Page 86 of The Playboy Billionaire

Entering the room, there’s a group of ten dancers busy stretching.

“Throw your stuff at the front. Get warmed up, and then I’ll introduce you to the gang,” she adds.

Too shell-shocked to say much, I go through my usual routine. Limbering up and warming each muscle group, pleased I’ve been using Caleb’s gym to keep myself supple.

“Right, everyone,” Scarlett shouts, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Morning.”

There are a few chuckles, mainly because the sun is barely up, and we’re all standing in a dance studio, ready to go.

“I know it’s early, but most of you have places to go and people to see. I’d like to introduce you to April. She’ll be working with us for the foreseeable future. Please make her welcome.”

The group turn towards me, each taking turns to introduce themselves. I’m a little surprised at their welcome as most dancers I’ve met, are highly competitive and, therefore, distant towards the new girl or guy. But that is clearly not something Scarlett puts up with.

“April, come and stand with me. Team, I want you to run through the routine. Show April what we have so far.”

The group move as one, each taking up their position as I move to stand beside Scarlett. She turns to me and smiles.

“Watch. I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

My face must relay my confusion because Scarlett chuckles.

“Pardon?” I say, choking on my surprise.

“There’s something wrong with the routine. I want another set of eyes.”

“But—”

I want to tell her she’s made a mistake. I’m not an experienced choreographer, only ever having made up my own routines. Scarlett has got the wrong impression. What has Caleb told her about me? Whatever it is, I’m about to embarrass myself.

She looks over as if sensing my discomfort. “Don’t think. Just watch and tell me what you see.”

I nod, not sure what else to do.

When she starts the music, the dancers begin to move. The music is from a band I recognise, or at least I think I recognise the tones of the lead singer. My eyes track the dancers, listening to the lyrics and watching their moves.

The track ends, and I’m immersed.

“Again,” Scarlett says, not asking me, almost as if she’s aware I’m lost in the moment.

The music and dancers start up again. My brain breaks down the moves of each set. The hours I spent in Di’s dance studio come back to me, dancing solo in front of the mirrors, choreographing routine after routine to my favourite songs. Then, my time at the conservatoire.

“Take a break,” Scarlett says after they’ve run through the routine three more times.

I watch as they file out, heading to the canteen, the place I first sat with Caleb and Scarlett.

“What do you think?” Scarlett says, turning her attention to me.

“It’s a great routine,” I say.

She raises a brow. “Not what I want to hear,” she adds. “Tell me honestly. Your body language gives you away.”

I right myself. What body language? Of course, there are things I would have included, done differently, but that’s only my opinion. The lyrics suggest something different to me—but this is Scarlett Dupree. She’s today’s master of choreography.

“Does it help if I tell you it’s not my routine?” she adds, giving me a knowing smile.

My shoulders loosen up, and she chuckles. “Even if it was, I would still want you to be honest with me. That’s my number one rule when people work with or for me. I’m not superwoman and even I can make the wrong decision. I’m not so arrogant that I can’t take feedback.”

“Why?” I turn to her fully. “What’s this about?”

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