Page 14 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“It is not so bad,” Gigi answers. Her face is blank, though, as she says it. “It is necessary.”

“I thought dance was changing,” I say. “Perhaps I am naïve, but aren’t there different body types on stage in dance now? Shouldn’t the art be the focus?”

Gigi lets out a dark laugh. “Perhaps in other forms of dance, sure. Ballet is different. It is about conformity, control, and structure. Technique. And this particular character I am playing is wasting away without her love. My body reflects that.”

I pull into a diner that I like a lot. We get out of the car and find a booth inside. Gigi frowns as she looks at the menu.

“This place has the best burgers in town,” I say proudly. “It is a favorite, and I think you should try one.”

“I do not eat hamburgers,” she answers. She taps a fingertip on her menu. “They have a salad that looks okay.”

“Do you not like burgers?” I ask. “Or are you afraid to eat one?”

“The latter,” she says.

“Well, I think you should live a little. Eat a burger and some French fries. Enjoy the grease and the salt and the cheese. One lunch isn’t going to drastically change your figure.”

Gigi narrows her eyes at me as she considers my probably very bad advice.

“You are turning out to be a very bad influence,” she finally answers.

I grin. “Good.”

After we order, I ask, “So what does Gig Sokolov do for fun?”

“Not much, to be honest,” she answers, eyeing a passing chocolate milkshake longingly as it is delivered to the next table over. “I dance all day. At home, I watch television, read and work out.”

“What do you watch?”

“Oh, everything, really. I have a guilty pleasure for reality shows.” Her cheeks go pink. “But I watch a lot of the news. My father is in Russia, so news of the war intrigues me.”

I sit back in my seat. “Mmm. Me, too. I have family who lost their lives in the early days of the war.”

“I am sorry,” she says, as if she truly means it. “I want you to know I do not feel similarly to other Russians. Perhaps it is because I live here and am not exposed to the propaganda there, but I do not believe the things they say.”

“What, that we’re a bunch of Nazi’s in hiding?”

“Yes that.”

I nod. “Well, I’m pleased to hear it.”

We talk about politics for a while, and I am pleasantly surprised at how well-informed she is. She has very specific thoughts on politics and leadership, both overseas and here in the U.S.

“You work in politics, yes?” she asks. “I looked you up.”

I try hiding my pleased grin at knowing she looked me up, but my efforts fail. “I work for Senator Jennings.”

“He is very progressive, I have read. The Senator from California.”

“He is, and it often makes him an easy target. He is pushing really transformational legislation; stuff politicians usually liketo bluster about without taking real action. He is not just performative. That is why I wanted to work for him.”

“On domestic affairs,” she adds. “It does not look like he has strong solutions for foreign policy issues.”

It is my turn to feel my cheeks heat. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” I open my mouth, then close it again.

She gives me a satisfied, closed-mouth smile. “What would you say, then?”

“I would say we have brainstormed many times, but don’t have the solution that will get votes yet.”

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