Behind me, Jane starts playing “An American in Paris.” The tune’s urgency is a little out of place, but I close my eyes, letting my vision unfold in time with the rise and fall of the notes. Conceal the out-of-place barn wood at the back of the stage with a dark, solid drape. For the stage: plush red velvet curtains with gold tassels and coordinating bunting for depth. The footlights can stay, but with shells to tie in with the classic look of the curtains.

A collective gasp stirs me from my daydream. The vision peels away in time for me to watch Ginn, not to be outdone by Tonic, finish her own death spiral. She dangles in front of one of the managers from out of town—the Seattle branch, I think—and tousles his hair. He stares in naked adoration. Lord. And I thought Toby was on the verge of drooling.

I search again for a drink server. The one I spotted earlier has moved to another platform and—oh, hello—to get to him I’ll have to pass a very well-filled-out suit on the catwalk. Its owner has his back to me, head angled toward the action on the silks. I move toward my initial target while preparing to steal a better glance at the second. Not that the rear view isn’t appealing.

Appealing and . . . familiar?

I almost choke on my last bite of date. With a startled cough, I spin away, heart rate accelerating as I try to compose myself. This makes no sense. He wouldn’t be here. Unless he’s a plus-one? Or his tush has a doppelgänger . . .

One way to find out. I clear my throat, take in a breath, and turn to face Will Darcy . . .

. . . who is already looking my way.

Heat flares across my skin. I’ve interrupted enough oglers to know the signs of lingering appreciation, and Darcy’s half-second delay before he makes eye contact tells me he’s been admiring the view. He continues to study me with the same vague look the interns get when I change the Wi-Fi password: the situation is possible but incompatible with expectations.

I wait him out, glad I had a moment to process his presence before he discovered mine. Now that the surprise is ebbing and there’s no risk of my choking on finger food, exasperation takes center stage. My date no-shows, yet here we have the guy whose follow-up to condemning my favorite pastime as “manipulative” was to set my world askew. And I’ve caught him checking out my butt. What chaos god did I offend?