Page 1 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

CHAPTER 1

Galina

“No! No! No!” my director yells as my partner hoists me above his head as if I weigh nothing. “Gigi, you areelated. You have just reunited with your lost love! This is a climax ofepicproportion! You are joyous! You are setfreefrom your grief!”

Every note David Ristikoff offers sounds as if it ends with an exclamation point. He is an emotional man, a loud man. He is also a control freak and a workaholic. And we have been here, working on this single sequence, for over an hour. The other dancers sit backstage, watching my extreme mortification, as they play cards and drink tea.

I cannot seem to get this right. My partner, Marcus, is a patient man. He helps me to position my body this way or that and he counsels me when my weight is uneven in his arms. He seems unbothered by the intensity of today’s practice, though I suppose he is used to it. He has been a principal dancer for the past six shows here at the Washington Ballet. This is only my first time in the lead. I am used to being background noise, just one of a large ensemble. I never receive this type of attention.

At twenty-one, I am the company’s youngest principal dancer ever. The youngest before me was twenty-four and the average age here has been twenty-six. It is a great honor to have been selected for the role. This is an original work by a mind-numbingly amazing choreographer, with whom Ristikoff is having a volatile affair. Their relationship is one of the worst-kept secrets among many poorly kept secrets in our building. I have personally walked in on the two of them in a very compromising situation. One simply cannot unsee some things.

Ana and David chose me for the role because of my body. Not my dancing, my body. The character grieves for the bulk of the show because she believes her soulmate is dead. In Ana’s mind, the character is wasting away, the weight of her loss literally sucking away her own life force. She likes that she can see my ribs in my leotard, that my hipbones protrude, that my knees are knobby. I am five-ten and weigh one-hundred-and-ten pounds; ofcourse,my ribs are visible. I am a waif of a human, exactly what Ana envisioned.

I am agooddancer, a professional dancer since I was sixteen, but I am not a principal dancer. It has required many extra hours of practice to dance well enough to retain the position. I have an understudy who would gladly see me break an ankle on a botched lift. She is nearly thirty and spreads rumors that I am the reason for David and Ana’s explosive arguments, that I am fucking both of them. This is, according to most of the dancers here, the reason I am on the stage now.

It is all nonsense, of course. I have been with the company for three years and I am heavily guarded. I work and I go home, and there is little room for anything else in between. I wish I had a lover. Or a friend. I wish I were exciting enough to create real gossip. It would be better than my real life.

“Again!” David yells as Ana sits in the front row, dark eyes stark against her snow-white skin. She is wearing a winter hat,even though it is nearly spring and we are inside a building that normalizes around eighty degrees.

I am determined to get this right. At Marcus’s entrance, I push myself to believe I am seeing my great love resurrected. I push myself to express what it must feel like to experience such joy, such pure joy and relief, and I throw myself into the movements, into the lift. I feel Marcus’s hands, solid at my small waist. I feel balanced and that alone makes me giddy.

“YES!” David announces. “I thought we’d be here all night!”

I did, too.

Marcus sets me down and leans in, his lips at my ear. “Knew you could do it, luv.”

His compliment is not a surprise, because he is kind. One of the kindest dancers here. What is unexpected is the nod of approval I receive from Ana, who gets up from her seat, gives David a thumbs-up, and walks straight out the back of the theater.

I stand, gaping, until I feel Marcus’s hand on my back, urging me to run while I can. We head away, stage left, as the remaining dancers come on stage to do their final run-through.

Back stage, Marcus pulls on sweatpants, and a shirt bearing the face of French footballer Kylian M’Bappe, on the front over his dance gear. He slips on a pair of bright orange Crocs, adorned in little widgets of dancers and avocados and rainbows. He is six-feet of solid muscle, but this outfit makes him look like a gay teenager.

“What are you wearing, you fool?” I ask jokingly.

He looks down at his outfit and shrugs. “Meh. It was all clean. I was lookin’ for my plaid jumper but when I found this gem, I changed plans. Suits my current mood.”

Whatever that means. I just grin and thank him for putting up with me. He steps forward to give me a hug.

“This is going to be epic,” he says. “Those bloody asses out there can go jump in the river. People will be cryin’ like wee little babies come opening night.”

I laugh into his chest, then push him away. “Go away. Go do the things you do when you’re not babysitting me.”

“You mean playing with my hot new girlfriend?” He winks.

I scrunch up my face and shake my head. “Whatever. Go on.”

He kisses the top of my head. “Have a good night, young Gigi. May sugarplum fairies dance through your dreams.”

He bounds away in his weird outfit, and I go about the business of gathering my things before heading out myself. As usual, the long, black Town Car idles out front of the building.

I slip inside, Vera reading a book in the backseat. As soon as the door closes, our driver sets out.

“You’re later than expected,” she says, closing her book to peer at me.

“David made us rehearse the lift for an hour straight.”

“Were you getting it wrong?”

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