Why the f**k is he here?
Alain Paris could be in any room of the art world. He could watch the star dancers of the biggest companies rehearse in their studios, casting a judgmental eye over their technique. He could attend galas and red carpets; he could judge competitions and give interviews.
So, what is he doing here?
This academy is great. One of the best in the country, despite its small size. But it’s still a class of students, far below Monsieur Paris’s pay grade.
His dark eyes land on me again.
I shiver.
He seems different today. More agitated, like he didn’t sleep well. He can join the club—I went home last night, ranted to my roommates, then locked myself into my bedroom and tossed and turned until dawn.
I even tried to soothe myself. To run my palms over my heated skin; to
