The half smile vanishes. A furrow develops between his brows. “It’s so . . .”

“Intimate?” I offer, choosing a word he used that night at Meryton. I liked that bit . . . before all the talk of a certain lack of temptation.

“Something like that. Have you done it? The . . . stripping.” He gets the word out so quickly this time, he practically trips over it.

“A few times. Student showcases after the intro course at the School of Burlesque.”

“And you had no hesitations?”

“It’s all about context,” I say. “For me, onstage, the context was, ‘This is where I take off my clothes for appreciative strangers.’ At Meryton, it’s, ‘This is where I mince about in very little and hustle pasties.’ ”

“Ah. Does it bother people?”

The question is posed innocently enough, but a warning bell sounds in my head all the same. I know what he’s getting at. This time, however, he’s going to have to do the heavy lifting himself.

I cock my head, feigning confusion. “What people? My parents?”

“No, I—” Darcy’s eyes widen. “Your parents have been to Meryton?”

“A few times. They love it. Well, their first time visiting, my dad was put out that his shrimp was overcooked. But he’ll play poker with the guys, and I swear, Ming calls my mom more often than I do. They’re like this.” I cross the middle and index fingers of my right hand. “They came out here for Christmas last year, and we all did dinner together at the club. Mom and I cooked,” I add, smiling in earnest. “Andrea was such a fan of our mashed potatoes, Meryton uses our family recipe now.”

“The potatoes were excellent,” he says, more to himself than me. He shakes his head. “That’s not what I was asking. I meant if your involvement in burlesque bothers the men you date. Presuming you date men, that is.”

At last, we have reached the inevitable. Other iterations of the question flood my memory, sneers from guests at Meryton, all male, asking, “Does your boyfriend let you do this?” The idea that I need any man’s permission to do whatever the hell I want with my goddamn body . . .

Even worse, it has been a problem. Sure, men get excited when they learn I’m involved in the scene, but the novelty wears off. Either I’m a hypocrite for refusing to bring my Kitten persona into the bedroom, or the guys see me in action and suddenly there’s no difference between my kittening and literal solicitation. One such fellow took particular offense to my hip-checking a Russian blocking the curtain-call stampede. He interrupted the show to berate me and challenge the Russian to “take it outside” with him. It was mortifying.

I draw in a slow breath, willing myself to calm. Perhaps this is all some elaborate setup for Darcy’s own forward-thinking views on female liberation.