I roll my eyes. “Maybe take in the whole costume before guessing, Nolan. And I’m wearing a mask because I know how to read an invitation,” I say drily. “Glasses only work as a disguise for Clark Kent.”
“Yes, and yours screams Zorro. Which is super helpful for an ugly mofo like yourself.” He flashes his trademark I’m-so-cute-and-charming grin. “Masquerade parties were made for dudes like you.”
Spencer sets two shot glasses on the bar. “Now, don’t be so harsh, Nolan. Not everyone can make the list of Most Eligible YouTube Food Show Stars.”
I get in on the ribbing too. “Such a coveted honor. With that kind of specificity, it’s a wonder you aren’t wearing a mask to remain incognito twenty-four seven.”
“I didn’t see you on a list for Secret Matchmakers, Easton,” he says.
Tsking, I shake my head. “I don’t need to be on a list; I’m the one who makes the list—the guest list filled with everyone who’s anyone.”
“Excuses, excuses.” Nolan weighs scales with his hands. “As for my mask, it was either wear one or, you know, be able to see.”
I call bullshit. “Or you just want the ladies to see your pretty-boy face.”
Nolan props his chin in his hands. “When you have an asset this valuable, you use it fully.” He shifts his focus to me. “But seriously, who are you, E? A gangster?”
Do I really need to spell it out? “Just keep on guessing. A hundred bucks goes to the first to figure it out.”
Spencer chuckles as he grabs the tequila bottle, his wedding band glinting under the light. “I’m voting for Bugsy Malone.”
I crack a sliver of a grin. “You’re getting warmer time-period wise.” Spencer pours a tequila for Nolan, and I return to my mission.
Observation.
A sexy pop mix of Leon Bridges and Sam Smith seeps through the joint and I eat up the view, starting with my favorite dish.
Lots of women.
Curves and breasts, red lips and high cheekbones.
Angels and cowgirls, Black Widows and Wonder Women—even two sexy zombies with gnawed off faces and short skirts. I never thought the undead could be hot but that pair of busty identical twins make eaten alive look good.
But there’s more here than simply a good number of the fairer sex.
There’s . . . the possibility of flirtation.
A pair of Pokémon-costumed men face off in a fierce game of Ping-Pong against a couple of Harajuku girls. A plague doctor plays blackjack with a cowboy quite cozily. In the back room, a merman and a mermaid take each other on in pool.
All around me is proof that people would rather gather in the real world than on their phones.
I’m just so goddamn right. I sweep my arm toward the sea of libidinous humanity. “Could it be any more obvious that this generation is sick of dating apps?”
Nolan lifts his tequila with a dismissive wave. “I never needed one of those.”
“Because your ego wouldn’t fit on one,” Spencer puts in.
“Or maybe I need space to exercise my natural charm,” Nolan says.
“Or perhaps,” I say, resting my elbows on the bar behind me as I survey the scene, “it’s that people are aching to meet in person.”
Eye contact matters. Chemistry is a thing. Hell, this milieu is a whole Venus flytrap, and it’s why my business is booming.
This city is my oyster, full of pearls. And sometimes those pearls need a little help getting together.
Inspired by the atmosphere and all the ideas I can crib from here for my next big soiree, including the music, I grab my phone from the inside jacket pocket. I dictate a voice note, tucking away the details for future me.
“Consider a library and billiards. Perhaps a theme around old school,” I say into the device.
Nolan barks a laugh, dropping a hand onto my shoulder. “Dude. Did you seriously just dictate a work note on a Saturday night? At Spencer’s masquerade event? For charity?”
Busted. I groan, scrubbing a hand across my jaw as I tuck away the phone. I should have known better, and yet the addiction rules me. I am hooked on my self-made job, but it’s hardly work when you love what you do.
And when it’s your penance too.
“Easton, you know what the punishment is.” Spencer sighs heavily, but his green eyes twinkle like the devil.
I gesture for him to bring it on, ready to take my punishment like a man. It won’t be the first time—once a workaholic, always a workaholic. “Give me my dare,” I say.
Spencer strokes his chin, surveying the packed place. “I’m going to pick the absolute most difficult one for you to conquer.”
My friend and my cousin huddle, then Spencer straightens and squares his shoulders, pointing to the smaller bar in the corner where his wife serves a long line of witches, cats, and superheroes. “Survey says it’s almost always impossible to win over the most independent woman of all—the one who’s here with a pack of friends.”