I clap my hands. “That could almost be a compliment. You should fit those into conversation if you ever get stuck. People love compliments.” He flashes a quick smile and my curiosity wins out. “When did you get here?” The question’s a more subtle version of the “Did you see me perform?” I’m hoping to have answered.

“I missed some of the beginning. I—” He frowns. “I’m sorry, you’ve mentioned that before, that not being able to dance is part of why you kitten. Is the other part the . . .”

I get a little flutter that he’s interested enough to ask after something so personal, but I leave him hanging on principle. He’s at a burlesque show; he should be able to name the main activity.

After a few seconds, his mouth goes tight, and I offer, “Stripping?”

He winces at the word but nods. “It’s all an act.”

I wait a beat, wondering if this is that same deadpan humor as Monday, but his brow stays furrowed. “Literally, yes, Darcy. This is a show. That you paid to attend,” I remind him. “Where the performers make a production of removing clothing.”

He looks around the room with narrowed eyes. “I don’t trust it.”

I laugh. “Trust? What does trust have to do with it?”

“There’s just a veneer of artifice about the whole thing.”

I arch a brow. “Have we just circled back to the idea of this being a show?”

“It feels . . . manipulative.”

I watch him, my skin creeping with unease. In my years in the scene, I haven’t heard anyone refer to what we do as manipulative. Cheap? Sure. And a whole table of women once accused me of debasing myself; curious, given that they’d chosen to spend their evening in an establishment specializing in said supposed debasement.

But manipulative?

I drum my fingers on the bar, then point at him. “What was the last play you saw?”

He clears his throat. “How is that—”

“What was the last play you saw?”

“The Lion King.”

“The—really?”

His brows twitch down. I regret not tempering my response but, really? “It’s a stunning production,” he says stiffly.

I nod in a way I hope is diplomatic. “Agreed. ‘Circle of Life’ gets me every time. But”—I raise a finger—“when you saw it, were you upset that there weren’t actual lions onstage? That the play is all actors, pretending to be animals?”

“That would hardly—”

I gesture to the stage. “How is this different?”

“Watching a woman take off her clothes is a far cry from watching a man in face paint pretend to be grass.”

I laugh. “Be careful saying something like that in this crowd. So many New York creatives in one room, there’s bound to be a few who’d kill to play grass.”

Another half smile.

“Is it the nudity, then?” I ask. “Is that what makes it manipulative?”