Page 7

VICTORIA

S electing another dress from my closet, I hold it against my body, immediately tossing it onto the growing fabric mountain with a frustrated groan. This is ridiculous. I’ve been trying on outfits for over an hour, and my bedroom looks like a clothing bomb exploded. Dresses, blouses, and jeans cover every surface, each rejected for being too casual, too formal, too revealing, or apparently not revealing enough.

“It’s just dinner,” I mutter. “Not a real date. Just two adults. Eating food. Alone. In his apartment. Totally fine.”

I run a brush through my hair, watching my reflection as if I’m trying to convince myself. “I’m not going to overthink this.”

My phone chimes, and I jump like it’s a fire alarm. A text from Shelby.

Shelby: How’s lover boy?

My instant reaction is a roll of my eyes, but I also can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. Shelby knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

Me: Funny.

I stare at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering before I surrender to honesty, adding:

Me: I’m freaking out. My bedroom looks like a department store during an earthquake and I’ve tried on everything I own twice.

Hitting send, I silence my phone and shove it into my bag before she can respond with more teasing. Or worse, actual helpful advice I’d have to follow.

Turning back to the wreckage of my closet, I finally grab a deep burgundy wrap dress. It hugs my curves in a way that feels flattering rather than exposing, comfortable but dressy enough to show I made an effort. As I slip it on, memories ambush me of the last time I obsessed this much over an outfit for a man.

Seven years ago. When I still believed I could make it as a professional ballerina despite not having the ‘right body.’ I’d landed the understudy role for Swan Lake with Granite City Ballet—my big break. Or so I thought.

Anton Petrov. The company’s star male dancer with his perfect technique and movie-star looks. When he singled me out during rehearsals, his hands lingering during ‘adjustments,’ I couldn’t believe my luck.

“You have a gift, Victoria,” he’d whisper, his Russian accent thick as his fingers traced my arm. “Your passion, your movement... it’s authentic. Not like these skinny girls who have never known real pleasure or pain.”

I shake my head at the memory as I apply makeup with a trembling hand. God, I was so stupid. I gulped down every honeyed word and meaningful glance. And when he suggested keeping our relationship secret, “for the good of the production,” I agreed faster than you can say, ‘massive red flag.’

“People are small-minded,” he’d explained, all concerned eyes and tender touches. “They’ll say I’m only giving you attention because we’re together. That you didn’t earn your place. We must protect your reputation.”

What a joke. And I was the punchline. He wasn’t protecting my reputation, he was protecting his own. A fact I discovered when another dancer caught us kissing in the rehearsal room after hours, and Anton’s protective mask slipped off faster than a poorly secured tutu.

The rumors spread through the company like wildfire. But instead of standing by me, Anton denied everything. Claimed I had been ‘obsessed’ with him, that I had ‘misinterpreted’ his kindness as romantic interest.

“Come on.” I’d overheard him laughing with the other male dancers. “You think I’d actually be with someone like her? I was just being nice because she’s talented for a big girl. But she got the wrong idea and threw herself at me.”

The humiliation was total. The whispers, the giggles behind hands, the pitying looks. I quit the company within the week and never looked back. That was what led me to opening my studio in Peach Springs, vowing to create a space where all bodies were celebrated, where dance was about joy and expression rather than fitting some impossible ideal. Sure, it looked a lot like running away and hiding from the outside. But to me, it was survival.

I apply a final coat of mascara, my hand surprisingly steady as I tell myself that this is different. Declan isn’t a ballet dancer with a secret agenda, and I’m not the same girl who let herself be blinded by my crush.

But then… Declan is a much bigger star than Anton ever was. If things went south, the fallout would be exponentially worse. I can just imagine the headlines: ‘Hockey Star’s Plus-Size Fling’ or ‘Ballet Teacher’s Delusions: Declan O’Rielly Sets the Record Straight.’

I close my eyes against the wave of doubt and force myself to breathe. That is not going to happen. I won’t let it. At least this time, I’m the one insisting on secrecy. If—when—this thing with Declan inevitably ends, I’ll walk away with my dignity intact, my students protected from any backlash.

Letting out a heavy breath, I smooth down my dress and pull out my phone again to check the time. Not only are there several texts from Shelby telling me this isn’t Granite City, but there’s also one from Declan.

