Page 144 of Heart Over Heels

“Oh, those.” I winced. “I actually thought those were for cooking.”

Slowly, Beck leaned aside to peer at me around the edge of the computer monitor. Skepticism dripped from every inch of him. “It saysmassage oilon the listing. Do you usually massage your food?”

I lifted my chin. “Only when it’s been through something traumatic.”

He stared. I stared back.

Before he could start on the next line item, the pressure building in my chest surged up my throat.

“Becky, I think I need a change,” I declared.

His eyes narrowed. He must’ve thought I was trying to derail the conversation, and maybe I was. He’d called me in here to talk about finances and how the club was hemorrhaging cash from the sabotage and shutdown. But he’d been right before: some investments were slow to pay off. This one would. I’d make sure of it.

With a small shake of his head, Beck cleared whatever thought he’d been forming and shifted his attention fully to me.

“What kind of change?” he asked.

I gripped the back of the chair in front of me, digging my fingertips into the leather. “I’m redefining my role,” I said. “This sugar baby is ready to grow up.”

Beck leaned back, shoulders relaxing as understanding dawned. Then he shook his head. “Darby, I don’t have anyexpectations for the work you do, inside or outside these walls. As far as I’m concerned, you and the dolls are entertainers. People come here for a show, and you get to decide what that show is. Especially as the manager.”

I swallowed as heat crawled up the back of my neck. “Some people may not like it. I’ve set certain… standards.”

Standards that kept me safe.

Standards that kept me desirable.

Standards that sometimes felt like a cage I’d built around myself.

Beck’s gaze sharpened. “You’re afraid we’ll lose customers?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “We already have trouble with the Rossettis. I don’t want to cause more problems.”

What I didn’t add—what I didn’t know how to say—was that I didn’t want to disappoint him. Not after everything he’d done. Not after everything we’d survived.

Beck clasped his hands on the desktop and leaned in. The Rolex on his wrist glinted the same gold as his eyes.

“I know the name of this game,” he said. “I see what everyone else sees when they walk in here. Sex. Skin. All of it for sale.” His voice gentled, losing that businesslike edge as he added, “But not everything can be bought. Some things are priceless.”

I drew a breath and only then realized I’d been prepared to argue. Maslow wouldn’t have endured a word of this. Even my mother would have dismissed me. Because we had to eat. Because I was a good boy, and I made our clients happy.

But perhaps I’d fallen into kinder hands.

“Sometimes,” Beck went on. “It’s enough to want something you cannot have. You can sell fantasy, Darby. You can be the dream without making it come true.”

“I don’t want to shortchange anyone,” I murmured, unsure what to do with the rush of relief that had left me a littlelightheaded. “I don’t want to mislead people. Or make the club… less.”

“Less?” Beck huffed a laugh. “Darby, you’re the one who gives this place its shine. You set the tone, the expectations, and the standards. And you aren’t on the menu unless you put yourself there. It’s your choice.”

My fingers curled harder around the back of the chair. I held my breath, afraid that if I exhaled too soon, the hope blooming in my chest would scatter like dandelion seeds.

“For what it’s worth,” Beck added softly. “I’m happy for you.”

A nervous laugh escaped me before I could reel it back. “You say that now.”

His mouth kicked up at one corner. “It’s good. To try again.”

He didn’t know me very well. He didn’t know where I came from or what I’d endured, but somehow, he understood.The ache. The fear. The cautious push toward something better.