“Well done, everyone,” Madame Ellis says. “I will see you all tomorrow.”

I smile at Eden Drake, my new best friend. We’re both first-year students at the Barre Institute, Madame Ellis’s full-time ballet academy in New York City. “Good floor work today.”

“Thanks! You too.” She flings an arm around my shoulders. We’re exactly the same height and build, but I’m dark and Eden’s blonde. “You should come home for dinner with me.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course. My dad would love to meet you.”

“That would be great, then.” My heart sings, happy that I’ve made such a good friend here. “Thanks.”

“I’ll just text our housekeeper and let her know to make a little more of whatever our dinner is,” she says. She pulls out her phone while we walk to the dressing room to change.

When we go outside, there’s a dark sedan idling at the curb. “Dad’s driver, Hugh,” Eden explains. “It’s not that far to the apartment – we could easily walk it – but Dad’s protective.”

We climb into the back seat. “Good evening, Miss Drake,” the driver says.

“Good evening, Hugh. This is my friend Tori Smith. She’s coming home for dinner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Smith.”

“You too,” I say, trying to act like this is no big deal. I came to New York City after high school, when I won a scholarship to the Barre Institute. Life back home, in rural Michigan, is very different.

The car makes its way through the crowded streets, and I gaze out the window at the skyscrapers. “You grew up here, right?” I ask Eden.

“Yes, I’ve been here my whole life.”

“It probably seems like no big deal to you, but I love New York. It’s so different from home. So many kinds of people, so many sights and sounds … it’s hard to explain.”

“No, I get it. I love the city too. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The car pulls up to the curb in front of an elegant apartment building. “Thanks, Hugh,” Eden says.

“You’re most welcome, Miss Drake. Have a good evening.”

“Thank you,” I say in turn, and climb from the car. Eden enters a passcode on a keypad to let us into the building. The lobby isn’t grand, but it’s nothing shabby either – it’s clean and well-lit and nicely appointed.

The elevator rises smoothly to the fifth floor, and I follow Eden down the hall, where she enters another passcode to unlock her door. We go in and she leads me straight to the kitchen, where a cheerful-looking woman is cooking. “Carole, this is my friend Tori. Did you get my text?”

“Sure did.” Carole smiles at me. “Welcome, Tori. We’re having chicken lentil soup, so there’s plenty.”

“Yum!” Eden opens the refrigerator. “Tori, do you want a sparkling water, or just regular water? We’ve got blackberry cucumber and cantaloupe grapefruit.”

“Blackberry cucumber, please.”

As she’s taking it out, the front door opens and a man comes in. My heart jerks sideways in my chest. He’s tall, and handsome, and the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.

“Dad!” Eden says, and runs over to give him a hug. “Meet my friend, Tori Smith. She goes to the Barre Institute too. Tori, my dad, Ashton Drake.”

I shake hands with him. Electricity jolts up my arm and I manage, barely, not to gasp.

“Hello, Tori. It’s nice to meet you.” Even his voice is sexy, with a warm timbre that creates a strange sensation low in my belly.

“It’s very nice to meet you too.” My voice comes out all husky. Clearing my throat, I try to act nonchalant, like I meet hot older men all the time.

Maybe it’s my newly-besotted imagination, but it feels like there’s something between us, a moment of awareness that isn’t just me. Mr. Drake’s deep, expressive eyes hold me spellbound in their gaze.

“Let’s eat,” Eden says, and the moment ends. We break eye contact and look at her as she continues, with a grin, “Carole’s made her famous chicken-lentil soup.”

“One of my favorites,” Mr. Drake says, and glances back at me for a moment. Our eyes meet, and that awareness, that sense of something more, starts to materialize again.

Then he turns away, and I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. A man like him – wealthy and successful, judging from this apartment, not to mention sexy as fuck – no doubt has his pick of dates. I’m not sophisticated, or famous, or rich, or highly educated, or any of the other qualities he probably looks for in a woman.

I’m a nineteen-year-old nobody from Nowhere, Michigan. Just a kid. No way would this gorgeous hunk of man ever be interested in me.

Just as well, really. I can’t imagine trying to tell my new friend I’ve got the hots for her father. That would be the ultimate in awkward, embarrassing conversations.

But as we sit down for dinner, regret simmers in my soul.