“Ah, here’s my gallant rescuer.” Rugged and warm at the same time, the man stood before me, my rescued shoe close against his chest.

My poor heart. It thrummed like a drum about to pop.

“I wanted to come up and thank you . . . and perhaps defend my masculinity.” But his deep voice proved it aplenty. “I was in desperate need of a small drink before my part comes back in the third act, you see, and the theater’s supply sprang a leak this morning. I hated to run into the pub this way, but there is nothing for it when one is dying of thirst and every spare hand is needed. Not unless I cared to scrape up what’s leaked onto the cellar floor, which I didn’t.”

I worked my jaw as his voice echoed about the room, but my head was a scatter of random letters that refused to form words.

“That, of course, left me in the rather awkward position of dashing to the pub in costume during my off time in the second act, falling in with a pair of men deep in their cups, and thus being rescued by a . . .”

“Girl.”

“Ah, you can speak.” He folded his arms and looked intently into my face, his presence softened by dark, glossy hair that all fell over his forehead in one boyish twist. “So tell me, dear rescuer, what brings you so boldly into this haunted part of the theater? And how ever did you learn to spring and land like a cat?”

“I’m a dancer.”

He raised his eyebrows in a way that somehow wasn’t mocking, bless him. “Are you, now? That explains this.” He held up my rescued shoe—that precious red slipper I desperately needed back. My hand itched to snatch it close. “I might have known it with a mere look, though. You wear dignity like a royal cape, even when you’re afraid and hiding. Like an exotic wild animal, perhaps.”

I had no answer for such a response. No one had ever looked at me and labeled what they saw as dignity.

“Which company do you dance with? Who is your manager?”

I stiffened. “N-no company. No manager.” So many questions. I hated questions.

“You’re a petit ra—forgive me, a member of the corps.”

Miserable, I shook my head again. I was not even one of the lesser dancers onstage.

“I’m curious, then, what makes you call yourself a dancer?”

I looked at him solemnly, chin edging up. “Is art only validated by the presence of an audience?”

His eyebrows shot up, eyes flashing, and I knew I’d won his admiration—and that I was in trouble. One good look into his compelling eyes, I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep my composure. They were magnets at the soul level. He moved closer, as if drawn, and I backed to the wall.