“Ladies, gentlemen, sexy people across the spectrum,” Johnny calls. I snap to attention. “Allow me to introduce you to Meryton’s esteemed stage kitten, Miss . . .”—he draws out the title—“Kitten . . .”—the spotlight swerves toward me—“Caboodle!”

The cluster of wings in my chest vibrates so rapidly, it feels like it’s going to tear itself apart. I stroll through the crowd, which offers polite applause, and ascend the stage to stand beside Johnny.

“For those who might not be familiar with how these shows work, Kitten is going to give you a chance to practice sharing your appreciation. What do you think, kitty cat—a glove peel?”

I raise my bare hands and screw my lips to the side in an exaggerated show of contemplation. Then I grin. I spin to present my back to the crowd, swaying just enough to send the tassel swinging side to side.

“Now, what do we have here?” Johnny edges to the side of the stage. The band takes their cue, kicking into Henry Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk.”

Working in time with the music, I reach my hand to the middle of my back and grasp the tassel, guiding it down the zipper track with practiced slowness. I shift my shoulders to further open the gap, the cool of the room and the heat of the spotlight dancing across the widening sliver of exposed skin. I face the diners again.

With a roll of my shoulder, the dress tumbles to my bicep, catching in the crook of my elbow. I wink, pressing delicately at the neckline of my dress to keep it in place. The applause is lively, but I’m looking for more. A roll of my other shoulder and the opposite side of my dress slides down, but with my off-center hold at the top of the dress, it falls farther, revealing the left cup of my bra and the glinting pastie below.

Gasps and whistles burst from the audience. Chloe bellows, “Liz-ard!” like a rowdy frat boy, and any residual self-doubt evaporates in a feathery cloud. I can’t make out Darcy over the stage lights, but knowing he’s watching makes my pulse thrill. It’s not just us, and this is hardly intimate, but this peel has turned into the jumping-off point for the rest of our evening.

Returning to the production, I draw my lips into an exaggerated O of surprise, then smile again. I arch an eyebrow and lift one finger from the top of my dress. Then another.

The room is still. At the next beat of the song, I pull my hand away completely and let the top of the dress fall, the straps tumbling past my hands until—