Summary
It was the third month of my crush on my Prince Charming.
I unexpectedly discovered that the man I saw as my shy, introverted, and pure “white moonlight” was actually a fiery dancer who could spin eight times around a pole with one hand.
On stage, he wore a mask.
His posture was haughty.
Overbearing.
And utterly captivating.
With a flick of two fingers, he tossed his jacket into the audience.
I stared at him blankly, with only one thought in my mind:
I’m screwed.
The guy I’m crushing on might be about to steal my dad’s livelihood.