He tips his chin toward the door. “We should see what masks are in the store, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

We say hello to the shopkeeper who glances up from the counter and smiles, letting us know she’s here if we need anything. She’s dressed as Rita Hayworth, with a bust-exposing dress and a red wig.

We head toward the masks.

“Now that you’ve seen me, would you recognize me in, say, this?” He covers his face with a fox mask.

“You’re foxy, but yes, I can tell it’s you.”

“Good.” He reaches for a dog. “As Fido?”

I smile. “Absolutely.”

“What about this?” He tries to sound silky and sultry as he slides a pink pig mask over his face, adding a most unsexy oink, oink.

“Still you.”

He locates a mask of a clown with a tear sliding down its face and a big red ball for a nose. He positions it over my eyes then peers at me, studying me. “Yup, it’s you.”

He holds the mask to his face. “And now? Can you tell it’s me?”

I slug his arm. “Yes, yes, yes. Of course, I’d recognize you.”

“Just like you ‘recognized’ me at The Dollhouse?” His tone is somewhat challenging.

“I told you, I recognized you, but I didn’t want it to be you,” I say wistfully.

He wraps a hand around my arm, and flames lick my body. “Sometimes I still feel that way. Sometimes I see you, and I wish you were someone else.”

“Me too,” I admit.

“Do you want me to be the duke?”

I nod. “Yes, and we’ll go to costume parties. Maybe I’ll dress as Marilyn Monroe at one.”

He groans and steps closer to me. It’s dark here in the corner of the shop—we’re out of sight of the windows. Red velvet lines the wall, and masks, swords, and shields hang from it. “You’d look so hot as Marilyn Monroe.”

“I’d get a mask just for my eyes. You could cup my cheek while you kissed me.”

“Fuck,” he says in a long, low rumble. “And what would I be?” He rests his hand on a rack of poodle skirts.

“You’d be Joe DiMaggio, of course.”

He pumps a fist. “I always wanted to be a star athlete.”

I lift my hand and run it up his arm, grateful he’s wearing a T-shirt today. I trace a path to his bicep. His breath hisses as I travel higher then squeeze his muscle. “You’d wear your Yankees uniform, and I’d admire how it fits you. I’d admire your arms too. I’d touch them.”

He swallows harshly. His eyes are fire. His voice is sandpaper as he whispers, “And I’d slide in for a dance and wrap my arm around your waist while you had on that white satin dress. And nobody would know who we were because we’d wear masks.”

“We’d know.”

“But we’d pretend.”

“Can we pretend now? That we’re at a costume party?”

He glances over his shoulder. Rita is on the phone. She’s looking the other way, and we’re partially hidden behind the racks. “Let’s pretend. If we pretend, it’s not really happening.”