Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“It’s all good, don’t worry.” He carries my wine-soaked plate to the garbage and dumps the remnants of my pasta—that could’ve been another opportunity, I note with a corner of my brain—and then returns with a clean plate.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound grateful instead of gleeful as he swaps my wine glass for a new one and pours me more wine before adding some to his own glass. “Sorry I’m such a klutz.”
“No worries.” He looks coolly amused as he sits down again. “Normally, you’re very graceful. It’s one of the things I like most about you: how precise and controlled your movements are. Is it because of your medical training? Steady hand for surgery and all that?”
Don’t act nervous. Whatever you do, don’t act nervous.
“Yes, that’s part of it,” I reply, doing my best to keep my tone even. “I also took ballet when I was a child, and my instructor was a stickler for precision and good technique. Our hands had to be positioned just so, our feet turned just so. She’d make us practice each position, each step until we got it completely right, and if we ever slipped from good form, we’d have to go back and practice whatever we got wrong again, sometimes for the duration of an entire class.”
He picks up his glass and swirls the liquid inside again. “That’s interesting. I’ve always thought you looked like a dancer. You have the posture and the body type.”
“I do?” Drink. Please drink.
He puts the glass down and fixes me with an enigmatic stare. “Definitely. But you don’t dance anymore, do you?”
“No.” Come on, pick up the glass again. “I quit ballet when I started high school, though I did a little salsa later in college.”
“Why did you quit ballet?” His hand shifts closer to the glass, as if he’s going to pick it up again. “I imagine you must’ve been good at it.”
“Not good enough to do it professionally, at least not without a lot of additional training. And my parents didn’t want that for me.” My pulse speeds up in anticipation as his fingers curl around the stem of the glass. “The earnings potential of a dancer is fairly limited, and so is the length of her career. Most stop dancing in their twenties and have to find something else to do with their lives.”
“How practical,” he muses, lifting the glass. “Did that matter to you or to your parents?”
“Did what matter?” I try not to stare at the wine glass as it hovers a few inches from his lips. Come on, just drink it.
“The earnings potential.” He swirls the wine again, seeming to derive pleasure from the sight of the light-colored liquid circling the glass walls. “Did you want to be a rich, successful doctor?”
I force myself to look away from the hypnotic movement of the wine. “Sure. Who doesn’t?” The anticipation is eating me alive, so I distract myself by picking up my own wine glass and taking a big sip. Please mimic me subconsciously and drink. Come on, just take a few sips.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe a little girl who’d much rather be a ballerina or a singer?”
I blink, briefly distracted from his non-drinking. “A singer?” Why would he say that? Nobody outside of my seventh-grade counselor knew of that particular ambition.
Even at ten, I knew better than to bring up something so impractical with my parents—especially after they told me their views on ballet.
“You have a beautiful singing voice,” Peter says, still toying with his wine glass. “It’s only logical that at some point, you might’ve considered performing. And unlike a dancer’s, a successful singing career doesn’t have to end early. Many older singers are highly respected.”
“I suppose that’s true.” I eye his glass again, my frustration growing. It’s like he’s torturing me, seeing how long I can take before cracking. To tame my impatience, I take a big sip of my own wine and say, “How do you even know what kind of singing voice I have? Oh, wait, never mind. Your listening devices, right?”
He nods, not the least bit remorseful. “Yes, you often sing when you’re alone.”
I gulp down some more wine. At any other time, his casual disregard for my privacy would’ve maddened me, but right now, all my attention is on the stupid wine. Why isn’t he drinking it?
“So you really think I have a good singing voice?” I ask, then realize I should probably sound more outraged. In a more acerbic tone, I add, “Since I unwittingly performed for you, you might as well give me your honest opinion.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he lowers the glass again. “Your voice is beautiful, ptichka. I already told you so, and I have no reason to lie.”
Oh my God, just drink the fucking wine! To prevent myself from yelling that out loud, I take a breath and paste a pretty smile on my lips. “Yes, well, you are trying to get into my pants. Like any woman will tell you, flattery helps with that.”