The bartender hands me the champagne. I thank him, take a quick sip, and have just set it down to leave, since I shouldn’t sew while buzzed, when I hear a voice.

“You’re no ordinary angel. You’re a next-generation angel.”

I turn around and see a man dressed all in black, with lips that are made for sin.

5

Flynn

I’m batting zero. My night has gone like this:

A woman asks, “Are you a code ninja?”

I scowl and shake my head.

The next guess comes from an employee. “You’re an awesome Dark Web.”

“I’m not the dark web,” I tell him.

A woman wearing a pink mustache cocks a smile and says, “You must be an SEO ninja.”

Seriously, I am not a ninja at all. Maybe the all-black get-up is throwing them off, but I’m definitely not a ninja. Don’t they get why I can’t be a ninja?

“Nope,” I say, with the dejected sigh of someone whose costume is understood by no one. It’s quite sad to fail at dressing up. But I’ve earned my F in this class tonight.

As the woman dressed as Lyft walks away, I notice an angel chatting with Evil Kermit.

And I can’t look away from her.

Those legs.

That waist.

That body.

The little bit I can see of her face tells me I can’t complain about the shape of her jawline or those lips like a pink bow. But honestly, it’s the costume that has me most intrigued. Because it says she has a brain that works well.

That’s what I find most attractive in a woman.

When she’s done with Kermit, she heads for the bar, and shortly after, I walk over to her.

“You’re no ordinary angel. You’re a next-generation angel,” I say, since a clever costume deserves something much better than a pickup line.

Her lips quirk up. “I am?”

“And let me state, for the record, the costumes here are damn good. But yours is the best one I’ve seen tonight.” I take a beat. “Angel investor. That’s brilliant.”

She wears a white dress, a halo over her head, and has the coolest wings I’ve ever seen, because that’s where she stops being a regular angel.

She juts out her hip and gives me a smile. “Would you like to see my wingspan?” Her invitation sounds vaguely dirty but also adorably cute.

“I would love to see your wingspan,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart, and maybe from other parts too.

She steps away from the bar and spreads her arms wide. They flutter with ribbons of white fabric, something satiny or shiny, shimmering faintly. The strips of material that hang from her arms are covered in Monopoly money. Ones, fives, tens, and hundreds.

I reach for a strand. “May I?”

“By all means, touch my money.”

I laugh as I run a finger over a yellow ten-dollar bill. The money is pinned to the fabric, covering her wings. It’s the perfect sexy costume, with a twist and a wink and nod to our world, where angel investors often set new start-ups in motion with their first cash infusion.