I shoot her a look.
She purses her lips, utterly unconvinced.
Her gaze holds mine a second too long.
“I’m Brian,” he cuts in, inserting himself between us with an outstretched hand.
Pix hesitates, then offers a small, polite smile as she takes it. “Viviana.”
“Viviana,” he repeats, slow and smooth, like the name just unlocked something as he keeps her hand in his.
My inner clock starts ticking. Loudly.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Yeah. No.
I smack his chest. “Ahem.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the spot. But at least his hand drops. He squints at her. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Nope,” she says quickly.
I get to work, blotting carefully with soda and a paper towel. Then rubbing.
Then, settling into that deeply uncomfortable feeling that Pix was right.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “I’ve somehow turned one chocolate smear into a Rorschach test.”
Brian nods. “If the answer is vagina.”
They both lose it.
The laughter cuts off when Brian’s expression shifts. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I ask.
He pulls the tux jacket from the bag.
Chocolate handprints. Everywhere. “I might have asked Ollie to make sure the tux was in there.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“I don’t have time for this.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your shirt.”
“No.”
“Give. Me. Your. Shirt.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Or did you forget, I’ll be onstage introducing you in”—he checks his watch—“literally right now. They’re waiting.”
I shove the shirt, the club soda, and the wad of paper towels into Brian’s hand. “That’s it. I’m out.”
“You can’t be out.” Brian frowns. “It’s a veterans’ charity. You already committed.”
“And you don’t bail on veterans’ charities,” Pix chimes in. “Ever. I’m pretty sure that lands you on some kind of watch list.”
Have they both lost their minds? “I don’t have a shirt,” I fire back.
