Page 6

We weren’t stupid. We wore life jackets, carried waterproof flashlights, kept a weather eye out.
But still.
Most sane people wouldn’t risk it.
That was the thing, though.
I wasn’t sane—not in the way Charleston’s society girls were sane, clutching their pearls and their good reputations.
I was born in the backstreets of New Orleans, raised on jazz and hurricanes—the storm kind and the cocktail kind.
Thrill-seeking wasn’t a hobby for me. It was stitched into my bones.
Every leap, every spin, every reckless choice—skydiving, motorbiking, night kayaking through a shark-infested harbor—it all made me feel alive in a way nothing else could touch.
Dance gave me discipline. But adrenaline? That gave me freedom.
Luckily, I had friends like Jessa who felt the same way.
We paddled into the harbor, the city disappearing behind us.
“All right, tell me what’s up,” Jessa said after a few minutes, her voice teasing.
“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“That stupid little smile you're trying to hide. It’s a man, isn’t it?”
I snorted. “Not everything’s about men, Jess.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Everything’s about men when you look like you just stole the last cookie and got away with it. I know you, Vivi. Don’t try to pretend with me.”
I sighed, dragging my paddle through the water lazily.
“There might be a guy,” I admitted. “Elias. Tech genius type. Friend of the ballet company’s office manager.”
“Tech genius, huh?” she said, bumping my kayak with hers. “Tell me he’s not a troll.”
“He’s ... definitely not a troll.” I bit my lip, thinking of those shoulders, that lazy smirk, those eyes like twin blue flame throwers. “More like ... Viking hacker with a grudge against gravity.”
Jessa let out a low whistle. “And you’re not dragging him upstairs above Liquid Courage because ...?”
“Because he’s all broody and tightly wound,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he calculates his emotional responses in code.”
“So basically, your dream man,” she said, grinning.
I laughed. “Maybe.”
At least he wasn’t like the usual guys who showed up in my life—smiling too wide, flexing too hard, seeing “ballerina” like it was some kind of fantasy box to check off.
I could spot them a mile away.
The ones who thought dating a dancer meant I’d be delicate and pliable, all soft sighs and gratitude.
Or worse, the ones who fetishized the discipline, imagining control in the studio translated to submission everywhere else.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
I wasn’t some demure little swan waiting for a prince. I was fire. Wild and spinning and hard to hold. And most of the men who came sniffing around figured that out too late—usually around the time I chose a skydiving trip over a second date.