Page 36 of Heart Over Heels

I thought about setting them straight, but then what? These guys weren’t mean-spirited, just old-fashioned, and I wasn’tsure how to explain Darby without saying more than was mine to say.

I shook my head, going for subtle and hoping they caught on. “Not sure this place is exactly his scene.”

“His?” Jack echoed then slapped his thigh. “Aww, just a friend, then. Too bad. I was looking forward to seeing some hot young thing on your hip. We could use a bit of eye candy around here.”

I didn’t reply.

“Just a friend” seemed to fit. A coworker. An acquaintance. And while I couldn’t attest to how Darby might look perched on my hip, I knew how he felt pressed against my back with his lithe arms wrapped around my middle, warm and snug.

How long had it been since someone touched me like that?

“You oughta invite him to Bingo night,” Jack said. “Everybody loves Bingo.”

My lips pursed in a tight smile.

The mental image of Darby daubing cards, trying to win an embroidered tea towel or a jar of homemade jam, was ridiculous. I’d wager he had panties worth more than anything that came across the prize table. Not to mention the fact that I was still reeling from the shock of what people would pay for a single bottle of wine, and how I had inadvertently become one of those people.

But that had been a one-time thing. A business outing where we hadn’t talked about business at all. I didn’t expect a callback.

“Well, I’ll be there for sure,” I said while lifting my drink. “I’ve gotten a bit addicted to your wife’s strawberry preserves, Jack, and I’m all out.”

That earned a round of chuckles. Jack gave a little shake of his head, and the bartender looked up from the television long enough to ensure nobody’s glass was empty. I tipped my bottleback, swallowed the last fizz of beer, and let the conversation roll on without me.

This wasn’t Darby’s scene—Bingo nights, cheap beer, and old timers puttering around—but itwasmine. Just as ridiculous as imagining him fawning over donated prizes was the thought that he would ever have any interest in me. Or worse, the sinking realization that I might want him to.

He was the star of the Dollhouse stage, the performer everyone watched. Complete with a gaggling entourage who doted, drooled, and dragged their fingers all over his perfectly bewildering body.

My hand fell to my knee, pressing against the hard line of the prosthetic beneath my jeans, a permanent reminder of the parts I’d left behind.

I was damaged goods, lacking in body and soul, and Darby and I were worlds apart.

CHAPTER

TEN

Darby

Dust motes drifted through the beams of the stage lights, sparkling in the air around where Oz stood locked in stern concentration. Smiles would come later, after the moves were muscle memory and practice had scraped away the rough edges. But for now, we were working.

As the first of the dolls to catch wind of my grand reopening scheme, Oz had been tapped for the top spot in the lineup. Zephyr was tasked with keeping Club Daddy busy while everyone else gathered to knock the rust off before I took this idea all the way to the top.

We’d barely begun our first dress rehearsal, and I was already having regrets.

There was a reason the twins opened every night. Colt was easier to manage after he’d burned off some energy and downed a few beers. With a set under his belt, he was halfway to civilized. This afternoon, though, he was wide awake, stone-cold sober, and parked in the chair next to me, playing backseat driver while Oz tried to find his rhythm.

“Shake it like you mean it!” Colt bellowed. “Ain’t nobody payin’ for half a shimmy!”

“Keep it down!” Callum hissed then threw an elbow that made his brother grunt.

Cupping a hand to my mouth, I called toward the stage. “Keep going, Ozzy! We don’t stop for hecklers.” My scowl at Colt caused him to swell with indignation.

“Heckler?” he scoffed. “I’m providin’ direction! Ain’t no different than what you’re doin’.” He tipped his head back so he could peer down his nose at the pad of paper I was filling with notes.

Without the hum of the sound system or the roar of a crowd, the room had an echoing emptiness. The squeak of Oz’s shoes on the stage was the loudest sound, punctuated by the occasional thump of a chair leg as someone shifted in the audience.

The big guy was giving it his all, though. His suit coat slid off one shoulder, catching on his elbow before he flung it away with theatrical flair. He rolled his hips while unbuttoning his vest then yanking it wide. A pair of glittery gold suspenders strained across his bare chest. Snagging one strap, he snapped it against his pec then sank into a low grind that made the twins hoot.

I scribbled on my clipboard: “Suspenders stay. Shoes go.” The wingtips gave him too much of a tap-dancer vibe, and I wanted vampy, not Vaudeville.