the car and sending him to the hospital with a fractured pelvis and a broken collarbone.
I do feel bad about that, and maybe I do deserve the cold shoulder of the entirety of NASCAR, but I have nothing else. And I need something so I can prove to my father that I’m not a complete failure.
The FluxFuel gig is that one option, and I need a shot at it. If I get into trouble here, that’s it. I’ve got nothing.
I’m not good with nothing.
Befriending Sophie is my way of crossing theTs and dotting the Is.
“Broken,” Sophie says, looking at me like I’m missing important brain matter. “At least two of my toes are broken.”
“Poor toes,” I soothe. “Were they attractive toes to begin with?”
She frowns. “That’s an odd question.”
It is an odd question, but like I said, I apparently have no game with Sophie. “You know, some toes are cute and cuddly and some are long and ugly and sprout hair,” I manage, feeling as idiotic as I sound.
Sophie narrows her eyes at me. Brown. Big. Currently, purple-shaded like she needs more sleep. “There is no sprouted hair. Do you have some sort of foot fetish?”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“So is asking about the attractiveness of my feet.”
“Toes,” I correct. “Your feet aren’t broken.”
“I wish someone would tell my foot that. It feels like it’s broken.” And then, for some reason, Sophie whips away the blanket covering her feet, and we both stare.
“That’s… wow.”
Her entire foot is the colours of the rainbow, and it’s not nearly as attractive as the mural I heard she painted in the elementary school.
“Is it going to stay like that?” I ask, doing my best to mask my disgust.
“I hope not, or my career as a foot model is over.”
“You… really?” I stare as she whisks the sheet back over her foot. “No.”
“No,” she confirms. “I am not a model of anything.”
“You could be,” I say, more than a little lamely. “It’s just that I knew a girl who did the foot thing.”
