I retrieve the garment bag from my pack. She snatches it immediately, unzipping it with frantic energy.
The suit is black. Extremely fitted. I examined it during pickup and determined the measurements were likely incorrect.
"Perfect," Colletta breathes, running her hand over the fabric. "Put it on."
"The dimensions appear insufficient."
"It'ssupposedto be tight. It's a tailored fit. You'll look..." She trails off, face going redder. "Professional. Put it on."
I strip efficiently, removing my tuxedo shirt and reaching for the suit's dress shirt.
"Oh my god." Her voice is strange. High. "You're just... you're changing right here. Right now. In front of me."
"You observed my equipment earlier. Efficient use of time." I button the shirt. It strains across my chest and shoulders immediately, the fabric pulling tight enough that the stitching is visible between buttons.
The pants are worse.
I have to use tactical breathing to get them fastened. The waistband cuts into my abdomen. The thighs are so constricting I can barely achieve full range of motion. When I move to test mobility, I hear a stitching pop somewhere near my left hip.
"How do I appear?"
Colletta has gone completely still. She's staring at me with her mouth slightly open, color flooding her cheeks, her throat, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress.
"You look..." She swallows hard, her throat working visibly. Her eyes track from my chest down to where the pants cling to my thighs, then snap back up to my face. She tries again, her voice coming out breathier than before. "Fine. You look fine."
I shift my weight experimentally, feeling the fabric strain dangerously across my quadriceps. "The garment is restricting blood flow to my lower extremities. Continued wear may result in compromised mobility and potential circulatory issues."
"That's..." She laughs, high and nervous, the sound catching in her throat. "That's how suits work. They're supposed to be fitted. Tailored. You look exactly how you're supposed to look."
I test a combat stance, or attempt to. The pants prevent me from achieving proper weight distribution. "This is a flawed design. Human males willingly compromise their operational effectiveness for aesthetic purposes?"
"Just—" She makes an aborted gesture toward the jacket draped over the chair, not quite meeting my eyes. "Just put on the jacket and let's go before I lose my nerve completely and we end up hiding in this hotel room all weekend."
The jacket somehow makes it worse. The shoulders fit, barely, but when I button it closed the fabric screams in protest. I'm going to destroy this suit before the night ends. Possibly before we reach the cocktail party.
But when I look at Colletta, she's watching me like I'm dangerous.
Good.
That's the image we need to project.
The Welcome Cocktails are held in the vineyard's main pavilion, an open structure with too many sight lines and insufficient cover. String lights create visibility issues. The crowd provides both concealment opportunities and unpredictable movement patterns.
I catalog exits while Colletta grips my arm.
"There's Monica," she hisses, nodding toward a woman in white who's holding court near the bar. "And Derek is... oh god, he's right there. Nine o'clock. Don't look. Don't make eye contact."
I look immediately.
The target is average height, slight build, wearing expensive casual clothes that scream "minimal threat capability." He's standing with a blonde woman, laughing too loudly atsomething she said. His body language suggests territorial display behavior. Compensating.
Weak. Physically unimpressive. No combat conditioning evident in his posture or movement patterns.
"I said don't look," Colletta groans beside me, her fingers digging into my bicep hard enough that I can actually feel the pressure through the suit fabric. Her voice has gone high and tight, the way it does when she's about to start laughing at inappropriate moments. "I specifically said don't look. That was literally the one instruction I gave you."
"Target assessment complete," I report, keeping my voice low and tactical. I've already cataloged his weaknesses: soft hands, expensive shoes with no traction, stance that suggests he's never taken a real hit. "He poses no danger. Minimal physical threat. Could neutralize him in under three seconds if required."
"He's not atarget,he's my ex-boyfriend, and we're supposed to be playing it cool and casual, not treating this like a military operation."
