Page 32 of When Hearts Awaken

And no one sees me.

I shake myself—the Lochness Monster has been visiting more frequently these days and I suspect it’s because of all the changes happening, but I’ll fight like hell before I get sucked in. Maybe I’ll give Olivia a call tonight—she’s single, great company, and likes slasher movies too. She says it’s fun to psychoanalyze the serial killers. I smirk inwardly; the idea sounds better and better by the second. Pizza and bingeing onNetflix. Plotting murders of fictional serial killers. We’ve become good friends since that night at The Sanctuary, even though I had to grovel my way to her good graces after I ran off that day.

Clearing my throat, I say to the happy couple, “I have to go back to the ABTC to practice. Every second counts now.”And Sir Ian wants to see me.My shoulders tense at the thought, but I brush it away.

My hand moves to close my laptop, but Grace’s voice stops me.

“Hey Tay, you know you don’t have to worry about the performance, right? As much as I don’t understand ballet, I believe in you. That Sir Ian will love you because you’re so talented. You can do this!” She beams widely at me.

I strain a smile before shutting the laptop lid.

Sir Ian wants to see me.

The memory of that disastrous first meeting floats to the forefront.

Why was I so scared that day? Will it happen again when I see him?

Nausea churns inside me, and suddenly, I want to puke.

Chapter 13

“Come in,” the raspyvoice from my nightmares commands behind the closed door.

Acid roils in my stomach and I grip the doorknob, steeling myself before entering Sir Ian’s office at ABTC.

Can I do this? Face this man my body seems to fear?

Work closely with him in the foreseeable future and impress him so I can finally get promoted?

Maybe my reaction was a fluke. After all, I don’t remember my monster. It was probably some subconscious stress triggering a vivid flashback.

It’s a conversation I’ve had many times in my head, to no avail. But I know this—I’m not jeopardizing my career at the country’s best ballet company unless I know something definitively wrong about this man.

Drawing in a shallow inhale, I twist the doorknob and step inside. My eyes dart around the spacious room, doing everything I can to delay looking at the man himself.

Sir Ian has already put his stamp into the space. Gone are the feminine touches of fresh floral arrangements and brightly colored cushions. The office now radiates with masculine appeal. Dark wood paneling and intricate coffered ceiling frame the large windows overlooking Central Park. Golden plaques and trophies, no doubt from the accolades he has accumulated over the years, beckon at me from the walls and shelves, as if to say, how can someone so talented and respected in the community be a monster?

The man himself sits behind a grandiose oak desk in the center of the room. I knot my hands in my shapeless black sweater. I’m sweating faster than I can wipe the moisture away.

“S-Sir Ian.” I hate how I stammer in his presence. I straighten up.Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

He sets a fountain pen on the desk, sits back in his plush leather chair, and observes me. I’m caught by surprise at how much he looks like Charles. Less imposing, definitely thinner, but the same nose and eyes. But unlike his nephew, whose presence only makes me want to get up in his face, Sir Ian puts every atom of my body on alert, ready to run away.

I stare back, forcing myself to smile in his presence, even though I’m sure I look like I’m grimacing instead.

After a few seconds of terse silence, made even more uncomfortable by the unusual stillness in his figure and shrewd eyes, his lips curve up in a smile. “I hope you’re doing well, Ms. Peyton-Anderson. Do you mind if I call you Taylor?”

I let out a stale breath. I nod. “Taylor is fine.”

He motions to the seat in front of him.

I hurry forward and take a seat at the edge of the chair, my tote bag on my lap. Placing my hand at the opening, where a pepper spray is within reach, I force myself to take even breaths.

Citrus.I take a deeper whiff.Yes, citrus, like oranges.

Not peppermint.See? It was probably all in your head that day.

My body relaxes marginally.

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