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WHITNEY
Two Months Later
I’m buzzing with excitement as I paint black makeup in an intricate pattern across my face. Like a half sugar skull mask, I make the dark patterns both artistic and haunting. It’s the senior showcase, and I can barely keep my hand steady as I wrestle with my nerves.
Someone knocks on my dressing room door, and I finish the last swirl with a flourish before calling for them to come in.
Ilya’s broad shoulders cross the threshold a moment later, and my heart stutters as I catch sight of his strong, handsome face in the mirror. “I brought you something,” he says, his deep voice rumbling through my soul.
Smiling like a giddy schoolgirl, I rise from my chair and turn to greet him. Clasped in his large hand is a beautiful bouquet of red roses.
“To wish you good luck,” he adds, holding them out to me.
“They’re beautiful!” Taking them from him, I press them to my nose and inhale deeply. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to be wonderful,” he reassures me, his hand finding the small of my back as he pulls me close.
Butterflies erupt in my belly as he leans in for a passionate kiss, his arms encasing me as I melt into his strong chest. The embrace is over too soon, and I giggle as I pull back to look Ilya in the eyes.
“You stole some of my makeup,” I tease, wiping at the patch of black face paint on his lower lip.
“Good. Now you’ll have to come find me if you want to take it back.”
His eyes dance playfully, making my heart skip a beat. How this dream of a man fell for me, I’m not quite sure, but it seems like every day, I fall for him more and more. Voiding our contract has turned out to be the single best decision I’ve ever made. I’ve never been happier now that Ilya and I are actually dating. And though it’s only been a few months, I can confidently say I’m head over heels about my sexy Russian man. It’s funny to think that our connection was there from–the potential to become something spectacular together–but I know now without a shadow of a doubt that Ilya is the only one for me.
“One more kiss, and then I have to finish getting ready.”
“You don’t want my help?” he offers.
“With your help, I’ll wind up missing my cue,” I say dryly.
“Well, we can’t have that today,” he says solemnly. This kiss is light and tender and over entirely too soon. “Break a leg,” he says and releases me. “I’m going to go find a seat.”
The room feels so big and empty without Ilya filling the space, and I almost wish I didn’t send him away. Because now that he’s gone, my nerves return in full force. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I touch up my makeup and then put on my stunning red-satin and black-lace outfit, finishing it off with a matching tutu that sports a cascading swirl of jewels.
“You can do this,” I coach myself as I take one final look in the mirror.
Then I head backstage to join Trent. We’re supposed to go after Anya, who is always intimidating to follow, but after two more months of intense practice, I’m confident that our piece is something special. It’s my best work, and we’re ready, so if I don’t get any offers after this, then that will be that.
“How you feeling?” Trent asks as I reach him. He’s already deep into a stretch.
“Like I might throw up,” I confess.
He makes a face, and I laugh.
“Well, if you do, please wait until you’re not right above me. I don’t ever want that kind of shower.”
“Deal.”
I stretch as I watch the performers, and my nerves intensify when it’s finally Anya’s turn on stage. She and Robbie look so good together, and the artistry of Anya’s choreography is something else. I find my stomach in a mess of knots when their performance comes to an end, and as much as I would like to applaud for my friend, it’s my turn now.
Trent offers me his hand with a smile, and I find I’m oddly grateful for my partner, challenging as our pairing might have started out to be. We take the stage together, him guiding me to my spot with an elegant flourish, and as I wait for the music to begin, I skim the audience for Ilya. I spot him and his sister, Bianka, sitting in the center about halfway back. A smile plays at the corners of my lips, but I try to keep it subdued. I need to be professional. He gives me a wink, and that fills me with courage. The knots in my stomach ease, and I take a deep breath as I settle into my starting pose.
The music comes to life in a shocking burst of energy, a completely different style than Anya’s inclination toward more soft and symphonic music with a contemporary twist. I’ve always leaned toward the rebels with the electric guitars and flashy displays of talent. It’s a fast song, “Dance of the Elves,” and this reimagining of the classical piece only emphasizes that point.
Trent comes to life first, frolicking across the stage as he personifies light and goodness. Then it’s my turn, and I twist, curving and arcing my arms as I lean forward and up onto one toe, my other leg rising behind me.
The dance has almost become second nature to me, filled with so many familiar steps in an order that Trent and I have practiced time and again until my body is moving before I even think. I flick my knees and point my toes then shift into a pique turn as I make my way across the floor.
