Page 21 of Heart Over Heels

That sounded familiar. And here I was, thinking about the do-gooder guard from the Basilica for the second time today.

It could’ve been a coincidence. We got walk-ins often enough—usually dancers hoping for an audition, but bartender and guard applicants weren’t unheard of.

I made a noncommittal noise as Beck started up the staircase to the second-level mezzanine. The metal steps rang underfoot until we reached the office with its black-painted door. Beck pushed it open then gestured me inside.

Mazzy’s old lair had changed in the weeks since Beck took over the Dollhouse. The cavernous space the wraith had once claimed as his own had been gutted, and the gargantuan pieces of furniture replaced with a sleek new desk and chairs. The wall of surveillance monitors had also been scaled down, which, oddly, made me feel safer. Knowing that scumbag was no longer watching our every move took a weight off my shoulders. A little less oversight went a long way.

Seated in one of those new chairs was Colette, who was too engrossed in filling in the daily Sudoku puzzle to acknowledge our arrival.

Security was lean with just Colette holding down the fort, but honestly? She had more grit in her pinkie finger than both of Maslow’s hellhound bruisers combined. Plus, she cared aboutus. Beck did too. And that had changed the whole atmosphere of the club.

While Beck may have cared about all of us, he still had his favorite. One corner of his newly renovated office held a hammock-style swing, where Zephyr reposed even now, sucking on one of the lollipops from Beck’s desktop candy jar. I wasn’t the only one willing to ply the incubus with sweets. Beck stowed the damn things everywhere—dressing room drawers, the kitchen pantry, and tucked into Zephyr’s tote bag like love notes.

It was cute. The kind of thing that made you believe someone actually gave a damn. But I knew Beck’s motivations weren’t entirely selfless. Watching his boyfriend work a lollipop down to the stick was practically softcore porn. And I’d bet money Zephyr’s head game had gone pro since the candy stash became a thing.

“I thought we agreedI’dbe doing the interviews,” Beck said, changing the channel on my mental theater before it turned X-rated. His yellow eyes cut toward Colette across the desk.

The hellhound set the newspaper aside and folded her arms, entirely unrepentant. “You were busy.”

“With what?” he retorted.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Her gaze slid to Zephyr in the hammock chair with his feet dangling over the edge. Sunlight from the window lit his scarlet hair like live coals. He wasn’t even pretending to care about the conversation—just watching the Strip outside with a lollipop tucked in the corner of his mouth.

Beck raked a hand through his silvery brown hair then muttered, “You could’ve knocked.”

Colette chuckled. “Non. Mon petit françaisneeds his strength to perform.” Her grin spread obnoxiously wide. “Well, he needsyourstrength. That’s how it works, right?”

Beck huffed a breath.

I helped myself to the second guest chair, letting their banter roll over me. Zephyr had the right idea, lounging in his hammock like he didn’t have a single worry heavier than the candy stick between his teeth. I wished I could check out like that, let sunlight and sugar do all the heavy lifting.

Unfortunately, my seat at this table was secured by my manager title and the fact that I might have had more to do with this mishap than I cared to admit.

“Besides,” Colette said, arms crossed and tone smug. “I am more than capable of screening applicants. My process is foolproof.”

“How did he even find out about the opening?” Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t posted the position yet.”

“He said he was referred,” Colette replied.

I squirmed, trying and failing to shirk the burden of culpability. “Let me guess: young guy, brown hair, brown eyes, all-American with a crew cut?”

“Yes!” She pointed at me like I’d won a prize.

Beck’s gaze narrowed. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Not really,” I said with a shrug that was far too casual. “Describes about half the white guys in Nevada.”

“And yet,” Beck pressed, “I get the feeling it doesn’t. You handing out job referrals, Darby?”

“No!” I replied quickly. “I merely… suggested he apply.”

“Well, that explains that.” Beck had gone from pinching his nose to trying to smooth the wrinkles between his brows. “Now all we’re missing is an actual hiring process.”

Colette’s chest swelled. “I toldyou, my process?—”

“Included no background check, no references, and no drug screening,” Beck rattled off.