The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

Once I’m on Sophie’s floor, standing beside her door, my phone chimes with a text.

Winnie: I’m proud of you. I love you. Everything is going to be okay. And most importantly, YOU GOT THIS.

God, I hope she’s right. Because I feel like I’m standing on an actual ledge right now, and I’m not even on the rooftop yet.

In less than twenty minutes, you’re going to find out…

Twenty minutes turns into forty minutes, and I start to wonder if Julie doesn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, but then, the elevator doors open and there she is.

Sophie.

She looks more beautiful than my mind even allowed me to recall over the past week and half. Most likely, out of self-preservation. No doubt, I’m in enough pain as it is, but my mind hasn’t lost clarity on anything about this woman.

I know her. To the depths of my heart, I know her.

I know her laugh. And her smile. I know her adorable quirks. I know who she is on the outside as much as I know who she is on the inside.

And I know all those things because I love her. Plain and simple.

With her arms full of bags, she juggles carrying them while also typing something on her phone, and her eyes don’t look up from the screen until she’s steps away from where I stand beside her apartment door.

Her eyes flash with instant, intimate familiarity, and my presence is such a shock that the bags in her arms start to fall.

Quickly, I step forward and snag them before they topple over and to the ground.

But she doesn’t say anything. She is a statue, her feet rooted to their spot on the floor.

“I know you’re surprised to see me,” I hedge carefully.

“H-how? W-why?” she fumbles over her words. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I know you haven’t answered any of my calls or texts, and that you most likely don’t want to talk to me, but this, you, are too important for me not to try as hard as I can to get you to hear what I need to say.”

She shakes her head, like she still can’t understand what is happening.

“I just need five minutes of your time, Sophie,” I say, and I know that my voice borders on pleading, but I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her to hear me out.

“Jude, I’m pretty sure that everything that needed to be said was already said.”

Fuck.

“Just hear me out for five minutes, and then if you never want to see me again, I’ll leave you alone.” But please don’t make me leave you alone. I love you too much.

“I’m supposed to call a client that’s been riding my assistant’s ass for the past week to get in touch with me,” she answers, but also, she searches my eyes for a beat before adding, “So, you’re going to have to make this quick.”

She unlocks her apartment door and pointedly holds it open for me to step inside. Which I do, but after I set the bags down on her kitchen counter, I turn to her.

“I know this might be a big ask, but can you follow me somewhere?”

“Jude.”

“Please?” I beg.

“Where am I supposed to follow you to?”

“I have a feeling you’re really going to hate this answer…” I pause and cringe a little. “But I can’t tell you that until we get there.”

She sighs. “I don’t think—”

I cut her off by walking over and pulling her hands into mine. They come easily, like they want to be there, and she doesn’t pull away, which I take as a good sign.

“Just five minutes, Soph. And I promise it’s not anything crazy.”

She sighs again. Stares down at our interlocked hands, and just as she lets go of mine and my heart feels as if it drops out of my stomach, she says, “Fine. Lead the way.”

An inkling of hope. I’ll fucking take it.

Out of her apartment and into the elevator, she follows me, and I’m sure I glance over my shoulder a hundred times to make sure she doesn’t attempt to run.

But she doesn’t. She also doesn’t look at me at all, her eyes fixated on the ground and her arms crossed below her breasts, but she stays.

The elevator doors open directly onto the rooftop, and Sophie’s brow furrows as she steps out to find a hundred LED tealight candles—not a fire risk, thank fuck—covering every surface of the ground around us. Along with what have to be at least fifty large vases filled with flowers that guide an open pathway toward a perfect spot on the deck that showcases the city.

“Oh my God.” A hand goes to her mouth. “Did you do all this?”

“With some help, yes.”

Sure, I didn’t actually do the setup, but I was part of the planning process. Especially when it came to the flowers. I made sure exact replicas of bouquets I’d watched her quietly admire at the Venetian were made.