Bunny Corcoran wasn’t subtle. About anything.

“Well, well, well,” he said loudly, elbowing Charles hard in the ribs. “Who’s that, then?”

Charles barely glanced up from his drink. “Who?”

Bunny scoffed. “Who? Who? Jesus, Charlie, open your damn eyes. Her.” He jerked his chin in your direction, where you sat across the room, flipping absently through a book. “You seen her before?”

Francis sighed. “Yes, Bunny. She exists. Well done.”

Bunny ignored him, leaning forward like a man with a mission. “She’s kinda—y’know. Interesting looking. But in a good way. Like, in a ‘maybe I should go over there and introduce myself’ way.”

“Please don’t,” Camilla muttered.

But Bunny was already standing, brushing nonexistent dust from his blazer. “Too late. Gotta be polite, don’t I? That’s what my mother always says.”

Francis groaned, but Bunny just grinned, straightening his tie.

And then, far too confident for his own good, he walked straight toward you.