Heels, for a night of dancing? Well, Lucy had more endurance than Sophie did in a lot of areas. Sophie could stay, have a drink, watch everyone making fools of themselves, then catch a cab home.

Though cabs were expensive.

Lucy slid her arm through Sophie’s. “Besides, you need to put your toesies in the dating pool again, sweetheart. It’s been six months since the decree came through. You’re a free woman.”

A free woman. I wish someone would tell Mark that. “I guess so.”

“You guess so? Come on, Soph.”

“Okay, okay. I’m a free woman.” As long as he can’t find where I live. Stop worrying so much, dammit! But that was like telling herself to stop breathing. And good God, but she had no intention of ever dipping a toe—or any other appendage—in the dating pool ever again.

Once was enough.

The street pulsed with neon. Here on Broadway, Jericho City’s nightclubs were all clustered for warmth, a long row of them on either side of a square bounded by leafless trees and trellises with strings of decorative all-weather lights woven into them. A chill wind came up Fifth Avenue and teased at Sophie’s bare legs. Her back was already aching from the low black heels Lucy had talked her into, a familiar pain she put up with during the week but could have happily done without on a weekend. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because I need to practice my lambada, and it won’t hurt you to get out from under all those books,” Lucy said sharply.

Thank God for you, Luce. Sophie straightened her shirt. Well, maybe shirt was an ambitious word for a silk spaghetti-strapped tank top that showed a slice of midriff. This was Lucy’s, too. Sophie didn’t have anything that satisfied Lucy’s exacting standards for a night out.

She had precious few clothes at all, and was sneakingly glad her best friend had rolled right over the top of her objections and squeezed her into something she didn’t have to buy or wash.