Page 43 of Heart Over Heels

Still not intimidating, though.

“Were you looking for him?” he asked.

I had to backtrack to remember who we’d been discussing.

“Darby?”

Zephyr shook his head, and the fountain of his ponytail swished in sync. “Beck.”

“Oh.”

Time to think. Was thereanyplausible reason for me to be skulking around the boss’s office?

It came to me slowly, lies couched in the truth that trickled out. “I just… realized I never filled out payroll paperwork. Direct deposit stuff. I thought he might have left it out.”

Zephyr glanced at the desk. Besides the computer and candy jar, it was obviously bare.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

I sighed. “Yeah, me neither.”

“I can have him get it for you, though.”

The offer had me backpedaling. “You don’t need to. I’m sure?—”

“I don’t mind.” He smiled, fangs denting his lower lip.

Protesting too much would only make things worse. If I pushed, I’d look guilty—probably because I was. Better to let Zephyr think he’d helped and get out while I still could.

“Thanks.” I did my best to sound appreciative. “That’d be great.”

His smile widened. Something about his behavior made him seem younger than he must have been. Innocent, endearing, and ignorant of the fact that he’d just cornered me with kindness.

Before he could offer further assistance, I shifted toward the door, swallowing while my pulse tapped persistently in my throat.

“Good luck tonight,” I told him, and immediately wondered if that was the best way to phrase it. I got the impression he’d take the advice to “break a leg” too literally.

It must have been good enough because he thanked me, and I left.

As I pulled the door shut behind me, I felt overheated and sheepish, like I’d been caught sneaking cookies instead of potentially blowing my cover.

It wasn’t just Zephyr. Darby had shown the same knack for slipping past my guard, all soft edges where I expected sharp ones. Demons weren’t supposed to be gentle and disarming, but the Dollhouse dolls kept proving that bias wrong. I wasn’t sure yet if that made things easier… or much harder.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Darby

After five years of working at the Dollhouse, the boys and I had our routines down pat, and not just the dancing kind. My favorite by far was the after-hours nosh we called the Backstage Banquet.

Banquet was often an overstatement. Most nights it was a group raid on the fridge and pantry, then leftovers and packaged snacks spread out in a hodgepodge buffet. Ozzy was a miracle in the kitchen, though, so lately I’d taken to scheduling his last set earlier in the evening. That way he could duck out, don a pair of oven mitts, and work his magic over the stove instead of the stage.

Tonight was one such lucky occasion. He wore an apron printed with an oiled, musclebound torso that looked suspiciously like his own. He’d also changed into sweats and gone shirtless, so the illusion worked from all angles.

He cranked a pepper mill into a steaming pot while the rest of us waited at the dining table. To my right, Elliot hunched over a square of origami paper, fingers forming quick, precise folds. He always showered the second he stepped offstage, so now hewas clean and casual in a hoodie and joggers with his black hair damp and glossy.

The twins were decidedly less fastidious. They shared a seat—Callum wriggling in Colt’s lap while holding a book aloft. Colt sprawled, stripped down to fringed chaps, a thong, and his hat. Callum was only slightly more modest in a pair of denim cutoffs and a neckerchief.