Page 83 of Sinful Betrayal

“How old were you?—”

We both blurt out questions at the same time, and Anton chuckles, waving his hand at me to continue, but I shake my head.

“You go.” I take a bite of food to stop myself from speaking further.

“How old were you again when you started dancing?” Anton rests his forearms on the table.

He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and I eye the few tattoos he has covering his skin.

I’m desperate to ask him about all of them. I have no doubt that each and every one has a deep meaning behind it.

“Umm, I was three.” I push the spaghetti around the plate.

I feel Anton’s eyes on me, but I keep my attention focused on my plate.

“I just can’t get over how amazing it is that you’ve stuck at something so long. It really is impressive, Nina.”

“Thank you.”

“Where are you hoping to end up? Do you want to travel or join a particular company?”

“The American Ballet Company is the goal. It’s the best school in the country, and it’s right here in New York.”

“So, you want to stay in New York?”

“I think so… It’s starting to feel like home.” I meet Anton’s eyes across the table, and the smile he gives me is breathtaking.

The dimple appears in his cheek, and his eyes crinkle at the edges, which adds a certain softness to his otherwise sharp features.

“I’m glad to hear that. Now, I just have one more question.”

“Okay…”

“How hard is it really to balance on those pointy shoes?”

“They’re called pointe shoes.” I chuckle. “And it’s pretty easy once you know what you’re doing.”

“Do you have a pair handy?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Could you get them for me?”

I have no idea what Anton is up to, but I’m grateful for the distraction he’s providing. So, I quickly head out of the kitchen in search of my bag. I find it abandoned by the front door, andI root around in it for the pair of pointe shoes that are already quite battered and scuffed after using them all week.

Back in the kitchen, I hand them over to Anton who, to my surprise, starts trying to squeeze his large feet into them.

“What are you doing?”

He haphazardly ties the ribbons around his ankles.

“I want to try.” He grins, getting to his feet. “I want to show you how flexibleIcan be.”

“There are other ways to show me.” I chuckle as I sit back down and watch him bend his knees.

His trousers hug his muscular thighs as he squats before trying to rise up on his tiptoes with his arms over his head, but he quickly loses balance.

“Fuck, this is hard.” He tries and fails again.

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