Page 9 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“How did you come to be in DC, then?”

“I married a television news reporter,” she says. “He was at CNN for years but got offered an evening newscast here, so we moved.”

I have no idea where to go with this. Do I ask her about her ex-husband, or does that breach first-date protocol?

She answers the question for me, launching into a long and detailed history of their relationship. She talks about how handsome he is, and what a good lover. She would have followed him anywhere, she tells me. This sort of forces me to ask what happened and her face turns sour.

“He started screwing everyone who looked at him sideways,” she says.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

Thankfully, our food comes and the topic turns. We talk about our favorite restaurants and that, at least, seems like safe ground.

“I got ballet tickets for this evening,” I say near the end of the meal. “I think I mentioned that in our messaging. The Washington Ballet is premiering a new work. I hear it is quite affecting.”

“Oh,” she says, scrunching her nose. “I’m not really a ballet fan.”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“I really don’t enjoy theater or dance or whatever. I can’t really sit still for that long and I just find it all kind of boring and pretentious.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well, I suppose I’ll just pay the bill and say goodnight, then?”

Michelle looks shocked. “Well, I thought we might…”

“Might…what?” I ask.

“Go back to my place?”

An involuntary laugh bubbles up in my throat. “I’m sorry,whywould we go back to your place?”

The woman looks affronted, her face scrambling through a range of expressions as she gathers her purse and stands.

“I wanted to have sex with you, you idiot,” she says, turning on her heel and walking through the restaurant to the door.

I sit, baffled, as I await the bill. There was no chemistry between the two of us, at least from my end. Did I miss a cue? Between a twenty-minute tutorial on designer brands and a ten-minute trip through her former marriage, I did not find a whole lot on which Michelle and I connected.

I decide to go to the ballet alone, and the show is haunting in a way I haven’t experienced in traditional ballet. It tells a real story, and the female lead is spectacular. Through dance alone, she manages to articulate a full range of emotions – from curiosity to despair to joy. My heart pounds as she leaps into the arms of the male lead, his strong arms lifting her slim body high into the air.

After, as is customary, the dancers mingle with the audience in the theater’s lobby. I wait a long time in line to compliment the female lead, flipping through my program to gather her name.

Gigi Sokolov. Her professional biography says she is just twenty-one and from Moscow, where she trained with a professional company starting at age twelve. She is noted as the youngest principal dancer in the Washington Ballet’s history, a position earned after only three years in the company.

I peek past the line as I get closer, taking in the elegant way she holds herself. She is tall and leanly muscled, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. In profile, her nose is regal and her lips rest in a full pout. Something about her seems familiar, but I cast that thought aside quickly. I think she is very beautiful, so my mind is probably just reaching for a connection.

When it is finally my turn, she is talking to the lead male dancer, who towers over most in the room. She turns to address me and her eyes go wide. It takes me a moment, I am so stunned, but as I put the puzzle pieces together, I realize exactly why she seems familiar.

She is the woman I saw abducted not a week ago.

She is okay. A dancer here.

And she recognizes me, too.

“Hello,” I say, clearing my throat. “You were lovely tonight. Mesmerizing, really.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, color slowly spreading across her cheekbones as if an unseen hand is applying magical rouge. It is beautiful to watch, almost as beautiful as her Russian accent.

I lean forward and lower my voice, switching to Russian. “Ty v poryadke?”

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