The lights in the club were dim, save for the golden glow of the stage, where the music pulsed in time with the slow, sultry sway of the performers. Neville had never imagined himself working in a place like this, but somehow, he’d ended up as the quiet, steadfast bartender at The Greenhouse, a burlesque club tucked away in the heart of the city.

And then there was you.

From the moment you stepped onto the stage, you had the entire room—Neville included—hanging on your every move. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you commanded attention with such effortless grace, but bloody hell, it was impossible not to watch.

Neville busied himself with wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the way his face burned as you twirled, your gaze sweeping over the crowd before landing on him. He nearly dropped the glass in his hand.

“Careful, mate,” Dean teased from the other end of the bar. “You’re starin’ again.”

“I’m not—” Neville started, but there was no point in denying it. His ears burned as he turned away, grabbing a bottle to pour another drink.

Then, just as the song ended and the applause filled the room, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He didn’t have to look up to know it was you.