“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Williamson. It is Miss, right?” Mr. Larsson asks, lowering our hands. “I don’t want to disrespect you or your husband if you’re married.”
“No, I’m not married, and you can call me Arabelle, Mr. Larsson.”
He maintains his grasp on my hand, his thumb slowly brushing my knuckles as his gaze drops to my lips, then moves back to my eyes. I’m unsure if he realizes what he’s doing, but his touch sends a surge of heat across my entire body. I should pull away and turn my head, but I can’t. I’m trapped in his gaze.
Samuel clearing his throat again reminds me we aren’t alone, pulling me out of my trance. Samuel scowls at me, and I look down as heat crawls up my neck. I’ve been caught ogling one of our donors by the company director, but I can’t help it. There’ssomething about him that interests me. I’ve never had anyone provoke a visceral response from me like I’m experiencing now.
“Call me Florian.”
He smiles, and it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. It highlights his rugged beauty even more.
“I just wanted to say that you were absolutely wonderful tonight,” he continues. “It was a beautiful performance, and I had a wonderful time.”
Something stirs in my stomach. The compliment coming from him seems different.
“Thank you.” The flush deepens on my neck and moves across my face. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I did. Tremendously.” He smiles. “I’ve never seen a terrible performance from you.”
“You’ve seen me dance before tonight?”
“Of course. Work gets in the way sometimes, but I try to see you perform as much as possible.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask, curious.
Samuel claps his hands. “Okay, Mr. Larsson.”
Florian drops my hand as Samuel guides him closer to the door, and I immediately miss the connection.
“There are a few people I’d like you to meet, and I’m sure your fiancée is waiting for you.”
Of course, someone like him would have a fiancée.
“And I’m sure Arabelle needs to get ready for the afterparty,” Samuel continues, and Mr. Larsson—Florian—doesn’t look too happy with him.
“I wanted to say congratulations, Arabelle. Enjoy the flowers. They’re almost as beautiful as you.”
He gives me one last look before he leaves my dressing room, Samuel following him and rambling about plans for the upcoming season and how he hopes Florian will be donating. When they are gone, I sigh and return my focus to all the flowers.
“What am I going to do with all these flowers?”
Taking one of the roses from its vase, I search for a card. Once I find it, I pluck it from the cardholder, open the small black envelope, and then pull the note from inside. I trace the lovely gold font as I read:
From the shadows, I watch, and in the shadows, I will remain despite the longing of my heart.
Frowning, I place the card back in the envelope. “What does that mean?”
2
Florian
Los Angeles
The shadows of the dimly lit room hid me from everyone’s view, including hers. I sip from the whiskey tumbler as my eyes clock her every movement. She walks, talks, and laughs just like she dances—with grace.
Two months ago, meeting her in person made me fixate on her even more. I don’t know how many performances of hers I’ve seen in person or magazine covers I’ve collected where she’s on the cover. I’ve lost count of how many magazine and newspaper articles written about her that I’ve neatly cut out, which are stored in the safe in my home office.
Fixate may not be a strong enough word to describe my feelings for her. She consumes me. She’s everything I want and everything I can’t have. However, that doesn’t keep me from seeking her out whenever possible.
