Page 29 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“What are you wearing?” he chuckles.

I slip into the booth, tulle skirts and all. I know that I am hidden from the sightline of the door, so it should relax me, but I am too hyped up from my performance, from the escape plan to get here.

“I didn’t want to waste time changing,” I say. So, I only made time to take off my pointe shoes and slip into boots.”

“A ballet costume, hoodie, and cowboy boots. Quite the ensemble,” he grins.

“I am here, though, and no one is pursuing me at the moment.”

He frowns. “Well, they will be soon.”

“Not here,” I say. “They would never look here. I promise.”

“Why?” he asks. “Because this is a house of carbs?”

I raise an eyebrow and grin.

“You seem…excitable.”

“I am, I suppose. The last show was…” I make a chef’s kiss because I cannot think of a word for how tonight felt to me. “Itwas like I had wings, Vasily. I thought of you, of seeing you, and I danced so perfectly. I want to cry just thinking about it.”

“I am sorry I missed it,” he says.

“Well, you have seen the show at least twice.”

“I have. And it was perfect then, too,” he says. “But I didn’t ask you here to talk about dance. I want to talk about your father.”

I feel my facial expression fall. “Idon’t.”

Just then, the server comes to take our order. I order spaghetti, because I never order spaghetti and it just feels like the right meal to choose now that my waiflike character has found her forever love. Vasily orders chicken parmesan and a bottle of wine.

“Congratulations on your show,” he says. “I see you’re celebrating.”

I give him a small smile. “Perhaps.”

“I should have congratulated you first. Accept my apologies.”

“Accepted.”

“Gigi,” he says, back to being all business. “We need to talk about him. About what he does.”

“I don’tknowwhat he does,” I answer. “I havenothingto do with him. I just dance and live in this fucking cage. Yes, he pays for it, but I would gladly be free of his money and his people. I would go live in some shitty apartment with the money I earn for myself. But no one will let me go.”

Vasily leans in and lowers his voice. “Gigi, he’s a killer. He is being investigated eight ways to Sunday. Federal agents are watchingyou.”

“Where were they when my father’s men put bruises on me shoving me into that car the night you first saw me?” I hiss. “Where were they when Vera slapped me across the face for saying I wanted to quit dancing?”

Vasily frowns but doesn’t answer.

“I did not choose this, Vasily. I do not want it. None of it. Nothing in my life has been my own choice. Not ever. It is not my choice to be the daughter of a killer. I do not want it. I barely know the man, despite his assertion that he keeps me caged to keep me safe.”

“I believe that,” Vasily says. “I do. I just…worry. I worry about you, Gigi. And I don’t know how you can live like this.”

A low, humorless chuckle erupts from my throat just as the server brings our wine and a basket of warm bread that, frankly, smells amazing. I grab a piece and rip it apart, shoving it in my mouth.

“Do you know how long it has been since I have eaten a piece of bread?” I ask. “Damn, this is good.”

I feel slightly unhinged. The range of emotions I have just since sitting down in this booth is enough to set my head spinning. Vasily sips his wine and looks at me, waiting for me to answer his comment.

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