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ChapterTwelve
I slow-clap with my eyelashes.“What did you just say?”
“I want you to marry me,” he enunciates.
Okay, so this isn’t a trick played on me by my ears, in which my pulse is drumming madly. This god-like male specimen is proposing holy matrimony to moi? Unless… is his English misfiring again? Did he mean “carry me?” He’s used to lifting ballerinas, so—
“Faux marriage, of course,” he adds.
Oh. He did mean to say “marry,” but not in the way I thought.
Skunk. Why did my heart just sink? That’s the stupidest reaction in the history of reactions. Of course, he wouldn’t genuinely propose to me on the first date, and if he would, I should treat that as a psychiatric condition, not get happy about it.
“Is it for immigration purposes?” I ask, burying my illogical disappointment at least six feet deep.
“You got it,” he says. “I need a green card.”
“Why?” That’s clearly the most aggressive out of the million questions swirling in my head. It almost blurts itself out.
“I want to retire, but I’m here on a work visa,” he says. “And, I like America.”
I fight the urge to shake him. “I mean, ‘Why me?’” Then I process what he said. “You want to retire from ballet?”
“Why not you?” He looks me over, like he’s wondering the same question himself. “As to retiring, I’m thirty-five.”
He’s what? Wow. I thought he was younger. He looks younger. Must be all the dessert he denies himself.
Hmm. Thirty-five does sound like a legit age to stop dancing. All those leaps and pirouettes—not to mention, ballerina juggling—must be crazy demanding on that sexy bod.
“I will pay you for your trouble, of course,” he says.
I flap my lashes at him faster.
I didn’t even think about that aspect of this (indecent?) proposal. Now that I am thinking about it, I realize it’s a good thing he’s planning to use cash instead of kompromat to get me to play ball.
Though I have trouble speaking, a question manages to squeeze through my lips, “How much?”
He takes out his phone and types something in.
My phone dings.
I check it in a haze.
It’s a text from him with a number.
A big number.
I raise my eyes to his. “What is that?” He can’t possibly—
“That will be your compensation if you say yes.”
I dart another glance at the number, then check to make sure he’s not joking.
Nope. He looks serious. “Is it not enough? I can go up twenty percent.”
I stare at him. “Is that in rubles?”
He visibly relaxes. “No. US dollars. In rubles, that much would barely cover a month’s rent.”