Declan: We’re still on for tonight, right?

I can almost hear the uncertainty in his message, and it surprises me. Declan always seems so confident, so sure of himself. The idea that he might be nervous about our dinner does a lot to calm my overthinking mind.

Me: Yes. Looking forward to it.

His response is immediate.

Declan: Great! See you at 7. Don’t forget to bring your appetite.

I glance at the time—6:30. Just enough time to finish getting ready and drive to his place without seeming too eager. I shoot off a quick thank-you message to Shelby for being such a great friend, then slip on some comfortable heels, grab my purse, and take one last look in the mirror.

“This is different,” I tell my reflection firmly. “You’re older now. Wiser. This time, you make the rules.”

During the drive to Declan’s building, my thoughts race between excitement and caution. By the time I pull into the parking lot, I’ve settled into a calm determination. Just dinner. Just tonight. Nothing I can’t handle.

The doorman eyes me with polite curiosity as I give him Declan’s name and apartment number. I wonder how many women he’s seen come through these doors, heading up to Declan’s place. Probably dozens. The thought sends a pang through my chest that I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.

The elevator ride to the penthouse feels endless. My stomach twists itself into advanced ballet knots as we climb higher and higher. I seriously consider jamming the emergency stop button and fleeing down eighteen flights of stairs. Before I can act on this completely rational plan, the doors slide open to reveal a short hallway with only two doors.

I take a deep breath, smooth my dress, and walk to the door on the right—Declan’s apartment, according to his text. I raise my hand to knock, hesitate, then press my palm flat against the door instead. You can do this, Victoria . I draw one last shaky breath, straighten my shoulders, and knock.

The door swings open instantly, like he’s been standing there waiting. And there’s Declan, his smile brighter than arena spotlights, wearing dark jeans and a simple button-down shirt that somehow makes him look more devastating than when he’s in full hockey gear. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair that I definitely haven’t been fantasizing about since our kiss.

“Victoria.” My name feels like a warm caress on his lips. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

His gaze travels over me, appreciation clear in his blue eyes, and for a moment, all the logical defenses I built up slip away in an instant. In this moment, with Declan looking at me like I’m the most captivating woman he’s ever seen, it’s hard to remember Anton or the humiliation or the reasons I should guard my heart.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. “Something smells amazing.”

“That would be dinner,” he says, stepping back to usher me inside. “I hope you like Italian. I made my grandmother’s lasagna recipe.”

“You cook?” I ask, genuinely surprised as I step into his apartment. I had expected his version of cooking would be to order out and put the food on fancy plates.

Declan’s grin turns a bit sheepish. “I’m a man of many talents.”

The apartment is stunning—open concept with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Sugar City at night. The décor is tasteful but undeniably masculine, all clean lines and rich, dark colors. It’s exactly what I would have expected from Declan, yet somehow still surprising.

“This is beautiful,” I say, moving toward the windows to take in the view.

“I’m glad you like it,” Declan says, coming to stand beside me. He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his body, smell the clean, spicy scent of his cologne. “I’ve never actually had anyone from the team over before.”

I turn to look at him, surprised. “Really? I thought you guys were all close.”

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “We are. But this place is... I don’t know, it’s my sanctuary. I don’t really bring people here.”

“Now I feel special,” I tease, letting my eyes linger on him a moment longer than necessary.

“You are special,” he replies, his tone teasing but his gaze serious.

There’s a beat of silence, loaded with words neither of us seems ready to say. Then Declan clears his throat, the spell broken.

“I should check on things in the kitchen,” he says, leading the way.

Behind him, the oh-so-Declan gourmet kitchen comes into view, sleek stainless steel and granite everywhere, and a bottle of wine open on the counter next to two glasses.

“I hope you like red,” he says, handing me one.

“Love it.”

And as I lift the glass to my lips, I tell myself that I can handle this. That I can enjoy a private dinner with Declan without letting myself get carried away. That I can protect my heart while still savoring whatever connection is developing between us.

But deep down, I know it’s a lie. Because Declan O’Rielly isn’t like Anton. He’s not hiding me away out of shame or embarrassment. He’s looking at me like I hung the moon and stars, in the privacy of a space he considers sacred.

And that scares the absolute shit out of me.