Page 43 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Men typically wanted me for my pretty face, or they thought they could take advantage of me. In this case I couldn’t even say it was for either of those reasons—a god like that could snap, and anyone he wanted would come falling to his feet, swearing eternal devotion in exchange for his attention.

So, what did he want?

“Do you need a ride to the game tomorrow?” Dallon asked, suddenly appearing next to me. I blinked and realized I’d been holding this stretch for an awful long time.

Dallon was attractive. He was nice—to my face.

I wanted nothing to do with him.

“I’m good,” I told him, giving him the old dance smile. No one here obviously knew my living conditions. Dallon would know that I cleaned studios after class most days just because of his position, but he didn’t know where he’d have to pick me up to “give me a ride to the game.”

“We could go grab a drink beforehand,” he pressed, and my eyes widened.

I heard alot about Dallon, he’d dated all three of the female principals including Larissa Deletare, the Company’s prima ballerina.

It had caused a lot of drama.

Good looking or not, I didn’t want any of that.

But I also didn’t want to get on his bad side.

This was not good.

The last thing I needed was to piss off one of the principals. Ballet was cutthroat. No one was there to make friends. The social hierarchy started with the principals and went down from there. If he decided I was a pariah—everyone would.

Madame Leclerc had hated my guts for years. I’d been slated to be the lead in The Nutcracker, and unfortunately, my leg had decided to give out a few days before the first performance. No amount of pushing through could get it to work. The understudy hadn’t been ready, and the show had been written up by a bunch of news sites as a failure.

She’d never forgiven me—as if it was my fault, and I’d meant for it to happen.

A few more people like her and there wouldn’t be a place for me here.

Would that be so bad, a tiny voice whispered, and I pushed that away. Without this place, without dancing...I was nothing.

“I don’t drink,” I began, noting the way his face tightened. “But I could grab something to eat.” I added the last part quickly, feeling pathetic with every syllable that crossed my lips.

Dallon’s eyes lit up at that. He brushed his light-blonde hair out of his face, and my gaze got caught on his lean muscles.

Not nearly as sexy as Camden’s.

“Oh great. There’s a pizza place by the arena, Michaelangeo’s. You like pizza?”

I opened my mouth to tell him that, actually, I hated that place. We’d once had it delivered at a Company party and I’d gotten food poisoning and been sick all night—but he cut me off before I could.

“You’ll like it. I’ve had it before. We’ll go there,” he finished confidently.

My shoulders slumped. It made sense that he wouldn’t care what I wanted to eat—this was, after all, a man who’d had no problem pitting our top three ballerinas against each other.

I was convinced now for sure that he’d be the type of guy to make my life hell if I rejected him.

“I’ll meet you there,” I told him. “Thirty minutes before the game?”

He lifted an eyebrow, his face doing that tightening thing again that told me he was annoyed. “Thirty minutes? No, meet me there at five-thirty. Two hours before the game,” he said, and my stomach tightened.

Two hours? How the hell was I going to sit with him for two hours?

Before I could say anything, he walked off, dismissing me, and even as he went, I saw him smile and wink at another dancer.

Wow. What an asshole.

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