Page 7 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“And god forbid you’d bloat when you’re supposed to look like a skeleton,” she says with a knowing wink. “I heard you got ripped in costume this morning. Sorry to hear it. The director is a twat.”

“He’s in a mood,” I answer. “It will pass.”

“If you say so.”

I go back to my book as she digs a lunchbox out of her locker. “Mind if I sit in here with you?”

“Suit yourself,” I say.

“Good. I agree with you about Park’s. They over salt and the food makes me fart. No one needs that while leaping across stage.”

I cannot help laughing. I believe there is an untrue assumption that dancers do not fart, but they certainly do. Usually it happens in rehearsal, and many dancers have very specific gastrointestinal rituals meant to mitigate performances from being interrupted by biological functions.

“I farted during an audition once,” Isabelle says, happily chatting as she eats a sandwich. “It was loud. No covering it. I finished my piece and walked right out the door. No use hangin’ round for that callback.”

One side of my mouth lifts as I study her. She is blonde, with a traditional dancer’s bun, and her eyes are brightly blue and full of humor. She has said hello to me a few times, but we have never spoken like this. In fact, no one here but Marcus has ever spoken to me for more than a few seconds ever.

“What’s the deal with Marcus?” Isabelle asks. “Are you boning him?”

Now a real, loud laugh bursts from my chest like a cough. “No. I’m not his type.”

“No? You have good chemistry.”

“As dance partners, sure. But I’m too skinny and don’t have big tits.”

“Ohhhh,” she says, “he goes for big boobs. Geesh, should’ve known he’d be that type.”

“Whatever. We see each other naked every damn day. It’s no wonder people are sneaking off to snog between rehearsals.”

“Do they?” I ask.

Isabelle looks at me through narrowed eyes, as if she is assessing if I am truly that ignorant. I am. I keep to myself, for the most part. I do not notice what other dancers do.

“You seem sheltered,” she finally says.

“You have no idea,” I agree.

“Well, if you would like to go put some calories on your fat ass this afternoon, I’m running to Smoothie Café after rehearsals. We could get a treat and I can share with you all of the gossip and scandal.”

I consider this. The idea of leaving Vera and the driver sitting out front while I run away with my new friend for a forbidden snack sounds like good payback for being accosted bymy father’s goons last night. Plus, I really am curious about who is snogging who among the company.

“That sounds great,” I say.

Her face brightens in a smile. “Brilliant.”

I stand and stretch before shoving my unread book back in my locker. “Back to it.”

“Break a leg,” she says. “Don’t let those bloody bastards get to you. They picked you for a reason.”

I nod, feeling oddly more confident after that little boost.

That slight voice of support is just what I needed. The second set of run-throughs is perfect. Marcus and I nail our parts and the director and choreographer have no notes, which is a first for me.

When we are done for the day, Isabelle loops her arm in mine and sneaks me out the back door of the theater, down an alley, and two blocks further, until we find the Smoothie Café. We order fruit smoothies and I sigh with audible pleasure as the sweetness hits my tongue.

“I never have sweets,” I say, ruefully grinning at Isabelle’s reaction to my noise of pleasure.

“You sounded like you had someone’s tongue between your legs,” she says, looking under the table for dramatic effect.

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