After receiving terrible news about the future of her career, a NYC ballerina becomes a choreographer at a failing male strip club to make some extra cash and spice up her life. What she doesn't expect is to fall for the one man who doesn't want his...
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Only the toughest, most graceful dancers performing in New York City made it to the rank of principal ballerina before their minds or bodies cracked under the pressure.
After years of sacrifice and waiting to get promoted, I'd finally become one of those dancers. And nothing–not even the throat-clenching anxiety of everyone in the company scrutinizing me–could bring me down.
It was Monday morning, just before rehearsals started, and I was on the way to Celeste's office to sign my new contract. Celeste was the ballet mistress at Liberty Ballet, the company I'd been dancing with since I was six, and nothing happened inside these walls without her approval.
Dressed in a black leotard with nude tights and patterned leg warmers, I passed a group of friends who danced in the corps de ballet.
Kennedy, my roommate, wrapped me up in a hug. "I'm so darn excited for you!" she said in her North Carolina twang. Breathless as she held me even tighter. "I need all the details when you come out with that fancy new principal contract!"
"You know I will," I said reassuringly. It was crazy to think that all my hard work and years of waiting were finally paying off. "I'll see you soon!" I told the girls, giving them one last hug before spinning around and dancing on the balls of my feet toward the ballet mistress's office.
When I turned down her hallway, I stopped abruptly at the sight of a gorgeous man I'd never seen before. He was lounging on a folding chair outside Celeste's door, reading a book. My eyes went wide, and I couldn't help the excited little jolt that raced through my body.
Hello Hot Stranger.
I knew right away this man was not a dancer. No one who valued their job lounged outside Celeste's office. In fact, no one lounged at Liberty Ballet, period.
My gaze roamed over his long, outstretched legs, which were crossed at the ankle and blocking foot traffic. I'd have to hop over him if I wanted to get past him.
Not that I was opposed to the idea of hopping over him. Or on him. I bit my lip, then pushed the thought away. Now that I was a principal dancer, I was on a self-imposed man hiatus. No more sleeping with company dancers for fun, and no more dating until after Nutcracker season.
