Jules smiles and bites her lip. “I wanted to make it special. You always have me to yourself.”

“Not enough,” he growls.

Something about Jean-Claude’s intensity with my sister makes my skin crawl. They’ve been together for a bit over three months now, and rather than mellow out after the first frenzy of infatuation, like the people Jules has dated before, Jean-Claude just seems to be ramping up. It’s to the point that I can’t even walk around the apartment in a bathrobe because he’s always there, on the sofa, in our kitchen, in her room. My gut says it’s too much.

But Jean-Claude works at Christopher’s hedge fund, and he’s recently been promoted, meaning Christopher trusts him, which says a lot. More than that, Jean-Claude seems to make Jules genuinely happy. I don’t understand it, but I can’t deny it. That’s why, so far, I’ve kept my concerns to myself.

“Well.” Jules smiles. “Seeing as we’re hosts, we should mingle, Jean-Claude.” Next, she elbows Christopher, raising her eyebrows. “Mind making sure there’s enough ice at the bar?”

Christopher frowns at her before his expression clears. “Oh. right. Bar duty. Gotta run.”

Leaving Jamie and me. Standing together. Alone.

The air drips with tension.

If I were feeling mature, I’d make myself scarce. Be helpful. Serve drinks. Refill appetizers. But I’m not. I’m feeling my competitive streak overriding logic. I’m feeling perversely invested in proving to Jamie that he’s wrong about me. I’m not someone to be mistaken for a chaos demon with unmemorable tattoos who puked on his shoes in a dingy bar months ago.

Well, I’m a bit of a chaos demon, but it’s hardly my fault that I’m a little clumsy. Everything else, he’s got me pegged all wrong, and I’m going to out-civilize him just to prove it. Only problem is, that requires something I’m very, very terrible at: small talk.

“What . . . are . . . you . . . drinking?” I ask. Because, you know. Small talk.

Jamie glances up and gives me a guarded look, like he’s not sure what I’m up to. That makes two of us.

“Old-fashioned,” he finally says, his words as neat and tidy as his looks. Then he peers at my empty hands. “Not partaking?”

“Oh, I am. I just hit the schnapps pretty hard in the kitchen. You know, a little social lubricant.”

His eyes widen. I die inside.

Lubricant. I had to say lubricant. So much for out-civilizing him.

“I see.” He adjusts the lion mask that rests on top of his impeccable dark blond hair.

My lubricant bomb threw the conversational waters into sky-high swells. We’re seconds from drowning, but Jamie just threw me a little rescue floaty in those two words. So I grab on and throw him one, too. “Nice mask,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” He examines mine. “Yours is . . .”