Oh, someone needs to be spanked.
“I’m sure my going rate will shock you.”
“No doubt,” she says dryly. “Prostitution must pay handsomely. Or do you prefer man-whore?”
“The point is, I’ll reimburse you.” I check my watch and swear under my breath. We are officially out of time.
I rip open the garment bag.
“No need to reimburse me.” She folds her arms, chin tipping up. “I owe you. We’ll just call it even.”
“Trust me,” I say, already distracted. “When the Lamborghini-tier man-whore tab comes due, you’ll want reimbursement. And you will be. Just make sure no other woman walks away with me and?—”
I look into the bag.
Jacket.
That ridiculous cummerbund I will absolutely not be wearing.
But where’s the?—
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Pix leans closer, genuine concern breaking through her sass. “What?”
I dig the shirt from the bottom of the bag and hold it up.
A smear runs straight down the front.
Her lips twitch. “Is that… chocolate?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” I pull out my phone and tap Obnoxious Butthead Number One.
“Yello,” Brian answers.
“Did you let Ollie grab my tux?”
“Yes,” he says, cheerfully.
“With chocolate-covered hands.”
Silence.
Then, cautiously, “I’ll be right over.”
Click.
A second later, a knock at the door, followed by a rattle of the knob. “Harrison?”
Under her breath, Pix says, “So the lumberjack has a name.” Her smile is fucking kissable.
I open the door, and Brian rushes in with a club soda and a stack of paper towels. “The bartender said this would work.”
“It won’t work,” Pix says.
I snatch the club soda and point at her with a towel. “Yes, it will.”
“Not with cho-co-la-te,” she says, her delicious Spanish accent making it hard to think straight.
