Page 65 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

What he means is that I was kidnapped and sent to a farm much like this so that I could be used for ransom against my father. I understand why he would question this choice and if being here might be traumatic for me.

I shrug in response. “The horses were the best part of that ordeal, and no one really touched me there. In time, I think he would have, but while Ilya was not there, I just helped around the farm and that was not too bad. It was Elena who…”

He nods. He knows.

“She has told me so much…what they did,” I say, my voice shaky. “Did you know that she was traveling to the U.S. from Spain when she was abducted? She was headed to a university in California, to medical school. She wanted to be a doctor.”

“I did not know that,” Vasily says. “We didn’t talk long. Only a few minutes, but I can see how brave she has been.”

“She is…sobrave,” I say. “The bravest woman I have ever met.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” he asks, sipping his tea.

I cannot meet his eyes, cannot respond to the question or the compliment. I just shake my head.

“Do you like it here?” he asks.

“I do,” I say, and I mean it. “It is quiet and peaceful, and I have learned a lot. I like physical work, especially now that I am not dancing, and I realize my body still needs to move. I still need to push my physical limits sometimes. This work requires me to do that, often, and most nights I fall into bed and sleep like the dead.”

“Is it lonely?”

I look up and meet his gaze again. Longing. That’s what is there between us. Deep, deep longing.

“Yes,” I admit. “Sometimes. I go into town sometimes. It is maybe twenty minutes from here. I got a driver’s license and a truck and I can get in it and go wherever I want, whenever I want.”

Vasily’s smile is blinding. It hurts my heart; it is so beautiful.

“Freedom,” he says, biting at his bottom lip in a way that makes me want to jump in his lap and kiss him. “I’m really happy for you, Gigi.”

We sit in silence, sipping, for what seems like a very long time, lost in our own thoughts.

“Where have you been?” I finally ask. It comes out accusatory, which is not how I meant it. Thankfully, he seems to realize that.

“In New York,” he says. “I spent a month recuperating in Brazil and then I went home to my parents’ place in Brooklyn, where I have wallowed in my grief and annoyed my mother, who reminds me daily that I have more potential than I am utilizing by sitting on her couch all day.”

This pulls a wry smile from my lips. “Funny.”

“It wasn’t. It was pathetic, but I felt…stuck. I can’t go back, and I couldn’t go forward.”

“And now? You obviously got off your mom’s couch to come here.”

“I just…” he rubs his hands over his face. “I thought you were gone, and I grieved for you. I missed you, every day, and I hated myself for whatever role I had in putting you back in your father’s hands. Ilovedyou, Gigi. Itrulyloved you and the thought of you gone was…it was too much. It broke me. So, when I heard you were still alive, I came. I came to see you in person, to truly see you and hug you and know you were okay. And now I feel like I can breathe again, so who knows? Who knows what I might do now.”

Loved.

Past tense.

My body goes numb because it hurts to think he has moved on. I still love him. I grieved, too, but I never stopped loving him. Still, this is my chance to do right by him. I need to let him go restart his life.

I think because I do not reply, he assumes I have nothing to say. He stands and takes just one step so that he is standing in front of where I sit. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead and that simple kiss goes straight to my core. The electricity of him is still there for me, the carnal attraction. God, I miss him.

“I just wanted to see that you were real, and safe,” he says. “I don’t want to keep you from this sweet little life you have built.”

He walks off, toward the front door, and I stand quickly. So many words are on my tongue. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want him to use the word love in the past tense.

I see him stop, staring at a pair of men’s work boots near the front door. He turns back to look at me, an obvious question in his expression.

“They’re Roman’s,” I say.

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