Darcy nods slowly, like he’s taking this all in.

“Maybe saying ‘We all have our reasons’ wasn’t the right way to put it,” I admit. “It’s more that there’s so much to get out of performing. Onstage, being cheered for, you’re not thinking, ‘These people are pumped about this glove coming off!’ The rush comes from being celebrated, that you deserve to be celebrated. And if you get onstage and someone gives you a hard time? Sure, it sucks, but it proves you can survive a hit. And knowing you have that kind of strength in you can inform other parts of your life and make you brave enough to do other things that scare you—”

I swallow hard as the truth in my statement rings back to the inconvenient revelation from our last exchange. “If you let it.”

Beside me, Darcy is silent. His lips part, and I wait for him to say something. He only watches me. His look isn’t assessing, though there’s something thoughtful about it. I watch back. What is he seeing?

“I apologize. I can see I wasn’t respectful the other night. Thank you for being patient enough to explain.”

“Thank you for listening.” I smile as the shadow I’ve been refusing to acknowledge for the past few days suddenly clears. “You don’t have to ‘get’ burlesque. But I don’t want you thinking there’s some grand conspiracy going on onstage. It’s supposed to be fun. Fun for the performers and the audience. Whether it’s titillation or shock or amusement varies, but the audience is supposed to be having a good time. So, if you’re not experiencing that, I’m really sorry.” I grin. “Because it’s a blast.”

“That definitely comes across. Though I don’t know if that’s made it more or less disorienting, given my limited perspective.”

“Is there no fun in intimacy?”

“I didn’t say that. Though I can’t say I’ve ever experienced shimmying during an intimate moment.”

“Hmm.” I fight back a smile. “Then I’m sorry about that, too.”

His smile takes that lower lip of his from appealing to irresistible. Just as I commit to searing the image into my brain, he laughs. The full-bodied sound ignites my entire nervous system. And I was right; it does feel like an accomplishment.

He’s still laughing when a “Will?” comes from the doorway.

A middle-aged woman in cat’s-eye glasses enters the office. It’s Marley, the GM. She looks at us with a mix of relief and surprise.