I glance over my shoulder to see him sipping on his Slurpee with a smile, his playful eyes intent on my annoyed expression.

“I wasn’t actually going that way,” I respond with indignance.

“Seemed like you were.”

“I was faking you out.”

“Were you now?” he asks, that smile growing wider. “Why would you be faking me out?”

I straighten to face him and raise my chin as I say, “Because between your ungodly thick mustache and your shaggy hair, you look like a predator. How can I be sure that you’re not attempting to snatch me up?”

His brows raise as he runs his fingers over his mustache. “You know, you’re the third person who said I can’t rock this mustache. I thought I was looking pretty legit.”

The man needs to get a better mirror.

“Your mustache is offensive. I’m pretty sure it would make even the most randy of women go dry.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Lack of filter—it’s my downfall.

I wince as his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Yeah, I was surprised too, buddy.

“Uh, I don’t know—”

Before I can finish telling him I’m not quite sure where in the depths of my being that insult came out of, he grips his stomach, bends forward, and lets out a long-drawn-out laugh, his Slurpee shaking in his hand.

Well, at least he wasn’t offended. I’ve got that going for me.

Either way, I don’t have time for this.

Moving past him, I head down the right of the hallway, where I find an unmarked door. Initially, when I was first looking around, I thought this was a utility closet. But paying a little more attention to the door, I think there could be a faint marking of a number on the wall. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . it’s what I’m looking for.

On a hopeful breath, I knock on the door three times and then kick the footer like I was told just as a tall figure closes in behind me.

“You know, I’ve never had a girl tell me that I possess the uncanny ability to dehydrate the nether regions of the female race with just my facial hair.”

I hold back my smile. “Be glad I’m honest.”

The door cracks open, and a single eyeball comes into view. “Password.”

“Walla-walla-bing-bang,” I answer just as the guy behind me leans forward over my shoulder.

“You missed the ching-chang part,” he says.

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“He’s right,” the eyeball says. “Sorry, no entrance.”

“Wait, no,” I say as I prevent the eyeball from shutting the door. I pull the invite out from my pocket and say, “I have the invitation . . . errr, I mean . . .” Ugh, stupid, Lia. You’re not supposed to show the invitation. Backpedal. “Actually . . .” I slip the invite back into my pocket and fold my hands together. “There is no invite, and I have no idea what this door leads to. I just know that I’m supposed to be here at ten twenty-three, and I am, so therefore, I believe I should gain entrance.”