Page 15 of The Muse
More blinking eyes and an attempt at stopping the smirk she’s thinking about, and she back steps some more.
“You and me. Just dinner,” she says.
“Well, as long as you don’t try slapping me again. I’ve already told you where that can lead.”
Her eyes widen, her heels hitting the marble of the main corridor outside, as one hand lands on the doorframe to stop her from completely leaving the room. “I don’t even know you, Mr Foxton.”
“So, come find out about me. I’m not just a cantankerous bastard.”
Still she stares. “I might be. I’m exhausted. And I still don't like you very much.”
“Good. I liked the attitude. Bring it with you.”
Her gaze darts around my frame, her hand fiddling with the neckline of her top that is nowhere near low enough for my liking. I suppose she’s giving herself time. Trying to think about how this looks, if she should, and whether I’m about to make her life a whole lot worse. I might, in all honesty, because this behaviour isn't anything to do with my brain.
“Alright,” she suddenly says. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you.”
“Good, where’s your coat?”
“It’s in the dressing room. I’ll have to go and get it.” I watch her duck away from the woman who seems to be after her again. But she stops and turns back to me. “You better come with me so we can sneak out the back.”
I smirk and nod my head at the corridor, my arm going out to guide her through quickly. She’s fast on her feet as she moves along the nearly empty space, her head down as she glides around corners towards the back of the theatre. Three more doors, her body towing me with her, and she’s into her dressing room and out again with her coat on.
“Where are we going?” she asks, tying the belt around her waist and turning us through more dimly lit halls.
“Somewhere we can get you a little dirty.”
And that’s all she needs to know for now.
Chapter Eight
PERSEPHONE
Dinner? With Scott Foxton. Am I mad?
Perhaps it's the champagne, but right now, I've never felt more in need of a rescue or more confident in myself, thanks to finally being able to breathe on stage. And I don’t care if I'm breaking the rules. Tonight, I don’t give a damn about them.
My pirouette was perfect, my grand jeté strong and powerful and all my en pointe work was flawless. Even the grand adage was without fault. The adrenaline was there, and for the first time in months, it felt empowering to dance. A joy overtook my body and gave me all the conviction I needed to ensure the performance was spotless. I thought that magic had been lost forever.
And now, the handsome man in the tux who I caught a glimpse of when Madam Lynch forced me to endure her dismal speech, turns out to be the man who’s occupied my thoughts and darkened my mood. Regardless, there's no reason to stay. I’ll only have to endure more humiliation in front of my peers and competition. Everyone had assumed that I’d never dance on stage again after leaving the Royal Ballet. After tonight, there's no reason I can’t move to another company that might appreciate my talents and play to my strengths rather than insist on showing me up.
I’d rather leave on a high than face questions that I don’t yet know the answers to. And Scott’s invitation intrigues me.
His arm loosely guides me as we exit out onto the streets of London. His last comment still echoes in my mind, and all it does is make me rethink our past interactions. This isn’t the same man I met in the press briefing, and while I don’t know for sure why he came tonight, it's an odd relief that he did.
He steers me effortlessly through the streets and over Waterloo Bridge before heading alongside the river. My earlier exhilaration is flattening with the fresh air—the hit of alcohol is also wearing off. “Scott?”
“Yes?” He doesn’t look at me.
“Where are we going? I can’t walk in these shoes. My feet are killing me.”
He stops short and looks down at me and the torture devices in question. It's a miracle I've been able to get my feet into these heels at all, and I certainly can’t traipse all over London in them.
“Okay. Don’t worry. Just a little farther.”
He offers me a smile that should not make my heart skip a beat, but it does. He’s being charming, and considerate and… sexy. It's surprising. Unkempt, rude, arrogant and an all-around jerk was my first assessment back at the interviews. And he only improved on a few of those points at our next meeting, regardless of me noticing his body rather than his words, which countered the first assessment somewhat. But now? My eyes drift over his back. Tailored tuxedo. Hair artfully styled. He’s quite dashing, really, and becoming more fascinating by the minute.
He moves to make a detour to one of the catering trucks ahead of us. Half a dozen food outlets seem to be open to cater for a range of tastes. “We’ll grab a quick drink and rest for a moment. Then food. I promise. What’s your poison?”
