"Misha," she says softly.
"Yes?"
"I don't normally do this. Talk to strangers for hours. Dance with men I just met." She bites her lip. "But I feel like I've known you forever. Is that crazy?"
Yes. It is crazy. It is dangerous. It is the beginning of something I can't afford.
"No," I say. "It's not crazy."
The song ends. We stand there, still holding each other, the crowd moving around us like water around stones.
I should kiss her. Part of me wants to—desperately, recklessly. But she is too earnest. Too innocent. And I'm already lying about everything that matters.
"I should go," I say, releasing her. "Early meeting."
Disappointment flickers across her face before she masks it. "Of course. It was nice meeting you, Just Misha."
"Bianca." I lift her hand and press my lips to her knuckles, lingering longer than I should. "Take care of that heart of yours."
She smiles, not understanding.
I leave before I can change my mind.
***
I tell myself I won't call her.
I last two days.
She answers on the second ring. "Hello?"
"It's Misha. From the gala."
A pause. Then, warm and surprised: "The mysterious investor. I didn't think you'd call."
"Neither did I."
She laughs, and the sound makes me grip the phone tighter. "That's either very honest or very smooth."
"Can it be both?"
"I suppose we'll find out." Another pause, softer this time. "I'm glad you called, Misha."
I close my eyes.Walk away. End this now.
"Have dinner with me," I say instead. "Tomorrow night."
Our first date is at a small Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. Quiet, intimate, far from anywhere her family might spot us. I tell myself it's operational security.
It's cowardice.
She wears a green dress that makes her eyes glow, and she orders pasta without apologizing for the carbs. I watch her eat with unselfconscious pleasure, sauce on her lip, and think about all the women I've known who picked at salads and pretended they weren't hungry.
Bianca is hungry. For food, for knowledge, for life. She devours everything with the same passionate intensity.
I want to be devoured too.
"Tell me something real," she says, twirling spaghetti around her fork. "Something you haven't told anyone else."
