We went out for several months, and it felt like sweet victory. Revenge of the nerds, indeed. Finally, the girl I’d wanted, wanted me too. And boy, did she ever. The praise flowed in. How good it was to finally be with me. The sex was plentiful, like she couldn’t get enough. Plus, she liked to sleep naked. Can you say kryptonite for a guy?

The closer we grew, the more often she floated the idea of moving in, maybe getting engaged.

I wasn’t opposed to bumping things to the next level, but my radar went off when she became not only overly interested in me, but keenly curious about my bank accounts. Where do you park all the money? Who manages it? What sort of investments do you have?

“The kind that requires a prenup.”

Yes, I told her that.

Because I’m not stupid.

“I can’t believe you’d want a prenup,” she said, like I was the jerk.

“Annie, we’re not even engaged.”

“But you’re well and truly saying you’d want a prenup?”

“Um, yeah.”

“I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

I certainly didn’t after that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I’d been laddered up to the Let’s Be More Than Friends category. The more she pressed, the more evident it became. I hadn’t been promoted from the friend zone. I was skyrocketed into the green belt, and she watered the Flynn plant with compliments and nudity. A hungry ficus tree, I guzzled it up.

I suppose in the end I’m simply grateful that she showed her cards before I fell any deeper for her.

That’s why I wish Angel and I could keep up the masquerade. Because it’s honest. It’s freeing. I don’t have to worry about getting hurt. I don’t have time for another heartbreak. I have a company to run and employees to provide for.

I do, however, have time for a fantastic night out or two or three, and that’s exactly what I want.

As I glance up at the numbers above the storefronts, a window full of old-fashioned toys comes into view. There’s a spinning top, a hobby horse, and some wooden blocks that spell the name of the establishment. The Dollhouse.

It’s one of those places that doesn’t need to rely on a flashing neon sign or scads of scantily dressed ladies out front to lure anyone in. It’s like a speakeasy. You need the secret language to enter, and the code is knowing this isn’t a storefront for old-fashioned toys.

Smiling, I push open the door and head into a bar. One wall is lined with shelves holding rooms from dollhouses—sitting areas decorated with pint-size couches, sleeping dens with beds that would hold a teaspoon and pillows no bigger than a fingernail. At the bar, the napkin holders are actual upside-down doll-size tables, that would, I think, fit inside one of those little homes.

Patrons sip drinks from teacups in shades of pastel blue and pink.

It’s so retro, it’s beyond retro. It’s like a fiesta of quirkiness, and as I look around, I hope I’ll recognize the woman from the party instantly. But then, I’m not sure how I won’t recognize her. I ran my fingers up her legs, slid them between her thighs, felt her tremble, kissed her lips.