Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Okay, sleepwalker.”
That gets a laugh from me, a spontaneous release that has me grinning like a loon. It’s so annoying how powerless I feel about everything he does. People never usually joke about that stuff, and it feels weirdly good like it’s not so big and scary now that we’re laughing about it.
Soon, though, the food is here. There’s a big platter of eggs, sausage, and other stuff—toast, butter, and all the smells. I lean back, putting my hands on my stomach.
“You seemed interested in why I wanted to sit here,” Aiden mutters, looking at me closely.
“Uh, yeah, maybe,” I mutter.
“Well, why don’t we play a game? You ask me a question. For every answer, you eat a mouthful of food.”
“This again?”
“Ania,” he growls, leaning forward again, staring at me as if he has some possessive hold over me. Would that be such a bad thing? Yes, yes, it would. “Let’s stop messing around. We both know what you’re doing to yourself. We both know you think it’s what you must do for your career, but you’re wrong. Ballerinas are athletes—”
“You don’t know—”
However, unlike everybody else in my life, he doesn’t care about protecting the Sokolov princess’s feelings. He just keeps going. “Athletes need calories. So if you’re telling yourself that this is the way to be the best ballerina, it’s a lie.”
I’ve torn the napkin to pieces but keep tearing it into even smaller ones to keep the pieces of me together. “You’re doing a lot of assuming.”
“Maybe,” he replies. “Or maybe I’ve spent my life reading people. Maybe I’ve been watching you, and maybe, as much as you hate to admit it, you know I’m right. You know you need to listen to me. Aren’t you curious? It’s not normal, is it? Waiting outside so I can get the corner booth?”
“About as normal as going to the bathroom and—” I bite down. “That.”
He reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. It’s like he does it without thinking. I look down at his hand and feel the warmth, almost with a surreal sensation. It’s like I’m looking at somebody else’s clasped hands. He moves his finger over my knuckles, and then I slide my hand away. I can’t let this happen: this connection, this closeness. It’s too tempting.
“Shall we play the game?” he asks.
“Do you believe all that stuff you were saying? About ballerinas and athletes?”
“It’s true. Athletes need fuel,” he says eagerly.
“But they’re all so thin.”
“Maybe they fuel up during training season, then cut when it’s time to perform. Lots of athletes do that—bodybuilders, boxers, MMA fighters. They fuel, they lean down, and they perform. Have you got a show coming up?”
I swallow. “Um, well, no. Not yet. I’m still learning. I mean, not on the East Coast, anyway, so …” My belly warbles as I look down at the food. “That’s not fuel, though. The bacon? Look how fatty it is.”
“Fat is good for you, fat and salt, especially for somebody who works out. You sweat out the salt and need the fat for fuel.”
“Really?”
“Trust me.” He puts a hand on his chest, a small smile on his face. “Can’t you tell how vain I am?”
“There’s a hole in your shirt.”
He smirks. “Is there?”
Now I’m smiling. How does he keep doing that? I nod at his shirt. It’s on the sleeve. I’ve been trying not to look at it because I notice his muscles bulge whenever he moves. “Yeah. Right there, Mr. Vain.”
He grins at my sarcasm. It makes me feel more validated than it should—a simple smile. It almost makes me feel like we could have something together, which is something I need to get out of my head and keep out of my head.
“It’s true anyway,” he says. “So ask away, but first, one mouthful.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly filled with saliva, feeling like it could close off. I need to get myself under control. I never expected a kidnapper-in-not-so-shining armor to ride into my life and be able to read every little thing about me easily. I never expected to care, or even if someone like me could care.
“Question first,” I say. When he raises his eyebrow, I ask, “Why do you need to see the entrance?”
“That question’s too big,” he replies flippantly, but I know he’s only trying to hide how important the answer is.
“Is that your answer?”
He leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. He sighs and says, “I need to see the entrances to ensure nobody sneaks up on me.”
“Like who?”
“Nah-uh,” he says, nodding to the plate, then picks up a piece of bacon and munches it as though he’s showing me how.
I grab a knife and fork and begin cutting myself a piece, trying not to think about my future career and what I will have to do afterward. It’s like there’s this creature inside of me. Obviously, I do eat … sometimes. I need to stop freaking out. I want to learn more about him. I want to understand all the different things that make him tic. I shouldn’t, but I do.