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“No, I couldn’t. She probably doesn’t want fans rushing her after a show.”
Laughing in his throat, he walks down the last of the steps, waving one arm in the air. “Ms. Bukharova! Idi suda.”
“Arsen Kirilovich.” She smiles benevolently at him. “Did you enjoy the show? It’s rare that someone books out the whole theater for themselves.” She says it coyly, making me wonder if she’s actually annoyed that he did this.
Does she prefer dancing for a packed crowd?
Oh God! Did she see us?
My face heats up in shame as I consider that. No, it was too dark, and she was focused on performing. The idea of my hero knowing I was getting eaten out while she danced is humiliating.
“Galina,” Arsen says, motioning at me. “Come meet Astana Maksimovna.”
“Bozhe moi, just Astana is fine. No need for patronymics or formality with me today.” She holds her hand out to me. It’s pale and smooth, her nails dotted in an expensive French manicure.
“Galina Stepanovna Rubinova.” I shake her hand with my own trembling one as I use my full name, patronymic included. “I’m a huge fan of yours. I can’t believe I’m meeting you right now; this is a dream come true.”
She tilts her head, her eyes considering me curiously. “I’m flattered, Galina Stepanovna, but please don’t be overwhelmed. Did you like the show?”
“Of course!” I gush. “It was stunning! The way you move … I can’t imagine doing the things you do.”
“If you want, I can teach you.”
My face falls. “Excuse me? Oh, no, that’s too kind. I could never afford lessons.”
Astana blinks a few times before looking at Arsen. “Have you told her nothing, Arsen Kirilovich?”
“Know what?” I ask, eyeing the pair.
“Arsen Kirilovich has hired me to teach at your dance studio. So unless there’s a different Galina Stepanovna that I don’t know about …” Her angled grin says she’s playing with me. But I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
She’s ... going to be teaching ... at my studio?
Someone in the crowd calls out Astana’s name. She waves at them, then bows her head to us as she backs away. “I’m glad you enjoyed the show. We’ll talk soon. Have a good night!”
Like I’m moving through molasses, I turn to gaze up at Arsen in disbelief.
“You set this up?”
He nods.
“That’s … I don’t know what to say.”
“I believe most people would say ‘thank you’ for this,” he chuckles.
Wordlessly, I embrace him with all the strength I can muster. I can barely wrap my arms around his wide torso, but I try my best. My cheek lies on his jacket while the rest of me leans into him so that not a single part of my body isn’t touching his.
“Thank you,” I whisper earnestly. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I did it for you.” He’s quiet for a few heartbeats. Then he hugs me back. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Home. The word wakes me up. His home isn’t my home. The reminder cools some of my joy, so I try to squash the grim thoughts down into my heels. Arsen has been incredibly generous to me.
I don’t want a hint of a negative thought to make itself known.
Outside, the valet hands Arsen his keys. We settle in the Escalade, driving down the street in the direction of quieter roads. His attention is on what’s in front of him. I glance at his face multiple times, trying to decide what to say. How can I explain how much this evening meant to me? What words can convey the swelling in my heart?
Words are useless. Think about it ... You never cared what he said. Your feelings for him didn’t start to change until his actions did.
