We don’t see the men again, and when Esteban brings down a stack of receipts with messages for Jane, none are from Charles. The notes range from appreciative to downright lewd, and while Ming leads the group in a series of dramatic readings (“Sweet Jane, let me tame your little red love machine!”), I search Jane for any signs of disappointment. To my pleasant surprise, I don’t find any. Instead, there’s a buzz about him the rest of the night, some confidence that elevates both his songs in the second show. It energizes him to the point where he arranges to sing for the band at their after-hours gig, though I beg off, my hand still itching to sketch out my design ideas for Meryton.

At home, I tuck tonight’s kittening getup away among the corsets and girdles I wear at Meryton. I pause to pluck a new ensemble from the standards, avoiding the number on the price tag, which Tonic’s employee discount only just managed to make doable. The fine-mesh bra would require pasties, and the coordinating garter belt draws the eye to my crotch, the arch created by the straps framing the area almost indecently. It’ll be one hell of a look if I get the nerve to put it together.

With a sigh, I return the hanger to the closet and smooth my hand over the pale pink fabric. Someday, lovelies . . . maybe something more pleasure than work. I bite my lower lip; that would take more nerve than wearing it at the show.

Unbidden, Darcy’s face pops up in my mind, accompanied by a brutal echo. Not enough to tempt me.

“Liar.” I yank the closet door shut, the panel shuddering in protest. He was tempted, thank you so much. There was . . . something.

I thought there was something.

Even hours later, the slight stings more than I’m comfortable with. I decide to indulge in a little ego stroking. Jane has Nina, and I have a fallback of my own. I take a seat at my desk and open the shallow drawer in the center, pressing down on the bulging manila folder within so it doesn’t catch on the lip of the writing surface. Inside the file are the prints from the card deck shoot.

It happened early in my time at the show. The photographer was in the dressing room chatting with Ming when he received a text from someone bailing on the next day’s shoot. He griped about finding a last-minute replacement and Ming gestured my way, with the offhand comment, “Kitten’s hot. She’ll do it.”