“Well, I haven’t jumped off any houses lately, so.”

“Not funny,” she says, taking everything back and pulling the feather loose along with it. Gray picks it up, examining it in the purple and blue lights. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” I say, snatching it from her and smoothing it into a slightly wrinkled version of its former glory.

She taps her chin, narrowing her eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain peacock that’s strutting around tonight, would it?”

“No,” I say, dropping into my seat.

“Okay, great. Because I think the way you were stroking that feather just now was weirding her out.”

I shove my hands under the table and scan the crowd.

She ruffles my hair. “Relax, Ridley. I’m messing with you.”

“Ha, good one,” I deadpan.

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to become lovebirds”—she looks me up and down—“or lovebats, you need to step up your game. As in, like, put the feather down and at least say hi back when she talks to you.”

“I’m not going to be love anything, with anyone, ever again,” I grumble.

“Ridley . . .”

“Don’t you have shit to hand out? God forbid a single person doesn’t have something with our company name on it.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Can we just get through this night so Allison tells Dad I was here? Where is he, anyway?”

“You know him.” She shrugs. “Always someone to schmooze at our events.”

“Right, so why don’t you follow in his footsteps. You’ll be the delightful hostess, I’ll watch the table, and we’ll never mention my personal life again.”

Gray rolls her eyes. “She wouldn’t have talked to you if she wasn’t at least a little bit curious.”

“She didn’t talk to me; she called me Bats.”

“Same thing.”

“Drop it, Gray,” I say, because my leg is already bouncing as fast as it can go, and if she keeps it up, it might bounce right through the table.

“Fine.” But then she scrunches up her nose, and oh no, I know that look. I hate that look. It’s the look she gets when she thinks she’s being clever.

She unties a balloon from the table, grabs a bunch of free-soda coupons and glow sticks, and pushes herself out into the crowd. And okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just her “time to get down to work” look. Maybe I can survive the next two hours in relative peace and then hightail it back up to my room without any more drama. Maybe I’ll do such a good job that tomorrow I’ll get invited to breakfast with my father . . . and maybe tomorrow pigs will fly.