Page 32 of Heart Over Heels

My cheeks warmed. Had I really forgotten to mention?

“Darby.”

He smiled. Maybe the best one of the night. “That’s a pretty name.”

Heat crawled up the sides of my throat, and I reached to my hair, combing it over the tips of my ears so he wouldn’t see them turning red.

It wasn’t the kind of flattery I was used to. Less angled, more direct. We’d made it through an entire meal without him making anything that might qualify as an advance. No under-table footsies or over-table grabs. He’d stolen a few glances between bites or while tipping his drink back, but it was all eyes and no hands, and I couldn’t fault a guy for window shopping.

When the server returned with the check, the restaurant owner was hot on her heels. Charles Fincannon, stately and svelte, cut a purposeful path toward our table. The sight of him caused the sweetness of the evening to curdle sour.

I knew what I’d set up. This meal wasn’t coming out of my pocket or Beck’s bank account; it was coming out of my ass. I’d chosen the restaurant. Put my name on the list. Set expectations.

But now… I wasn’t so sure.

Mercer had sat across from me all night, letting me poke and prod and tease him every which way. He’d asked me my name. If I left him to watch me settle the bill with a quick little favor-trade, what message would that send?

Probably not the one I wanted him to receive.

And damn it, I had to work with the guy.

The server and Charles drew to a stop beside our table, and I sprang up so quickly my napkin slid out of my lap.

“Charles, hi.” I struck a pose, flaunting the dress I’d known he would like.

As he reached for me, the light caught his silk jacket. It was sleeker and more structured than the smoking robes he usually wore, adding definition to his lean frame. His smile gleamed, showing off a fresh set of veneers as he bent to press a kiss to my cheek.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Always a nice surprise to see your name on my books.”

Most people didn’t know about Maslow’s habit of keeping his show ponies in the stable, or else they didn’t care. To them, we were fixtures at the club. Day after day, night after night, until Daddy Beck opened the gates and let us out to pasture.

“I’m getting out more these days,” I replied.

His hand found my body and skimmed down until his fingers brushed the curve of my waist just above where the skirt bloused. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the subtle shift of Mercer’s shoulders as he squared them. Charles caught it too, and his smile sharpened.

I took the opening and wriggled a step sideways, putting an inch of space between us. “Oh, Charles! This is Mister…” Mybrain flipped frantically through the mental copy of Mercer’s application paperwork. “James. He’s our new security officer at the Dollhouse.”

Charles chuckled, but the humor didn’t quite make it to his gray-blue eyes. “And you already have him under your spell, I see.”

Heat sparked in my cheeks. “It’s not… quite like that.”

The server hovered with the check, which Mercer gestured to before I could.

“I’ll take that.”

“Oh, Mercy, don’t…”

The server’s gaze flicked toward Charles, who lifted a quizzical brow. The message was clear: was Mercer really footing the bill or was this still my domain?

I snaked my tongue across my lips, hesitating, but the words I usually wielded so capably failed me.

Mercer pulled out his wallet and selected a generic debit card—not black, not platinum, backed by a bank account balance rather than a credit line—and passed it to the server.

The young woman took the card with a nod. “I’ll be right back with your receipt,” she said, slipping away toward the register.

Charles’s eyes lingered on Mercer for a beat then flicked to me. His expression softened.

“Perhaps you’ll make it by this way another time, hmm?” he said, then amended. “Abettertime.” With a courtly dip of his head, he excused himself, leaving a trace of cologne in the air.