When I arrived at RAB, I felt a pinch of satisfaction at the absence of Vincent’s Lamborghini. He didn’t drive decoy cars, so I knew he wasn’t here yet.
I parked close to the entrance, my thoughts split between the dreaded cross-training session and the girl I’d bumped into last week.
I didn’t know why I was still thinking about her. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, and I didn’t know a single thing about her other than the fact she could pay for her own dry cleaning and that she didn’t like “handing out private information to strangers.”
My mouth curved at the memory.
I didn’t wish for much outside the realm of football, but I’d give up one of my cars to see her again.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Definitely.
Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t given me her name and number. I didn’t need that big a distraction in my life.
I entered RAB, checked in with the starry-eyed receptionist at the front desk, and followed her instructions to the training studio.
Housed in a mansion that looked like something straight off a Regency movie set, the Royal Academy of Ballet was worlds away from the sweaty, utilitarian grounds of Blackcastle’s training facility. There were paintings of ballerinas, photos of ballerinas, bronze statues of ballerinas…basically, ballerinas everywhere.
I guess subtlety wasn’t their strong point.
Then again, Blackcastle’s facilities had our team logo stamped on every possible surface so I shouldn’t throw stones.
I arrived at the studio just in time to see students from the previous class trickling out.
I was early, so I hung back, waiting for the last person to turn the corner before I slipped inside. Thankfully, neither of the DuBois siblings was here yet, and I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings.
I’d never attended a ballet performance before, much less been inside a studio, but it looked exactly as I’d imagined.
A wall of mirrors reflected a row of giant arched windows, which overlooked the academy’s manicured grounds. A wooden barre stretched the length of the room, and the floors gleamed so brightly I could almost see my reflection in them.
The only out-of-place object was the giant tote wobbling on the edge of the corner table. It was stuffed with what looked like a jumper, a book, and…whatever else people stashed in their totes.
The weight of its contents must’ve been too much for the overworked bag because, after a valiant effort to stay upright, it tipped over and spilled half its items across the floor with a raucous clatter.
The book thudded to the ground. Pens rolled this way and that while a scarf drifted dreamily on top of a small box.
I half-expected someone to run in and check on the disruption, but no one did.
Should I pick up the stray items or wait for their owner to return? Would it be an invasion of privacy if I chose the former?
Screw it.
It would be weirder if she walked in to find me staring at her scattered belongings without doing a thing about it.
I walked over and started scooping the contents back in their bag.
Jumper, book, pens, makeup, keys, water bottle, tights, hairspray, canvas slippers, medication, sweat towel, heat pack, sewing kit, another book…Jesus, it was like Mary Poppins’s magic bag. How the hell did she fit all of that inside one tote?
I wedged a protein bar between her sunglasses and resistance bands. I didn’t know how I’d get the?-
“What are you doing?”
I glanced up, and my reply died an instant death.
No. It can’t be.
She’d tied her hair up instead of leaving it down, and she wore a leotard, leg warmers over tights, and a wrap skirt instead of a shirt and jeans, but it was unmistakably her.
The girl from the pub.
She had the same midnight hair, the same red lips, the same piercing gray eyes that were currently boring a hole through my face.
If it weren’t for the tangible heat of her stare, I would’ve thought I’d conjured her through the mere force of my thoughts.
“I’m not snooping.” I recovered from my shock and raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “The bag fell, and I was simply picking up the items.”
She responded with a wary stare as she walked toward me-or rather, toward her bag.
I should’ve known she was a dancer. Even at the pub, she’d moved with the grace of one, her posture perfect, her movements smooth and fluid. But whereas I’d picked up on a touch of apprehension at the Angry Boar, here, she carried herself with the ease of someone who was completely in her element.
“Do you go here?” I asked.
I guessed she was in her mid-twenties, which seemed outside RAB’s target age range, but maybe she was here for professional training.
A small smirk crossed her mouth. “You could say that.”
“Then this is a sign. What are the chances we’d run into each other twice?” I hoped our schedules overlapped this summer. Seeing her might make my forced training sessions a bit more bearable. “Now you have to tell me your name. It’s only polite.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” she said dryly.
She bent to retrieve her scarf while I picked up the remaining book on the floor. The worn yellow-and-green cover sparked a flare of recognition.
“Leo Agnelli,” I said appreciatively. “Good taste.”
Our hands brushed when she reached for the outstretched book, and a frisson of electricity shot up my arm. It was so sharp, so unexpected, that I almost dropped the paperback.
What the hell?
She stiffened, making me wonder if she’d felt it too, but her expression was unreadable. “You read Leo Agnelli.” Her tone contained a heavy dose of skepticism.
“Occasionally.” The little jolt must’ve been static from our clothing. That was the only feasible explanation. “Try not to act so surprised, Chloe. I promise I’ll live up to your ‘dumb athlete’ preconception of me in other ways.”
A small laugh escaped. She quickly covered it up, but it was too late. I’d heard it, she knew I’d heard it, and my ability to draw that smile out of her might just be the highlight of my shitty week.
“My name isn’t Chloe,” she said.
“I didn’t think so, but since you refuse to tell me what it actually is, I’ll have to keep guessing until I get it right, Alice.”
“That’s going to get old real fast.”
“Luckily, there’s an easy solution to the problem.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.