Before Bea can finish whatever insult she was about to throw my way, the swinging door opens right into her. Instead of insults, she throws six glasses of ice-cold champagne straight onto my pants.

—

After another wardrobe change, I round the corner into the kitchen with my wet pants in hand, startling when I see Beatrice standing at the counter, a catlike intensity lurking in her eyes.

Tugging the lion mask over my face, I slip the champagne-drenched pants into my messenger bag, then straighten my cuffs. “Despite being an apex predator for the night,” I tell her, “I’m feeling hunted.”

“Trust me, this isn’t how I wanted to spend my night, either.” She slides a wedge of gooey Brie between two crackers and crunches on them, then says around her bite, “Whose idea was the lion mask?”

“I picked it up in the foyer. Your sister had a collection for guests who didn’t bring their own.”

Bea stops chewing. “I don’t get you people and your soulless, impersonal disguises. Homemade masks are the only good thing about this night.”

“Well, you’re an artist. You’d think that. I haven’t touched tissue paper or glue since the early 2000s, and I’d like it to stay that way.”

“What a sad existence. Getting messy is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Besides, how else could I celebrate being a Cancer?” she says, tapping her crab mask. “Nobody even sells crab masks.”

“I wonder why.”

“Oh, burn. At least I’m wearing my proper sign. Why’s a textbook Capricorn wearing a lion? That’s what I want to know.”

I blink at her and adjust my glasses, which are pushed down by the mask. “How did you know?”

Not that I put credence in zodiac signs and all that nonsense, even if technically, yes, my birthday places me in the astrological map as a Capricorn.

She snorts. “James. If you were any more of a goat, you’d be mountain bounding as we speak.”

“That’s not actually an answer.”

“It is,” she says, crunching on her cracker again. “It’s just not the one you wanted. Anyway, are you done?”

“Yes. Though why you waited—”

“Jules is waiting for you. I’m on orders to bring you out and give her a signal so she can make her toast.” She frowns, her eyes traveling me. “Did you change?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you have backup wrinkle-free slacks.” She crunches another cracker. “You’re a Capricorn.”

“Little did I know how wise it would be to come ready for disaster, seeing as, tonight alone, you and open-container alcohol have an oh-and-two track record.”

A soft growl leaves her. With those feline eyes and the jarring crab mask, it’s bizarrely alluring.

It must be the unreasonably flattering dress she’s wearing. And my lengthy abstinent streak. That’ll make anyone see attractiveness when they should be running the other way.